Blessing or Curse

“We were blessed with cute faces,” my father explained to his chubby fourth-grade daughter.  He was trying to comfort me as I sat across the table from him at the Howard Johnson’s All-You-Can-Eat Fried Clams night, a ritual I endured every Tuesday after my brother’s basketball practice at the JCC.  I was on a diet, so I wasn’t bellying up to the clam bar with my brother and our neighbor’s three children.  At nine-years old, I was already sitting with the moms, sipping a Tab and ordering the diet plate--a plain hamburger patty and scoop of cottage cheese with a side of canned peaches.

My father rationalized that if you had a cute face, you could get away with being a little pudgy and still be attractive.  That may have been the case for a middle-aged married man living in the suburbs in the early 80’s, but it wasn’t my reality.  I felt pressure to be skinny, not sturdy.  I was actually cursed with a gene pool of giants.

My most painful memory during those years is of the day they weighed us at school and the nurse announced each student’s weight over her shoulder to the clerk recording the numbers.  As I waited in line, my heart raced with anxiety.  I knew I weighed more than all the other kids.  No one else in my class weighed over 100 lbs.  When it was my turn, I made eye contact with the nurse and silently pleaded with her to not share my weight out loud. 

“Lisa Barnhouse, 103.”

I don’t remember if the other kids were shocked, or if I was teased, or if Jeff Shaller, the tall blonde boy who made up songs about my Barn butt, was even there that day.  I just recall the fear.

First Born Prince got really round and soft right before he started shooting up overnight.  One day he looked like maybe he should skip a meal and the next he was lanky and needed bigger shoes.  When I talked to his pediatrician about it, he told me that males lose 25% of their body fat when they go through puberty, while girls gain 40% (yes, boobs and hips are made out of fat, people).

I am glad I didn’t give him the cute-face pep talk.  Nor put him on a diet.  I reassured him he was exactly the right size for someone born 11 pounds and predicted to grow up to somewhere between 6’8” and 7 feet tall. 

Charming Baby is also the biggest kid in his class, just like his “big boned” mother and “baby fat” brother, except he doesn’t worry or feel self-conscious.  He marches to his own beat, one giant step at a time.  I only realize it’s a challenge at all when he has a growth spurt and gets clumsy all of the sudden.  Just this week he fell twice on the playground, tripping over his own feet that have grown two sizes since September.

For comforting my baby, I simply kiss his scraped-up chin and tell him I am sorry he got hurt.  Looking at that cute face he was blessed with, I don’t think there’s much else to say.

Bookish

“Mom!  It’s so unfair.”

“What’s that?"

“Just when we are moving back to San Diego, I am even more Ithaca-ish!”

“What do you mean, because you are wearing shorts and a t-shirt to school and it’s raining outside?”

“No, don’t you see this?”  He waves a knap sack around.

“Your back pack?”

“It’s a book bag!  I am totally into reading now!”

If you run into kids in Ithaca with down time, they typically are reading.  In doctors’ office waiting rooms, at sibling’s music lessons, at the airport.  In most other cities, the kids we know or see have iTouches or (yes, it’s true!) iPads they are pressing away on.  When we were at the airport in Florida last February, I noticed entire families had their heads bent over their hand helds.  I remember thinking I liked the days when kids fought with each other and moms had to embarrass themselves by yelling at them in public.

“Well, you can be the cool Ithaca kid and set a new trend in San Diego when we move back.”

“You mean carrying a book bag around?”

“Yeah, reading in your spare time.  It’s old school.  We’ll bring it back, like white t-shirts and Levi’s.”

He looked at me and just laughed as he lovingly nestled his new passion on his back.

5th Grade Wisdom

We belong to a left-of-left groovy Congregation that the Professor found for us when we moved here.  Tired of feeling like we were part of an institution, we wanted to try a smaller, different environment for Hebrew School for the kids.

Tikkun v’Or is a warm, friendly group.  Our rabbi lives in Martha’s Vineyard and comes out six times a year.  The rest of the time the families, staff and volunteers keep the place going.

Charlie had a service project he was working on for the social action part of his class.  He was supposed to research an issue he felt was a problem and prepare a presentation on it.  Here are the questions he was to address:

What is the problem?

How did it become a problem?

What is the solution?

What can we do to help?

I asked him what he chose for his project.

“Blogging.”

I felt a wave of horror flush through me.  My poor child!  I had no idea my blogging was affecting him!  He feels it is a social crisis!

“Wow, I am very interested in seeing your presentation to learn more about it.”

“Okay, I’ll leave a copy of the PowerPoint on your computer for you.”

Last night I sat down to read how my hobby became a problem, what he thought the solution was and what he was planning to do to rally his class of fifth grade religious school students to help.

I see the file on my desktop.  “Logging.”

What?  I click it open.  There are a bunch of logs and trees and the first slide, “Logging and its Effects on the Rainforests."

I think I enjoyed reviewing that homework more than any other assignment in the history of my paranoid mothering career.

School's Back in Session

Pulling into the driveway after dropping the kids off at school this morning, I was ready to scream.  You’d think I’d be fixing myself a mimosa after two weeks of entertaining them non-stop (extended spring break, courtesy of yours truly).

It started off so well, too.  I got up early, made healthy breakfasts, fixed lunches and was ready to leave by 7:40 so we could walk to school—the first time since last fall, now that it had finally warmed up.

I was dressed, dog poop bags in hand.  That's when Charming Baby couldn't find his backpack or sweatshirt.  God bless him, he got the critical stuff—he had his lunch and reading homework, and every hair on his Justin Bieber-looking head in place.  I tried to be patient and decided I would drive them and spend the extra time helping him retrace his steps….Dad’s car, my car, his bedroom…

“Sam!  This is why you are supposed to hang them on the hooks, so you always know where your things are.”

The backpack was up in his room, still there from after a hiking trip over break.  Sweatshirt was M.I.A.  He ran around with the Professor a lot over the weekend so who knows where it was.

Finally at 7:53 (school bell rings at 8:00), I say, “Forget it, you’re wearing your fleece pullover.”  His eyes storm over and he won’t look at me.  It is now my fault he doesn’t have his favorite soft hoodie.

I see a pile of dog poop and a puddle of pee on my way to the car.

“Charlie, did you take Huck out last night before you went to bed?”

“No, sorry, I forgot.”

First Born Prince doesn’t forget.  He has a mind like a steel trap.  He was trying to use what his cute little brother has as a convenient excuse for poor choices.  I know he watched a movie last night and I guessed he was tired and decided to just go to bed, gambling on Huck’s ability to hold it in.

“You know it’s not fair to me or Huck.  Now I have a dirty floor to deal with and the poor dog feels bad because he knows it’s wrong to go in the house.”

I was ticked off and gritting my teeth.  I didn’t want my first good-bye after a fun spring break to be, “You’re gonna pay for this!” as I screeched off out of the school parking lot.  So I settled for, “We’ll discuss this later” in a very bitchy tone.

I came home and decided to write up some responsibility charts and make a list of consequences for behaviors that aren’t acceptable.  The consequences stumped me.  It seems there is very little maneuvering room, really.  No TV, early bedtime.  Big deal, they like to read.  Can’t take away books. I think that might be illegal.  It felt good to channel my frustration but also began the cycle of self-talk that is the very reason I am in this position.

Poor little guys.  First day back to school after two weeks.  I should go easy.

Wrong answer!  Buck up or you’ll be their personal valet for another 10 years!

I looked at my pathetic little summary of what was wrong (you didn’t practice guitar once over break!) and thought maybe I was crazy.

Perhaps I should dust off that guitar and leave First Born Prince at home to clean dog poop this afternoon while I go take his lesson.

Viva La Down Time

We were in Viva Taqueria, my favorite place to get a margarita and a buzz.  It's fun to take our out-of-town guests there because of the totally happening people, great music, and delicious, fresh food.  Charming Baby had to go to the restroom so I went with him (I was on margarita number two).  Waiting in line, we swayed to some Air Supply and watched waitstaff with colorful tattoos and perfectly ripped jeans run by with trays full of drinks and nachos.  All of the sudden my youngest son wrapped his arms around me and buried his face into my chest and sighed, “I miss you.”

We had been together for 16 days straight, but I knew what he meant. Between Entrepreneurship at Cornell and two Spring Breaks (ours and our friends’), we have had three sets of visitors from California in the past two-and-a-half weeks.  In the middle of that, we went to NYC for my mother-in-law’s birthday, Passover, Easter, and a Cake show.  I hugged him back, smelled his hair and said, “I know, me too.”

“You’ve been so distracted.”

How is a seven-year-old able to articulate his feelings so well?  His future wife owes me so big time.  He had made a similar observation about some of our visitors, commenting that they were looking at their smart phones all the time, even during dinner.

I thought about how it all must have seemed to my son.  He wasn’t used to the multitasking business professionals from our city life.  He had grown accustomed to the slower college-town pace.  These past few weeks, I had become preoccupied, trying to get everything done in between museums, nature centers, campus tours, and evenings out.  We were all enjoying the company and travel, but I was also trying to keep my commitments and projects rolling.  At one point, I was e-mailing with one hand while wrangling the dog with the other on one of our hikes. I didn’t realize what I had been missing until that tender moment at the back of the Mexican restaurant.

Sometimes I forget I am the gatekeeper to his entire world.  No one else is going to manage the schedule to ensure we have long, one-on-one talks and book-filled bedtimes.  As much as we loved the recent excitement, I can’t wait to get back to our routine.

Foot Hand Art

Charming Baby had his first Tae Kwon Do class last night.  He has been saying he wants to “do Karate” for a long time now.  Not competitive in nature, he shirks team sports and would rather play Ninja than shoot hoops with his brother.  He doesn’t walk from room to room in the house, he leaps through air giving kicks and spinning around.  He’s pretty good, actually.  We decided to check out martial arts.

I liked the well-rounded approach to Tae Kwon Do (Tae=”Foot”, Kwon = “Hand” and Do= “Art”).  The tenets are courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit.  The disciplines include style-forms, self-defense, sparring and break-test.

Before jumping into the popular Tae Kwon Do studio, where you have to commit to twice a week, minimum two-month trial for $200, plus I think you also have to buy a uniform, I thought it was wise to test out his interest level by taking an introductory course at the Ithaca Youth Bureau (IYB), where they meet once a week, for six weeks, for $40, and you can wear sweatpants and a t-shirt.

In my mind I pictured some well-meaning young camp counselor type explaining ancient philosophy to the kids and putting them to sleep.  Charming Baby had visions of doing flips in the air. 

We walked in at 6:00 sharp (class meets from 6:00 – 7:00) and everyone was already rolling.  The head instructor was a very professional looking and sounding middle-aged woman.  She had two rows of assistant instructors, all in uniform, with different colored belts, lined up like a military unit.  Charming Baby kicked off his shoes and immediately jumped into the pack of kids standing in front of the teachers, waiting to begin.

The instructor did an amazing job of blending theory and practice.  She had them bowing one minute and punching the next, seamlessly, without any misbehavior.  You might think this isn’t special.  Then you’ve never watched a coach or a teacher try to keep command of 30 kids, aged 7 to 12, the hour before dinner.  Even I put my book down and was entranced.

She had the entire room, dozens of kids, line up in specific order, by rank, and if someone entered the room that was a higher rank belt, they all paused and bowed to that person.  The troops then had to shuffle down one spot, to their left, to make room for the higher-ranked person entering the line-up.  The order went something like Black, Brown, Purple, Yellow belts and then, last, the beginners, White.  Charming Baby had No Belt.  I wonder how long it will take him to ask for a uniform, or try to wear his Halloween costume to class (it’s black nylon not white cotton but he wouldn’t care).

Charming Baby loved every second.  This is a big switch from his usual shrug he gives me after I drag him to something we want him to do.  I am wondering if maybe we are on to something.

Modeling Money

“Mom, the clay set I want is fifty dollars.”

“Five-O?  Fifty?”

“Yes, fifty.  Please, Mom.  It has every color.”

“It must be some clay.”  I wonder if it will get rid of fine lines and wrinkles.

Charming Baby looked at me with the sweetest little face. “I’ll pay twenty if you pay thirty.”

“Sam, you have $52 at home."

First Born Prince butted in, “Sam, fifty dollars is too much for clay.”  He has mastered the value of a dollar and is learning to help out when I am being ambushed.

“But it’s art supplies!” He has mastered negotiation and is learning swindling.

“I’ll have to take a look and then we can talk about it.”

We are trying to teach the boys about saving and budgeting.  I will usually spring for books, but everything else they have to pay for with their allowance.  Art and office supplies are in the gray zone.  I have to be careful about this.  They start to act like lotto winners when we are in a book, office or art supply store.  When it’s coming out of their pocket, they scrutinize every purchase, often deciding at the last minute, “Oh, I don’t need that.”  But when I am paying, all of the sudden comic books, mechanical pencils and Perler beads are must haves.

We walked over to the modeling clay shelves.  He pointed out the smallest little package of clay:  $1.49. 

“Honey, it’s only a dollar and forty nine cents.”

“Oooohhhh.”  He was excited.

“Will you pay for all of it then?”

Ice Making & Dishwashing

 Charming Baby examined the plastic ice cube trays as if I had brought home some interesting fossils. 

“What are these for, Mom?”

“They’re ice cube trays!”

“Why do we need special trays to carry our ice?”

“They are for making ice!  The automatic ice maker is broken, so we’ll use these instead.”

He was fascinated, and asked if he could be the one to fill up the trays and put them in the freezer.  He kept checking on them all afternoon, reporting on the progress.  At one point he said, “Dad is going to be so happy we made ice for him!"

Can we just freeze everything right here?

As luck would have it, the dishwasher then broke, so I have been doing all the dishes by hand this past week, too.  At first I was on the phone pushing the appliance repair guys to hurry up and save me and then I realized no one in upstate New York cares if you are left washing your own dishes or making your own ice.

I found a therapeutic rhythm to my evenings.   Why is it so incredibly satisfying to clean up an entire kitchen?  Have I gone completely mad rattling around this old house?  I even love vacuuming up the floor at the very end, clearing away all the dirt that has been dragged in and crumbs that were carelessly dropped.  Maybe it is taking something from a mess to spotless, all while enjoying a glass of wine, that feels like an accomplishment.

Or, it could be knowing that if I can manage the 300 square-foot heart of our home, no matter what breaks down, I can somehow handle the rest of it all.  I am on guard these days as the boys race towards independence and maturity.  They need me less in many ways and so much more in others.  One day I am scheduling play dates, the next I'm supervising e-mails and texts.  I can’t freeze time or wash away problems but I can be there, with plastic trays and rubber gloves, making sure nothing gets the best of us.

Growth Spurts

The first time I dined with a conscious eater I thought maybe she was in a cult.  Before diving into our meal, she bowed her head and quietly moved her lips whispering something I couldn’t hear.  This after giving so many amendments to her order that I thought for sure the waiter was going to wipe the floor with her tortilla before serving us.  I remember thinking there must be something wrong with someone who inquires about the origin of a fish she’s going to eat.

I’m different now.  I try to model slow, healthy eating for my boys and I definitely think twice about where my food comes from.  I understand what my friend was doing all those years ago in the booth at our favorite restaurant.  Sitting down to a bounty of food is a privilege and it’s really nice to stop and take a moment to thank somebody—God, the farmer, the cook.  I am trying to teach my children to not take it all for granted.  Also to not shovel food into their mouths. 

On the average, my boys grew over 8 inches a year when they went from babies to toddlers, are now growing at the rate of 3 inches per year, and according to the last doctor we saw, will have the majority of their growth between the ages of 12 and 17.  It’s all very exciting to be raising Beowulf and Bunyan but it’s almost impossible to work gratitude, conversation and mindfulness into the meal experience.

“Mom, Charlie didn’t put his fork down between bites.”  Charming Baby tattles as he’s licking the sauce off the chicken he’s holding like a lollipop.  The owner of the Thai food place walks over to our table and offers him a knife.

As I am cutting the chicken off the skewer for him, he gets grouchy and impatient.  I try to redirect him.

“How was recess today?  Did you play wall ball?”

“Fine, yes.  Mom!  Don’t’ let Charlie take any of my chicken!”

First Born Prince’s eyes are scanning the table like a snake near a baby bird’s nest.

“Never mind, don’t worry, settle down.  There is plenty to eat!”

They both harrumph.

Not Pictured: [My son’s name here]

I missed the notice from the after-school math club about them taking the photo for the yearbook last week.  I can’t believe after two years of attending this enrichment program, run by a volunteer math professor from Cornell, my older son missed out on getting pictured with the rest of the Math Olympiad team.  He doesn’t know yet and won’t until June, or he reads this post, whichever comes first.   I am not sure if he’ll resent me, but I feel bad.  Letting him down in this way is right up there with the other top ten mothering offenses I’ve committed during my boys’ formative years. 

1.     Losing my younger son’s blanket.  I have been the trusted guardian when we are out of the house, having carried it on countless trips in my bag for him before.  He has slept with it pulled up to his nose every night of his seven-year life.  I accidentally left it on the Disney cruise ship last month.  Everyone keeps saying, “Oh, it’s Disney, you’ll get it back.”  So far, no dice.

2.     Tossed my older son’s first diorama he ever made into the recycling bin just as he walked into the laundry room to catch me giving it one last final smash down.

3.     Missed a play/performance at school (both children, different events).

4.     Forgot to play tooth fairy (both children, different nights).  I swear this is not due to chardonnay consumption.

5.     Insisted First Born Prince have a circus theme party for his 3^rd birthday when he wanted a Batman party.  He cried over the clown.  Now that I think about it, hired entertainment in a tight Batman suit might have been more interesting than the clown.

6.     Yelled at Charming Baby to stop being such a baby and get his shoes on.  Turns out there was a sock stuffed into the toe.

7.     Yelled at Charming Baby to stop being such a baby and get his shoes on.  Turns out his feet did grow a size while we were on vacation.

8.     Worried that First Born Prince wasn't making friends at lacrosse practice, I asked an older brother of one of the players to go out and introduce some of the kids to him.  My son wanted to know if I was meddling (after he begged me not to) and I said, "No."  "Oh, really, Mom, then why did that big kid come tell me if I want to know people's names, I should ask the coach, not have my mommy help me?"

9.     Lied for my own good, versus theirs.  I do this all the time.  (“Sorry, they weren’t home”, “Sorry, they were sold out”, “Sorry, it’s a pool club rule”)

10. A few weeks ago at the end-of-the-season ski club party at the water park, I swear Charming Baby told me he was packing his own swimsuit, just like his brother.  When we got to the water park, neither of us had a suit for him.  I forced him to dig through the Lost & Found and try on the only suit we could find, too-big, had-to-be-cinched at the waist, hanging almost to his ankles.  While we were arguing over whether or not he would wear the damn thing, he missed the ski club photo being taken around the corner.  He adores ski club, his favorite activity, bar none.  To top it off, later that day, one of the guys who works at the park stopped him and said, “Hey, that’s my suit!”

Viruses, Good and Bad

Charming Baby has two warts (that I know about) I haven’t treated, although I did buy the medication.  This is newsworthy because my brother used to terrorize me when we were the same age by pinning me down and rubbing his wart on my exposed skin.  I still have nightmares that I will wake up, covered in miniature cauliflowers.  “Not the face!”  I would yell.  I have pulled the little glass wand out of the vial several times but my son runs off shouting, “Nooooo!”  I say to him, “Fine, be warty.”

Both my children have had warts.  Sharing this information is a good way to see who is being real with me and who is pretending.  Some people think that things like warts only happen to dirty children.  This, despite all evidence to the contrary.  I am here to tell you that my kids are some of the cleanest in town, but I wouldn't mind debating it.  Precious few mothers are willing to go there.  Most of us are so busy trying to put out a respectable image that we miss the opportunity to really connect and bond.  I am working on it.

My friend told me last night she loves that about me.  This is dangerous.  It’s reminiscent of the time my husband told me he thought it was sexy that I cursed.  I really, truly should not be encouraged.  For a year after that I was fucking sloppy. We had to have a talk about how it’s more powerful when used discriminately.  He’s right.  Fucker.  My friend said that she feels safe being her true self with me, that I won’t judge her if she reveals something bad.

I appreciate her compliment, but I would say most everyone is relieved to hear someone else is having a bad day, thought or problem.  There is no bigger turn-off than little Miss Perfect.  I am eternally grateful for the friends who confide in me.  We all have issues; it’s just a matter of who is willing to fess up and who isn’t.  I think our most powerful way to grow and heal is by sharing the worst and realizing we are not scaring anyone off.   Sometimes this sharing process yields helpful information--like the name of a good therapist, or the tip on applying Compound W while he is asleep.  Often, it is just knowing we are still loved, warts and all.

P.S. I Love You

The first time my heart skipped a beat was when I received a valentine at school in the fourth grade from Jeff Shaller.  I analyzed every curve of every letter, convinced there was a secret message in there that he liked me.  Thinking back, I am sure it was totally benign and if his mother was anything like I am, he was forced to give a valentine to everyone, even the little fat girl.

In the dorms during my freshman year at college the social committee offered up “Secret Sweethearts” for the week leading up to Valentine’s Day.  Those of us who wanted to participate put our names into a bowl.  I cannot remember who I got but I will never forget who got me.  This is a good lesson.  If a boy likes you, he will hunt you down and find you.  You do not need to give him your number three times or make sure you are at every single party he attends.  Mike systematically went through the entire dorm until he found out who had me and then swapped with that person.  He gave me a week of thoughtful gifts with the grand finale being a silk rose in a glass case.  When he finally revealed himself I think I shook his hand.

Another thing I will never forget is my first Valentine floral delivery—a teddy bear hugging a vase of flowers.  It was signed, “I love you and miss you.  Ralph.”  Ralph was the name of my family’s first cat, long deceased.  When I asked my dad why he signed it “Ralph” he told me he couldn’t sign it “Dad” if he wanted to scare away any wise guys that might be getting funny ideas.

The last Valentine’s Day with my father I was single and home for the weekend.  He was making dinner as usual, but when he realized I was going to be hanging around all evening, he dashed out and bought one of those giant chocolate chip cookies.  It was in the shape of a heart.

After college I was living with my mom.  My father had passed away so I was keeping her company and trying to save money.  I had just met a guy who was also living at home.  He showed up on our doorstep that Valentine’s Day with an Entertainment coupon book he borrowed from his mother and told me to flip through it and pick out a place.  When I liked him I thought that showed confidence.  When we broke up I told my friends he was cheap and weird.

My husband always wants to have a discussion prior to Valentine’s Day so that there are no hidden agendas or hurt feelings.  I used to complain to him that he really takes the fun out of it.  Now I am just glad we’d both rather spend money on sushi than lingerie.

This is the last year my older son will make a Valentine bag or be given a list of his classmates’ names to use for addressing valentines.  I read the teacher’s note at the bottom of the party announcement, “Not required to bring valentines—this is optional.”  I asked my son what his plans were.  We had already bought a box of cards with candy for him to give out and I was surprised when he didn’t tear into it.  “I’m not sure.  We’ll see.  Don’t open the box, I might return them.”  This from the little boy who used to kiss anyone willing and shout, “Happy Wallentine’s Day!”  I have been eyeing the sealed box all week.

Savings

Relationships are like bank accounts.  If you make a lot of deposits, no one cares when you make a withdrawal once in a while.  A marriage certificate or birth certificate only offers a tiny bit of overdraft protection.  If you go on a spending spree, without the savings to back yourself up, eventually a loan officer will step in and take over.

I’ve watched marriages, friendships and now, sickeningly, some parent-child relationships, fall apart because one or both of the people in the agreement weren’t managing their finances.

When you are young and everyone’s accounts are low in general, few people mind if you are constantly the one with the problem, or needing a favor, or the type of girl who only shows up when your boyfriend is busy.  But as we build our lives, the rich and the poor become obvious.

Recently, the biggest challenge for me is keeping my balance up where I want it with the boys.  I have to force myself to put down my notebook computer, my wine or the phone so I can be mentally present for the kids.

Last Friday afternoon I wanted to write.  I had been hit with a huge wave of inspiration and I wanted to surf it until dinnertime.  Charming Baby had other plans.

“Mom, I don’t want to sled anymore.  Will you do something with me?”

It was getting late and it was my weekend, too.  I could have put a movie on for him.  I thought about how the number of times he comes looking for me is diminishing.  He’s growing up fast.

“Okay, Sam.  What’ll it be?”

Charming Baby loves coffee cake so we dug around, found all the ingredients and I didn’t even holler when he got lots of little pieces of eggshell in the batter and spilled my real vanilla. 

It doesn’t take a CPA to figure out that you can’t live on plastic.

She's Just a Girl...

A girl called First Born Prince for the first time Friday evening.  It was 7:30 and her phone etiquette wasn’t that great. I figured she was shy.  I felt something akin to sympathy for her and handed the phone over to my son.

She called again the next morning at 8:15.

Good Lord.  It was barely twelve hours. 

I am totally uncomfortable with this.  When a few of his girl classmates started e-mailing him a few weeks ago, we had a heart to heart.  I explained to him that we didn't think 5th graders were ready to date or “go out.”  What happened to model horses and Barbie?  He was welcome to eat lunch with his new friends at school and that maybe sometime a few of us moms could take a group of them to the movies, but that was about it.

We went out for our usual winter Saturday—basketball game, lunch, Huck wrangling.  He scrolled through our Missed Calls on the handset when we got home.

“She called a lot.” 

As if on cue, the phone rang, Caller ID showed it was her.  He looked at me and I detected a plea for help in his eyes.

She’s hunting him down like a dog.

I fibbed and said he wasn’t home.

The same fifth grade girl (she is NOT, do you hear me, his girlfriend) rang back again an hour later and I started to feel sorry for her.  Where was her mother?  Who was coaching her to make these incessant phone calls?  I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I grabbed the phone and in a very sacchariny voice explained that he was busy with his family for the rest of the evening and Sunday too.   He would see her at school on Monday.  I felt like church lady.

She quietly just hung up the phone, not even whispering a good-bye.  It seemed like defeat, not defiance.  I got a pit in my stomach.  She is only ten years old!  She can’t possibly be after anything unnatural or indecent.  Maybe she’s just bored, or I don’t even want to type this….lonely?

I turned to the Professor.  “Do you think we should invite her to the movies with us today?”

“Are you crazy?  You just told me that he is too young for this and we shouldn’t encourage it.”

I snapped back to thinking about my son.  I went through all the permutations in my mind.  I turned the ringer off on the phone and told myself I was doing the right thing.

Signs of Life

When I was little, I loved going downstairs the day after my parents entertained.  There were signs of life everywhere.  In our normally pristine living room that no one was allowed to mess up, my brother and I would find half empty dishes of nuts, cocktail glasses with squeezed-out limes floating in clear liquid pools, baskets of stale potato chips, and crumpled napkins with lipstick smudges on them.  I could still hear the adults laughing and talking as I wandered around, sampling the leftovers and taking notes on what was popular (olives and onion dip) or not (carrot sticks and mystery cheese).

I am Type A, just like my mother, and usually cannot rest until the kitchen is cleaned up, the rooms are tidied and everything is in order for the next day.  But sometimes something festive and magical occurs, if you let it, when you have friends and family over, filling your house up with attention and energy.  I like to get caught up in the moment and consider myself on top of my game if I remember to blow out the candles before hitting the hay.

It’s the only time I can stomach coats left thrown over the backs of chairs, dirty dishes in the sink or crumbs on the floor.  The more wine glasses to wash, the better.  The mood is especially maudlin when I can still smell the aroma of whatever we cooked and served for dinner the night before.

I am trying to take this feeling and spread it out over the rest of my mornings with the boys in the house.  When I injure my foot on a Lego piece on my way to make coffee, or see backpacks and lacrosse sticks cluttering the hallways, rather than letting fumes of frustration that I am raising lazy slobs creep up, I smile and think about how truly fortunate I am to be living with them.

Lost and Found

 

I bought an old desk at a thrift store for First Born Prince last spring, dragged it home and couldn't wait to show him what I found.  I had visions of us laughing and flicking paint at each other, bonding, learning lessons about recycling and restoration.  He took one look at it and told me he didn’t like it.  He is turning out to be just like his father who once asked me after I spent an entire summer shopping at flea markets, decorating our first apartment, “What’s the difference between shabby chic and just plain shabby?”

“I’ll take it!”  Charming Baby was very excited by the idea.  He never passes up a discarded treasure or a project.  He is turning out to be just like me.

Months passed and Charming Baby kept asking me when he could have his desk.  We bought the paint, new hardware and fresh sandpaper.  Summer ended, school started and we got back into sports and music lessons and all sorts of weekend commitments and eventually he grew tired of waiting for me.

A few weeks ago I found him in the garage, sitting at his desk, using an upside down recycling bin as his chair, working furiously on a book he was making.  It was a rainy night, getting late, and he was out there humming to himself.  He had set up an entire workspace, complete with paper, stapler, markers and colored pencils.

“Sam, why don’t you come in and work at the kitchen table where it’s warm and there is better light?”

“Mom, I love my desk!  I don’t care if I have to sit out here to use it.  Please let me stay.”

The very next sunny day we had, I whipped up an early dinner, poured a hefty glass of wine and we spent the entire afternoon and evening in the garage.

I knew Charming Baby was patient and sweet and good with a paint brush, but this time around I found out he is also great with a screwdriver and is clearly capable of taking initiative when his boss is lagging.

Call of the Wild

Not sure if it is the onset of Fall or all of the college radio I’ve been listening to, but lately, I want to break free.  I’ve been thinking a lot about the invisible chains that bind us.  I could kick myself for the eight years I spent a few blocks from the beach, strapping my babies into high chairs and feeding them cooped up in my kitchen at dinnertime.  We had the most gorgeous sunsets.  Why didn’t I toss our meal into a bag and walk down to the sand?

Some commitments are like locust and consume our most precious commodity.  Others are privileges but don’t always feel that way.  After taking our sabbatical year, we have now re-engaged with routine--music lessons, organized sports, and religious school.  Some afternoons when the breeze is blowing warm and orange, red and yellow leaves are rustling underfoot, I want to scoop up my boys and go for long walks, toad hunts and picnics in the woods, but I won’t cancel the tutor or flake on a team…so we keep to our schedule and show up at the organized activities.

I am in the business of raising reliable, honorable men, not breeding Grizzly Adams types, so I will continue to march them home after school and into gymnasiums at the set times.  But when the sky is clear and the harvest moon is full, you just may not find us where we are supposed to be…

End of an Era

Carol Livingston Bowen Barnhouse, my grandmother, passed away the day before yesterday.  She was 98 years old, survived by her four daughters (her son, my father, died almost twenty years ago), nine grandchildren, and 13 great grandchildren.

This was a woman you didn’t screw with.  She did the Times crossword puzzle for breakfast and could carry on a conversation with three different people while she beat you at Scrabble during cocktail hour.  Once she found some cash my grandfather had been secretly squirreling away in his sock drawer.  She didn’t get mad or feel betrayed.  She left him with my aunt and went to China with her friends.

When we visited Grandma Barnhouse before moving to Ithaca she was quiet and didn’t say a word the whole time except at the very end.  She was low on energy and barely talked to anyone anymore.

“You sure do have small breasts for being such a large woman.”

I feared that may have been our last exchange and would joke around about it afterwards.  First Born Prince must have overheard me tell that story a dozen times.

But we did get to see Grandma Barnhouse again last Christmas.  She seemed a little more lively than usual.  I suspect it was because I brought the Professor.  She kept peering over at him.  She was either wondering who the hell the giant Jew was or wanted to impress him.

“I love you, too, Lisa,” Grandma said as we were leaving.  That did it.  The tears streamed down my face.  As I started walking quickly down the corridor away from her room, First Born Prince came up beside me, took my hand and squeezed it.

“Well, at least now the last words she said to you aren’t about your breasts!”

Apron Strings

I have wondered what would be the triggering event to get this mama to leave her baby home alone for the first time. I always thought it would be something carefully planned out and thoughtfully executed. But, like much of life, it sort of just happened, at the last minute, unexpectedly.

Today was exciting for me--I was invited to a literary luncheon at the home of the President of Cornell, honoring a very distinguished author and Professor of English Literature, James McConkey. I knew his work from The New Yorker and was excited to hear him talk.

Alas, I woke up to First Born Prince, all stuffed up, with a fever and horrible cough. Darling Husband is busy with student finals. Babysitter has school. Housekeeper doesn’t answer phone. I briefly entertained idea of asking elderly neighbor woman to sit with him but then realized she probably needs more care than my 10 year-old.

Me: Charlie, look at this map…see this is our house…and that is the house where the event is. It’s only a block away. How would you feel if I went over there for an hour and a half today? I would have my phone with me and would come running home if you needed anything.

Charlie: Is it really only that far?

Me: Yes.

Charlie: And you will really only be gone from 11:30 to 1:00?

Me: Yes.

Charlie: Can I watch a movie while you’re gone?

Me: Yes.

Charlie: Okay.

We practiced him calling my phone (he had never done that before because I am always with the poor child!), and got him all set up with lunch and a movie. He was a little nervous and I couldn’t decide if I was crazy or not. He is more than capable and more responsible than I am sometimes (Mom, are you speeding? I can see the speedometer!), but he is also so very innocent and still just a child, really. I pushed his little baby face out of my head and put on my lip gloss.

I rushed to the event, was thoroughly inspired and so very glad I untied my apron string for a whole 90 minutes. I almost knocked the President’s wife over rushing out the door after the talk. She must have thought I was a working woman, with a very strict boss who I had to get back to immediately after lunch.

Well, I am and I did.

Ithaca Sundays

Taughannock Falls

Soaking in a hot bath never felt so good. After a long morning hiking through streams and trails under a canopy of trees, we picnicked by a waterfall, checked out campsites for future trips and then headed home. I cleaned out the backpacks, prepped dinner, reviewed homework, and was just getting ready to read the Sunday paper and maybe sneak in a nap when two giant puppies bounded into our room.

Boys: Please, can we go to Sapsucker Woods?

Husband: We just went on a hike.

Boys: Mom said she would take us frog hunting.

Me: You didn’t see any frogs at Taughannock Falls? I thought I saw a few.

Boys: Awww, mom!

Husband: Let Mom have a little rest, then she'll take you.

Me: Thanks, honey.

Bonus points for me for getting off my…bed and motivating for a second round. Guess what, I felt totally energized out there, walking in the woods, enjoying the boys’ excitement, noticing the hints of fall colors everywhere. poking around lily pads, moss and swamp weed, totally jacked up from an extra-large thermos full of coffee.

Sapsucker Woods

The boys found their frogs, lots of them, and we even got a picture of the big daddy they caught. Sam exclaimed on the way to the car, “Mom, Ithaca is a frog jackpot!” They thanked me profusely all the way home and I felt pretty good about being such a sport.


After dinner and putting two very happy and tired boys to bed, I poured myself a glass of red wine and headed upstairs. As I was floating there in the tub, watching the lights come on outside like little fireflies in the distance, I poked my toes up through the bubbles, gave myself another blast of hot water and thought to myself, “I hit the Sunday jackpot!”