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.

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.