If you want to peer into my psyche, look no further than my night stand. Along with whatever current piece of fiction I'm reading, twin stacks of books sit waiting to be opened. My book titles read like a table of contents to my worries and thoughts.
A book on raising gifted children sits atop Getting to Calm: Cool-Headed Strategies for Parenting
Tweens + Teens (Ben), and then there's a copy of Parenting Children with ADHD: 10 Lessons That Medicine
Cannot Teach for my not-suffering-from-ADHD-but-still-sometimes-hyper Gus. I don't have anything about progressing normally kids like Paul, but I probably should add something soon. And those are just my parenting books. My self-help books live there, too.
Relegated to the basement or perhaps a new home courtesy of Goodwill are volumes on pregnancy, morning sickness, bringing up babies, getting babies to sleep, scream-free parenting (is it sad that I gave up on that idea?), and surviving stay-at-home mommy-hood. Trust me, that's just to name a few.
Whenever something is bothering me or worrying me, I buy a book about it, and it makes me feel better just knowing that I have information at my fingertips. The odd thing is I often don't even finish the books, and, sadly, sometimes I don't even crack them open. The truth is, when I have precious free time, I'd rather get lost in reading for pleasure than for learning.
I listened to a radio program yesterday about super powers. It asked people whether they'd prefer to have the power of flight or invisibility. Forget those. I'd like to be able to acquire knowledge and wisdom effortlessly. Try though I may, I still haven't been able to implement my super-duper plan for absorbing my bedside library via osmosis.
Right now, I need a book for stay-at-home moms who are losing their identity as their kids quickly grow up. My beginning of the school year funk lingers. Gus is still home half days, so my daytime nest isn't completely empty yet, but I know it will be soon. My what-comes-next angst has been eating away at me. I've thought about it, worried about it, obsessed about it, and, yes, blogged about it.
Just as I was about to be taken down by a tsunami of uncertainty and self doubt, I had an epiphany thanks to someone else's blog. Writer Jennifer Benjamin penned a piece entitled What's so Bad About "Just Being a Mommy"? It was exactly what I needed.
"Recently, a woman with a grown daughter said to me that she would pay $1 million to have just one day with her toddler again. Just for one day," writes Benjamin. "That time for me is right now. If I’m spending these precious minutes worrying about what I’m doing with my life, then I’m just going to miss out on theirs. Besides, they are my life, aren’t they?"
Epiphanies can be a dime a dozen for me, probably thanks to all those darn books, but I hope this one sticks, because I really need it. Right now is still my time to raise my boys. I need to stop freaking out about what job I might get next year and focus instead on painting a picture with Gus or enjoy our time together constructing Angry Birds towers out of Jenga blocks.
I'm at an age when it's high time I realize that if I keep my eyes locked on the future, very soon I'll be mourning what was left not fully appreciated in the past. And that would be a travesty worthy of a book.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Extraordinary, ordinary Ben
As we sat in a meeting room at Ben's school a few weeks ago, I couldn't help but think of the "Middle School" episode of radio show This American Life. (If you've never heard it, give it a listen sometime. It's excellent.) We were there to discuss Ben's education plan for the gifted program.
Mark and Ben and I, along with the principal, the district's gifted-talented coach, and Ben's guidance counselor and English teacher, sat around the conference table. I'm sure it must have been intimidating for Ben, to say the least, and his actions showed as much.
Throughout the meeting, Ben sat next to me, his eyes cast downward, looking uncomfortable. I can only imagine the singular feeling of sitting there listening as six adults talk about plans for your future. The moment when the GT coach handed us an education plan (a loose one) that would take Ben through 12th grade was enough to sending me reeling.
At one point, someone queried Ben about his favorite class. Six sets of eyes peered at him expectantly. What would he say, what insight would we learn? "Gym," Ben finally mumbled, looking at the table.
All of this got me thinking about Ben's future and that episode. In it, host Ira Glass talks to Linda Perlstein, author of a book called, Not Much Just Chillin', which chronicles a year she spent following five middle-schoolers.
"This is the time of biggest growth for a human being, aside from infancy. So your bones are growing faster than your muscles, so you can't actually sit still," says Perlstein. "But your brain, your gray matter – during the middle school years, what happens in your early stages of puberty is this fast overproduction of brain cells and connections, far more than you actually need. And only some of them are going to survive puberty. This growth in your frontal cortex, it peaks at 11 for girls and 12 for boys. And then what happens is the cells just fight it out for survival. And the ones that last are the ones you exercise more."
"During those years your brain turns you into you, the adult," Ira interjects. "The stuff you don't exercise just kind of goes away."
"So if you think about what you learn in the early stage of puberty ... it sticks," Perlstein concludes. "... It's embossed in your existence. It's this important time for your brain. It's this use it or lose it time."
I thought of Ben and wondered what he would exercise in the next couple years, what would stick with him. He plays piano, he's taking clarinet. Will he always be musical? Is his love of soccer here to stay?
I also thought of myself. I first listened to this program about two years ago, and I was a little alarmed at first when I heard that part of the show. What of value had I taken with me from those years? I played saxophone and rarely practiced, was probably in last chair, if such a thing exists.
I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader and finally was made one out of pity from a kind coach. You see, all the really popular girls were on the pompon squad by eighth grade, so that left just a few who tried out for cheerleading. I was hopelessly uncoordinated and embarrassed myself completely. So that's a big no for development of musical and dance talents.
It honestly bothered me. I wracked my brain and unearthed this memory from maybe seventh grade. I was waiting in the commons to be let into school. Two eighth-grade girls approached me. "Do you have a staring problem," they sniped. "You stare at us every day."
To my recollection, I admired one of the girls' short, stylish haircut, so that's probably why I watched them. I guess maybe I really did "have a staring problem." I think maybe, though, this began my fondness for observing people and situations, which later helped serve me as a writer. Perhaps I really did cultivate at least one valuable skill during those awful years, even if it did garner me some social grief.
I'm curious to see what will stick with Ben. When we were at the school meeting, Mark and I wished Ben were a little bit more poised. Thinking about it now, though, I think it's good that Ben is both exceptional and unexceptional.
At 11 years old, I'm sad to say that more than half of Ben's childhood has passed. There is precious little consolation in that. For now, though, I still have my boy with me. He's remarkable enough to skip second grade and to read a 450-page book in one day. But he's still ordinary enough to list gym as his favorite subject and to need a reminder not to use his shirt as a napkin. And that's just as it should be.
Mark and Ben and I, along with the principal, the district's gifted-talented coach, and Ben's guidance counselor and English teacher, sat around the conference table. I'm sure it must have been intimidating for Ben, to say the least, and his actions showed as much.
Throughout the meeting, Ben sat next to me, his eyes cast downward, looking uncomfortable. I can only imagine the singular feeling of sitting there listening as six adults talk about plans for your future. The moment when the GT coach handed us an education plan (a loose one) that would take Ben through 12th grade was enough to sending me reeling.
At one point, someone queried Ben about his favorite class. Six sets of eyes peered at him expectantly. What would he say, what insight would we learn? "Gym," Ben finally mumbled, looking at the table.
All of this got me thinking about Ben's future and that episode. In it, host Ira Glass talks to Linda Perlstein, author of a book called, Not Much Just Chillin', which chronicles a year she spent following five middle-schoolers.
"This is the time of biggest growth for a human being, aside from infancy. So your bones are growing faster than your muscles, so you can't actually sit still," says Perlstein. "But your brain, your gray matter – during the middle school years, what happens in your early stages of puberty is this fast overproduction of brain cells and connections, far more than you actually need. And only some of them are going to survive puberty. This growth in your frontal cortex, it peaks at 11 for girls and 12 for boys. And then what happens is the cells just fight it out for survival. And the ones that last are the ones you exercise more."
"During those years your brain turns you into you, the adult," Ira interjects. "The stuff you don't exercise just kind of goes away."
"So if you think about what you learn in the early stage of puberty ... it sticks," Perlstein concludes. "... It's embossed in your existence. It's this important time for your brain. It's this use it or lose it time."
I thought of Ben and wondered what he would exercise in the next couple years, what would stick with him. He plays piano, he's taking clarinet. Will he always be musical? Is his love of soccer here to stay?
I also thought of myself. I first listened to this program about two years ago, and I was a little alarmed at first when I heard that part of the show. What of value had I taken with me from those years? I played saxophone and rarely practiced, was probably in last chair, if such a thing exists.
I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader and finally was made one out of pity from a kind coach. You see, all the really popular girls were on the pompon squad by eighth grade, so that left just a few who tried out for cheerleading. I was hopelessly uncoordinated and embarrassed myself completely. So that's a big no for development of musical and dance talents.
It honestly bothered me. I wracked my brain and unearthed this memory from maybe seventh grade. I was waiting in the commons to be let into school. Two eighth-grade girls approached me. "Do you have a staring problem," they sniped. "You stare at us every day."
To my recollection, I admired one of the girls' short, stylish haircut, so that's probably why I watched them. I guess maybe I really did "have a staring problem." I think maybe, though, this began my fondness for observing people and situations, which later helped serve me as a writer. Perhaps I really did cultivate at least one valuable skill during those awful years, even if it did garner me some social grief.
I'm curious to see what will stick with Ben. When we were at the school meeting, Mark and I wished Ben were a little bit more poised. Thinking about it now, though, I think it's good that Ben is both exceptional and unexceptional.
At 11 years old, I'm sad to say that more than half of Ben's childhood has passed. There is precious little consolation in that. For now, though, I still have my boy with me. He's remarkable enough to skip second grade and to read a 450-page book in one day. But he's still ordinary enough to list gym as his favorite subject and to need a reminder not to use his shirt as a napkin. And that's just as it should be.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Playing defense
I first picked up on it when I taught swimming lessons in high school. If parents of my pupils thought I'd erred in judgment in my teaching, they would become quite defensive of their kids. I endured having a parent or two yell at me. It was then and there that I crossed one profession off my list of possibilities. Among other reasons, I'm much too thin-skinned to teach.
Eighteen years later, I can much better understand those parents' defensiveness. Though my levelheaded side wants to remain calm and cool in the face of perceived slights against my kids, my mother bear side tends to rear its head, even if I don't usually act on it.
Two Wednesdays ago, Gus had a bad day at school. A spectacularly bad day. When I went to pick him up after school, Gus bypassed the sidewalk, running through the wood chips and darting close to the road.
When G finally landed safely next to me, his teacher motioned for me to come over. First, she talked to Gus, telling him that what he'd done was unsafe and against the rules. To my mortification, as she talked, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, complete with snoring sounds.
Mrs. S. turned her attention to me and informed me that it had been a challenging day for Gus. Furthermore, she said most days up until that point had been rough. He was having a hard time sitting still. He rushed through tasks, refused to take his time on activities like cutting. Feeling blindsided, I thanked her, assured her I'd talk with Gus at home, hung my head low and walked to the car.
I knew that this was a possibility, a strong possibility. That knowledge didn't make the reality any easier to accept, however. I tearfully recounted the series of event to Mark. Then I took to the internet, researching ADHD symptoms. In true Jess fashion, I went from "it's been a bumpy first two weeks" to "but I don't want to medicate my son!" in no time flat.
When I first met Gus's teacher, I thought she'd seemed friendly, laid back. I liked her. But here was this defensiveness rising within me. Irrationally, my feelings began to shift. She's just not a good fit for Gus, I thought. She must not understand preschool boys very well.
Beneath it all was my long-time fear: what if Gus is that child, the one for whom school becomes an unpleasant place. I worry that my boy will be misunderstood, that (even though this hasn't happened yet) he will get stuck in a cycle of losing the privileges he probably needs most - recess, free time.
Beneath it all was my long-time fear: what if Gus is that child, the one for whom school becomes an unpleasant place. I worry that my boy will be misunderstood, that (even though this hasn't happened yet) he will get stuck in a cycle of losing the privileges he probably needs most - recess, free time.
We had Gus's conference set for the following Wednesday, and I thought I couldn't possibily wait that long to address the issue. After I calmed myself a bit, I sent a follow-up email to Gus's teacher. She quickly sent a thoughtful reply. He's a great kid, and we'll figure this out together, she reassured.We agreed that I would check in each day after school, and I said that we would try to reinforce school rules at home and tie his behavior at school to his privileges at home.
Nearly two weeks removed from that unfortunate Wednesday, I see now that Gus's teacher probably was exasperated that day. I, of all people, should be able to relate. Lord knows how exasperating my youngest can be. And I needed a reminder that teachers deserve to have "off" days too. I cannot imagine teaching 20 4- and 5-year-olds.
Each day before school now, I review expectations with Gus. Be a good listener. When an adult is speaking to you, look at her eyes. Amazingly, I've received good reports every day since then. Don't get me wrong. There's no miraculous transformation here - just each day getting a little better.
We had Gus's conference last week. We learned that G responds extremely well to positive feedback. The other day, he was beyond excited to come home and tell the whole family that he'd earned three cougar paws. His school distributes these for positive behavior.
We're trying now to use school terminology at home. We talk about demonstrating good body basics at the dinner table, at church. We even hand out our own cougar paws here. I feel better these days. I view Gus's teacher as a partner who is helping us find the best ways to educate our very active boy.
Gus is the child who can be impulsive, the one who, on our walk today, couldn't scooter more than a few feet without stopping to pluck a wispy dandelion going to seed. I wouldn't change a thing. He is my occasional headache; he is my always laughter.
I don't think there'll be a point anytime soon in Gus's education where I can breathe a sigh of a relief: ahh, smooth sailing from here on out. I think I'll always hold my breath each day until I hear Gus has had an OK day. As I told his teacher, it's trial and error with this one. The best we can do is take it a day at a time and keep looking for the strategies that work. It's going to be a long journey, but I'm confident now that we can do this.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The changes have begun – the big ones
"Do you have children?" the woman next to me in yoga asks as we engage in polite small talk. I reply that yes, I have three boys, the oldest of whom will be 11 in a couple weeks. She looks at me, incredulous. (It's the face. I've always had one of those young-looking faces, but if she saw me out at, say, Target by myself with all three boys looking tired and haggard, boy would she believe me. Child-rearing is the perfect antidote to that too-young-looking countenance, I'm telling you! It'll knock that youthful vitality right out of you.)
Anyway, it's true. My boy is almost 11. I can scarcely understand how we got here so quickly, but I do the math, and it's inevitable – Ben is a tween. The intervening 11 years have changed me - emotionally, physically and otherwise. (Especially physically. I used to have breasts. Swear to God. Then I spent years nursing three children, and now I could more successfully shop for bras of the training variety. The things we moms sacrifice! Let's not even get into pelvic floor muscles.)
As much as time has altered me, it's nothing compared to the number it's working on Ben. This is the time, the period when everything starts to change. It started toward the end of summer. My oldest suddenly began to take more interest in hygiene. He'd begin most mornings with an unprompted shower. Say what?
"Um, Mom?" he asked hesitantly a few days after cross country practice began. "Do you think you could get me some deodorant? Coach says we should all be using it."
This is all so odd to me. I hadn't begun to detect the tell-tale funky smell that often accompanies tweens of a certain age, but I honored Ben's request. He's taken to using his dad's bath products and emerges from the steamy bathroom each morning smelling manly. It's a little disquieting.
Ben began the school year gung ho. That first week of school, he'd pop right out of bed, up and at 'em, enthusiastic for his new adventures. Already that's beginning to change. He needs to be at his bus stop at about 7 a.m., a feat that would be challenging even for me, but this early wake-up time runs completely counter to tween and teen biology.
It's getting harder and harder to rouse Ben in the morning, and already I can envision all the mornings for the next seven years that I'll be dragging him out of bed by his feet. (I can still hear my mom's chirping calls to us in middle and high school. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" In the winter when I was in junior high, I'd often fall asleep in front of a space heater and nearly, or sometimes completely, miss my bus. Gosh, I hated junior high.)
Can scarfing down enormous amounts of food be far behind? And as yet, I'm not seeing signs of interest in girls, but I'm sure that isn't too far off. And then I think I'll lose a little piece of him forever.
As much as these are strange times for me, I'm so pleased with how Ben is doing. He does his homework dutifully each night, no complaints. The second week of cross country, my guy was named athlete of the week for demonstrating hard work and leadership. "Ben is our rock star," his coach said at open house last night. "He works so hard."
Ben's English teacher praised him for how much he participates in class, saying he was a leader to the other kids. I burst with pride at how well he is turning out. We're beginning to see the benefits of many years spent shaping Ben into a person of character.
I knew this would be a transition year for us, and truly everything feels different. Ben leaves a full hour before I drive Paul to school. With cross country practice after school, piano on Tuesdays, faith formation on Wednesdays, soccer a couple nights a week, I feel like I don't get to see my oldest very often. I miss him. And this will be life from here on out, I suspect.
Harry Chapin was on to something with that whole Cats in the Cradle thing. I spent years desperately trying to carve out a little bit of time to myself, and now well ... "When you comin' home son
I don't know when, but we'll get together then, [Mom], We're gonna have a good time then."
Anyway, it's true. My boy is almost 11. I can scarcely understand how we got here so quickly, but I do the math, and it's inevitable – Ben is a tween. The intervening 11 years have changed me - emotionally, physically and otherwise. (Especially physically. I used to have breasts. Swear to God. Then I spent years nursing three children, and now I could more successfully shop for bras of the training variety. The things we moms sacrifice! Let's not even get into pelvic floor muscles.)
As much as time has altered me, it's nothing compared to the number it's working on Ben. This is the time, the period when everything starts to change. It started toward the end of summer. My oldest suddenly began to take more interest in hygiene. He'd begin most mornings with an unprompted shower. Say what?
"Um, Mom?" he asked hesitantly a few days after cross country practice began. "Do you think you could get me some deodorant? Coach says we should all be using it."
This is all so odd to me. I hadn't begun to detect the tell-tale funky smell that often accompanies tweens of a certain age, but I honored Ben's request. He's taken to using his dad's bath products and emerges from the steamy bathroom each morning smelling manly. It's a little disquieting.
Ben began the school year gung ho. That first week of school, he'd pop right out of bed, up and at 'em, enthusiastic for his new adventures. Already that's beginning to change. He needs to be at his bus stop at about 7 a.m., a feat that would be challenging even for me, but this early wake-up time runs completely counter to tween and teen biology.
It's getting harder and harder to rouse Ben in the morning, and already I can envision all the mornings for the next seven years that I'll be dragging him out of bed by his feet. (I can still hear my mom's chirping calls to us in middle and high school. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" In the winter when I was in junior high, I'd often fall asleep in front of a space heater and nearly, or sometimes completely, miss my bus. Gosh, I hated junior high.)
Can scarfing down enormous amounts of food be far behind? And as yet, I'm not seeing signs of interest in girls, but I'm sure that isn't too far off. And then I think I'll lose a little piece of him forever.
As much as these are strange times for me, I'm so pleased with how Ben is doing. He does his homework dutifully each night, no complaints. The second week of cross country, my guy was named athlete of the week for demonstrating hard work and leadership. "Ben is our rock star," his coach said at open house last night. "He works so hard."
Ben's English teacher praised him for how much he participates in class, saying he was a leader to the other kids. I burst with pride at how well he is turning out. We're beginning to see the benefits of many years spent shaping Ben into a person of character.
I knew this would be a transition year for us, and truly everything feels different. Ben leaves a full hour before I drive Paul to school. With cross country practice after school, piano on Tuesdays, faith formation on Wednesdays, soccer a couple nights a week, I feel like I don't get to see my oldest very often. I miss him. And this will be life from here on out, I suspect.
Harry Chapin was on to something with that whole Cats in the Cradle thing. I spent years desperately trying to carve out a little bit of time to myself, and now well ... "When you comin' home son
I don't know when, but we'll get together then, [Mom], We're gonna have a good time then."
Friday, September 6, 2013
Reply hazy, try again later
Everyone is doing great but me. I feel utterly adrift. I didn't see this coming. I've waited nearly eight years for this, right? Three hours a day of uninterrupted time to myself. Now that the time has arrived it feels ... weird.
The house seems unnaturally quiet. On Thursday, after sitting at home and listening to the sounds of silence for two and a half hours, I finally grabbed my book and headed to school early to sit in the car and wait for Paul and Gus to be finished.
A fellow 4K mom stood swaying her sleeping toddler son tethered to her in a carrier. I felt envious. You spend years with a child jabbering constantly in the back seat of the car. Maybe you wish for just a little bit of peace and quiet. The day to day wears you down, all that buckling and unbuckling, in and out of the car with your young one. Then suddenly that time in your life comes to a close, and it's a little devastating.
A fellow 4K mom stood swaying her sleeping toddler son tethered to her in a carrier. I felt envious. You spend years with a child jabbering constantly in the back seat of the car. Maybe you wish for just a little bit of peace and quiet. The day to day wears you down, all that buckling and unbuckling, in and out of the car with your young one. Then suddenly that time in your life comes to a close, and it's a little devastating.
Yes, Gus still is with me half the day, but really, this feels like the beginning of the end. I know all too well, after all, how quickly a school year passes. Best not be blasé about having plenty of time left.
I've been at this stay-at-home mom gig for so long, I'm suffering a bit of an identity crisis. Who am I without a kid with me all day? It's unsettling because when I peer into the Magic 8 Ball of my future, I see ... nothing.
It's perfectly honorable, of course, to remain a stay-at-home mom when all of one's kids are in school full-time. Lord knows there's plenty to do. I never really saw that for myself, though. My family will always be my No. 1 priority, but I want to do something more, even if it's just a little something. But what?
My plan has long been that I'd take my extra time this year and explore my options. I look at every opportunity, each help wanted sign. Would I be happy doing before and after school care for the Y, working part-time in a coffee shop? Freelance writing, work-from-home jobs, I've considered it all. I've been out of the game so long that it all feels foreign to me.
I've thought about going back to school. Culinary school. I'm passionate about cooking. Or maybe I'd like to become a paralegal. But I already have a degree. Do I really have the focus for that right now, and do I want to put my family in debt? This is the inner dialog of my days.
I have a hard time being at peace with uncertainty. Since that's all I've got right now, though, all I can do is appreciate that I have this time to search and try to enjoy the journey. Maybe shed a few tears for time that has passed too quickly. Wish me well.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Summer's swan song
As my friend's son was preparing to leave for his freshman year in college this past week, I commented to my friend that I supposed the only way to get through her sorrow was to focus on what an exciting time this will be for her son. Easy for me to say. When my time comes, I suspect I will spend the weeks before and after my sons' departures ugly-crying locked in my room. Maybe my advice holds some truth, though, so I'm trying to focus on that as I prepare for the upcoming school-time transitions.
Beginnings and endings, they always get me. I have such mixed feelings about this time of year. Though all conventional wisdom tells me summer is supposed to be carefree, the season can be challenging and overwhelming for me. For the boys, I try to find that perfect balance between scheduled and free to just be. I inevitably fail, often either feeling crazily over-scheduled or sitting there with wide expanses of time wondering how I could possibly fill them.
It's hard to keep constructively occupied three little dudes with different interests. This one wants to go to the nature center, while another turns up his nose at the idea, and the third says he wants to come along but when we arrive and have walked approximately 100 steps, he can't possibly go any farther. A lot of days are some variation of that.
Complaining aside, though, I like having all three boys home with me, or at least the idea of it. It makes me happy knowing I can see their smiling, naughty faces whenever I want. It seems that this time of year I can't shake the feeling that somehow I've failed at summer. I haven't been the least bit carefree.
The fact that Mother Nature has dealt us this final blast of heat has helped me through my uncertain feelings. I heard on NPR recently that violent crimes spike when temperatures climb. While I am confident that I won't be committing any crimes, this weather certainly does make me ever so slightly deranged and irritable. My heart may be saying I don't want to see the boys go back to school, but my head knows it's time. Besides, this place is a mess, and I need to whip it into shape.
I took Ben to his middle school last week to scope out his locker, try his combination, walk his schedule. We rode our bikes so he will feel confident riding to school if he so chooses. By the end, he was pretty excited, and I was happy for him. This was a first. I'd been feeling the tiniest bit apprehensive. Today I dropped my oldest at his first cross country practice. This is just the first of many new opportunities he'll get to experience in the coming months. He is ready for this.
Paul has grown so amazingly much over his school career. I know he will be happy to go back to his friends. I'm certain that 4K will bring all kinds of surprises for Gus and for us.
Fall is my favorite season. I love the weather, the changing colors, the getting back to some semblance of structure and organization. Ultimately, I feel happy and hopeful. I just need to get past this little bit of malaise.
I will remember: this an exciting time for my boys. I will try to hold that thought in my head as next week I watch each son take one more tiny step away from me.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Summer's end brings a storm of emotion
It was one of those days that had turned into one of those nights. Sometimes when it's like this, I have a hard time telling if it's the boys or me or both who's in a difficult place, but either way, it was a rough one.
I'd spent the better part of three hours in the morning driving Paul and Gus around the Fox Valley for various lessons, so by lunchtime, I was already pooped.
In the afternoon, my sons fell into their routines of annoying one another - and me. Ben is a master at getting under Paul's skin, and Paul gives him just the reaction he wants, screeching exasperatedly. "Beeen!" And Gus, well, he just goes around acting like his crazy self, and that's enough.
When the boys get bored, they start to play what Mark and I like to call grab-ass. They get all over each other, wrestling around, sitting on top of one another. It doesn't seem to bother them - in fact they seem to enjoy it - but I can't stand it. "The boys are playing G-A again," I'll sigh to Mark. It was that kind of a day.
We were finishing dinner and I told the boys that we needed to go to Rogan's to get shoes for my cousin's wedding. You know how boys love to shoe shop, especially when it's dressy shoes! So you can guess how that went over.
I had also mentioned that the basement was getting a little messy again and suggested that they may want to tidy up sometime soon before it got out-of-control messy, which is wont to happen. Mark started cleaning the kitchen and dispatched the boys to the basement to clean.
Ben immediately began bossing around his brothers and was unhappy that we called him on it. When we told them it was time to go to the store, Ben was fuming.
I must interject here with a story. When I was growing up, my mom would go on these tirades when I called her "she" or "her." Cocky shite that I was, I pretended I didn't understand why it got her so worked up, but of course I did. I'd be complaining to my dad about something my mom had said or done and talking about my mom in front of her like she wasn't even there. To this day, I think twice about referring to my mom with a pronoun.
Of course, divine justice intervened, and Ben gave me a dose of my own medicine last night. To Mark: "She told me I had to clean the basement, and now she's telling me I have to go to the store!" Suffice it to say, I understood my mom better than ever.
On the way to the store, we had a fruitless discussion about respect with Ben. It left all parties in a foul mood. Once at the store, things weren't terrible except Gus running around like he owned the place. "Look at my new shoes!" he gleefully shouted to a teen-age employee. It would have been amusing, but I was in no mood.
By the time we got home, it was nearly 8 p.m., and we still had to get through the whole bedtime routine. Ben chose that time to start in on Paul, and I chose that time to have a meltdown that involved screaming and a slammed door.
After very briefly feeling vindicated and righteous, I felt regretful and sheepish. We got Paul and Gus off to sleep, and I indulged in a long, cleansing sob. By the time I was through, I felt wrung out, utterly exhausted, like I'd purged myself of all my emotions.
While I'm sure I surprised the boys with my outburst, I shocked myself a little, too. Yes, it was a hard day, but I didn't see myself heading for the cliff. Today, more clear-headed, I think it was the culmination of one hard summer. I tell myself every June that I'll do better, but the truth is it's just challenging to have the four of us spend so much time together.
I'm pretty private about matters of religion, but as a person of faith, I loved this passage in a book I'm reading, Carry on, Warrior, Thoughts on Life Unarmed by Glennon Doyle Melton: "I like to compare God to the sunrise. That sun shows up every morning, no matter how bad you've been the night before. It shines without judgment. It never withholds."
I woke up this morning to the sun shining and felt grateful to have yet another chance to get it right. I offered apologies to the boys, and things are back to normal in every way, complete with bickering and even grab-ass.
I don't know if you've ever paid attention to the quote at the top of my blog, a line from the lyrics of the Avett Brothers song, "Living of Love." "When the days aren't easy and the nights are rough, when they ask you what you're thinking of, say love, say for me love."
Those words mean so much to me because they encapsulate my greatest wish. I try to be a good mom, but occasionally I behave badly. In spite of that, I hope that, in the end, all that shines through to the boys is how very much I love them.
I'd spent the better part of three hours in the morning driving Paul and Gus around the Fox Valley for various lessons, so by lunchtime, I was already pooped.
In the afternoon, my sons fell into their routines of annoying one another - and me. Ben is a master at getting under Paul's skin, and Paul gives him just the reaction he wants, screeching exasperatedly. "Beeen!" And Gus, well, he just goes around acting like his crazy self, and that's enough.
When the boys get bored, they start to play what Mark and I like to call grab-ass. They get all over each other, wrestling around, sitting on top of one another. It doesn't seem to bother them - in fact they seem to enjoy it - but I can't stand it. "The boys are playing G-A again," I'll sigh to Mark. It was that kind of a day.
We were finishing dinner and I told the boys that we needed to go to Rogan's to get shoes for my cousin's wedding. You know how boys love to shoe shop, especially when it's dressy shoes! So you can guess how that went over.
I had also mentioned that the basement was getting a little messy again and suggested that they may want to tidy up sometime soon before it got out-of-control messy, which is wont to happen. Mark started cleaning the kitchen and dispatched the boys to the basement to clean.
Ben immediately began bossing around his brothers and was unhappy that we called him on it. When we told them it was time to go to the store, Ben was fuming.
I must interject here with a story. When I was growing up, my mom would go on these tirades when I called her "she" or "her." Cocky shite that I was, I pretended I didn't understand why it got her so worked up, but of course I did. I'd be complaining to my dad about something my mom had said or done and talking about my mom in front of her like she wasn't even there. To this day, I think twice about referring to my mom with a pronoun.
Of course, divine justice intervened, and Ben gave me a dose of my own medicine last night. To Mark: "She told me I had to clean the basement, and now she's telling me I have to go to the store!" Suffice it to say, I understood my mom better than ever.
On the way to the store, we had a fruitless discussion about respect with Ben. It left all parties in a foul mood. Once at the store, things weren't terrible except Gus running around like he owned the place. "Look at my new shoes!" he gleefully shouted to a teen-age employee. It would have been amusing, but I was in no mood.
By the time we got home, it was nearly 8 p.m., and we still had to get through the whole bedtime routine. Ben chose that time to start in on Paul, and I chose that time to have a meltdown that involved screaming and a slammed door.
After very briefly feeling vindicated and righteous, I felt regretful and sheepish. We got Paul and Gus off to sleep, and I indulged in a long, cleansing sob. By the time I was through, I felt wrung out, utterly exhausted, like I'd purged myself of all my emotions.
While I'm sure I surprised the boys with my outburst, I shocked myself a little, too. Yes, it was a hard day, but I didn't see myself heading for the cliff. Today, more clear-headed, I think it was the culmination of one hard summer. I tell myself every June that I'll do better, but the truth is it's just challenging to have the four of us spend so much time together.
I'm pretty private about matters of religion, but as a person of faith, I loved this passage in a book I'm reading, Carry on, Warrior, Thoughts on Life Unarmed by Glennon Doyle Melton: "I like to compare God to the sunrise. That sun shows up every morning, no matter how bad you've been the night before. It shines without judgment. It never withholds."
I woke up this morning to the sun shining and felt grateful to have yet another chance to get it right. I offered apologies to the boys, and things are back to normal in every way, complete with bickering and even grab-ass.
I don't know if you've ever paid attention to the quote at the top of my blog, a line from the lyrics of the Avett Brothers song, "Living of Love." "When the days aren't easy and the nights are rough, when they ask you what you're thinking of, say love, say for me love."
Those words mean so much to me because they encapsulate my greatest wish. I try to be a good mom, but occasionally I behave badly. In spite of that, I hope that, in the end, all that shines through to the boys is how very much I love them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)