Healing the past

Mmmmmmmm, eggnog in my coffee...one of the things I love about this time of year.  Another crystal clear morning enhanced by a beautiful sunrise--glad I gave up trying to sleep.

M is getting her ears pierced today.  She hasn't had much interest in jewelry until recently, so this is an exciting step in her life.  It's more than that for me, and I've had to curb my feelings so they don't shadow hers.

I wasn't allowed to pierce my ears while growing up.  As soon as I turned 18 and left home, piercing them was my first, independent decision.  My choice was based partly in rebellion, but mainly on my love of earrings--they're the only jewelry I wear daily...the novelty has never worn off.

The saddest part of that memorable day is that fact that my mother couldn't go with me, because my dad didn't approve.  My aunt and great aunt went instead--they held my hands during the process and were duly excited and happy for me.  We went to lunch afterward, and it was a day I'll never forget.

For years, I've nursed a vision of me holding M's hand and sharing in her excitement during this rite of passage.  Last night, I fully understood that my vision was healing my heart and had nothing to do with M.

She popped into my office to tell me that a close friend is joining her at the mall for the piercing and then asked if she could spend the rest of the afternoon at her friend's house. As an after thought, she asked if I wanted to go with her to the jewelry store too.  My heart felt like someone had stomped on it, but I looked at her happy face and had an emotional epiphany.

M's scenario is the normal one...of course her close friend should be with her...if I'd been allowed the freedom to make choices while growing up, I'm sure I would have chosen to go with a friend too.  Instead, I've always focused on my mom not being there, because I couldn't even share the idea with her.

I'm not sure what I'll do today...part of me would still love to be with M., but a bigger part wants this event to be uniquely hers in the way that she'll remember best.  Maybe I'll just enjoy a quiet cup of coffee at Starbucks, while I wait for her to show me her new earrings.

The path of life experience

"All that we are is a result of what we have thought."

             Buddha

Two years ago, we were in another state touring a prospective college for A.  He was tired of the rain and determined to attend college in the sun.  The campus was beautiful, the location fabulous…I was ready to go back to college, just to live there.  That day, we knew this would be the location, even though we planned to visit other campuses.

That night, A. and I were in our hotel room, while my husband and daughter were at the store.  We were watching TV…conversation didn’t come easily to A. and me anymore…he was pulling away, becoming more independent…a natural process, but hard on my heart.

I remember the next moment so clearly, and I've watched it many times in my mind.  A. was sitting on one of the beds, and he suddenly turned to me, body rigid, face tense.

“This is crazy, this is crazy."

“What’s crazy?” I asked.
“This is crazy, looking at colleges, everything’s happening so fast.  This is crazy.  I graduate next year.  High school will be over.  This is crazy.  What if I’m not ready?”

This was a defining moment in time...a life path was splitting, and this moment was the deciding factor regarding which fork it would take.  It wasn’t just A’s life path, it was also mine, and my heart was screaming, “Then don’t go to college far away--stay in Oregon where we can see you regularly and still be part of your life!”

Then, through a tunnel, I heard a voice, and I realized that my brain had stepped in where my heart couldn’t.

“It’s a year and a half away, and when the time comes, you will be ready.  It’s ok to feel scared about leaving home and the changes that will bring, but you’ll work through those feelings by the time you graduate.  You’ll be at a different place than you are right now--you’ll be excited to go and experience the next part of your life.”

We talked for a while, and I remember the look of relief that I saw on A’s face—the fear wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t overwhelming anymore.  Instead, our emotional roles had reversed—it took all of my self control to counter the heartache I suddenly felt.  I knew he would soon be over a thousand miles away, and throughout the years of raising your child, nothing prepares you for that.

The past eight months have been a journey for all of us.  D. and I are adjusting to having just one child at home, M. is adjusting to being an only child for the next few years, and A. has found that the road to independence and adulthood has curves you never see coming.  He’s gone through a very rough time in recent months, and I’m incredibly proud of his inner strength and perseverance.

I’ve also learned that there is nothing harder than being separated from your child during a crisis.  I can’t be there to hold him when he’s scared or overwhelmed…I can’t be there to fight his battles…to stand up for him…to make sure he stays strong.  That isn’t my role anymore, and nothing really prepares you for that either. 

My role is to support and trust the amazing man that I helped raise…to know that he has the emotional tools and strength to continue pushing forward and dealing with his life…to know that how he handles tough situations now will be the basis for handling them in the future.

Do I wish that I’d spoken with my heart rather than my mind two years ago?  Do I regret not asking him to attend college closer to home?  Sometimes…for a moment…when my heart outweighs my mind. 

Then I remember clearly…this isn’t my path—it’s his…and his unique journey will shape and strengthen him, just as mine has shaped me.

Puberty wears pants

I washed M’s jeans in hot water last night, which put me in hot water this morning. She’s at a delicate age…some experts call it puberty…I just call it hell.

This is my third trip down puberty lane—it’s not one of those experiences that get better with time. I have a new appreciation for mothers with more than three children…I also wonder if they take drugs.

This morning, M was be-bopping around the house, getting ready for school. The last sane moment I remember was hearing the dryer door open and close.

Suddenly, M was crying from the top of the stairs, saying that I’d shrunk her jeans and she couldn’t get them on. I tried to explain that jeans stretch out while you wear them. Based on the crazed look in her eyes and the way she was yanking at her jeans while stomping toward her room, I’m pretty sure I didn’t exist for her at that moment.

In the midst of this emotional turmoil, I had an epiphany. “Why don’t you just change your pants?”

I was already feeling relief—problem solved—when she turned wild eyes in my direction.

“I don’t have time to change! I’m going to miss the bus!”

More tears on her part, less patience on mine…

“I’ll drive you to the bus stop—you can choose different pants or you can go to school miserable, it’s up to you.” Maybe not my most sympathetic moment…

When I heard knocking on the door, I realized M’s best friend, R, was walking to the bus stop with her, and I felt a moment of panic. I didn’t want a scene in front of the child who’s practically my second daughter. R still likes me—she has her own mother to blame for everything.

I opened the door, whispering to R, “I shrunk M’s jeans last night…she’s not very happy with me.”

R just smiled, the ghost of her own mother’s failures flitting across her face.

I heard M’s footsteps on the stairs and risked a peek—she was in Capri pants and her eyes were dry.

“Has your mother ever shrunk your clothes?” I asked R, wanting M to see that all daughters suffer through and survive these little obstacles.

“No, but I’m pretty sure she’s changed the color of some,” R replied, more ghosts accompanying her smile.

Part of me smiled too, watching these two child-women slip out the front door, pants forgotten.

I put my own mother through a similar episode regarding a pair of jeans and leg warmers. Somehow, she survived me…I guess chances are pretty good that I’ll survive M :)

The electronic generation gap

For my generation, I’m competent regarding computer usage. I employ Microsoft Word and Excel regularly, manage my photos and—when I have time—do a little Facebooking. I also know how to use most of the features on my phone, although my kids laugh at my text lingo or lack thereof.

My point is, I do OK in this technological world...I get by…I’m somewhat “in the know.” Which seemed like enough until yesterday, when I walked into the kitchen and watched M. text on her cell phone, check e-mail on her iPod and play Club Penguin on the computer…all at the same time. I realized my meager efforts weren’t even close to proficient.

I am a definite product of my generation—a detailed scan of my brain would look meager compared to M’s. I’m sure hers lights up in areas mine has never considered using. She has millions of synaptic connections related to computers and video games that I never developed—so do my sons.

Sometimes, I feel sad about this fact, because it makes me seem far older than I am. No comments from the peanut gallery. But most of the time, I’m just amazed by my children’s capabilities.

As I watched M. yesterday, carrying on multiple, electronic conversations, I started to laugh. While I can successfully multi-task, I cannot do so while carrying on a conversation. My brain just doesn’t allow it—I don’t have the crucial synaptic connections between verbal and motor areas.

Granted, part of this might be genetic, but part of it relates to growing up when watching a handful of TV stations and listening to American Top 40 was the extent of electronic exposure. Turning the UHF knob to get a clear picture of Ultra Man was the peak of complexity.

So, I sit this morning, drinking coffee, contemplating the generation gap between me and my children, and wondering about the potential gap between them and theirs. What if texting supplants verbal phone conversations? What if IMing replaces physical meetings? I'm struggling to keep up now...when electronic communication becomes the only form, I’m in serious trouble…

Parenting Angst

What a day. Lots of emotional growth for me—I think I survived it.

M. attended her first dance—I know, can you believe it?? She texted me on the way home: “The dance was awesome!” I smiled…then felt a slight tug on my heart. My baby, the one who was crawling yesterday…yes, I’m sure it was yesterday…was texting about her first encounter with boys in a setting that encouraged actual physical contact—who’s the wise guy who invented slow dancing anyway?

Lucky for me that M. thinks 6th grade is too young for a boy friend. She’s quite comfortable hanging out with her soccer buddies and dancing group-style with her friends. I’d like to take credit for her sensible thoughts, but she’s a sensible girl all on her own. Remind me of that two years from now, when I’m pulling my hair out with worry…

A. put me through the wringer too. Tonight, it was my turn to provide dinner for his high-school soccer team--not a simple task. There are 15 players plus the coach, and they’re all abnormally hungry--human growth hormone is incredibly demanding. I’d planned something simple and casserole-like, which seemed reasonable and cost effective.

Last week, A. started asking what I planned to cook. At first, I thought he was making conversation, which was thrilling in its own right. By the third time he asked, I realized there was more at stake—this meal affected his status on the team…at least in his eyes.

Sooooo that was it, a casserole was out and something amazing was in. A. loves pasta, especially if it’s encased in white sauce. Therefore, I spent the past few days finding the perfect recipe on line, which I recreated for his team today.

By the time I left for A’s high school, every pot I owned was dirty; my kitchen floor was covered with chopped onions, pressed garlic and bits of Italian sausage; and I’d burned almost every finger on my right hand. But, and this is a huge, huge BUT…the meal was awesome--A’s smile of relief made my heart hurt.

All in all, it was a wonderful day and an incredibly difficult day. I would relive it in a minute—I’m crazy in love with my kids....

Perpetual Motion

My family isn’t known for its ability to sit still. We all have excess energy, and it manifests in various ways—team sports, running, walking, fidgeting, talking, humming, nonstop reading, endless projects… Age eventually slows us down, and we learn the value of quiet moments, but our children suffer the same comments and frustrations we endured, especially in school.

Fortunately, for the most part, my children have had teachers who appreciate their kind hearts and brain power, rather than focusing on their constant, unconscious fidgeting. The first real opposition I encountered came from J’s third grade teacher. She was very concerned about the fact that he couldn’t sit still, but he was one of her top students, followed directions, worked quietly and never had issues with classmates--he didn’t fit classic ADHD profiles.

During conferences, she expressed her concerns and told me that I should have him evaluated...for something...she wasn't sure what. I took a deep breath and explained that J had been in motion since conception (I'm not exaggerating), that moving actually helped him think clearly and that I loved who he was. I also told her that if he was distracting other students, he wouldn’t mind extra space around his desk, because he didn’t like group seating arrangements.

I spoke calmly, but inside I felt sick, waiting for his teacher to continue her negative diatribe. Instead, I watched her face change and soften. She admitted that J didn't disturb his classmates, and I realized she was viewing him from a completely new and different perspective. Like the Grinch, I felt her heart grow three sizes that day, although she didn't do the impressive sleigh-lifting thing. She also gave me much-needed hope and strength regarding encounters with future teachers.

At home, I’ve learned to give my children a wide berth when they’re telling stories—they walk back and forth, make laps around the kitchen island, hop from foot to foot. The stories are expressive and creative—I can’t imagine what I’d squash if I told them to stand still. Let alone the fact that it would by physically impossible.

These thoughts are going through my mind, because while watching M get ready for school this morning, I was struck by how beautifully she moves through life. Her excess energy manifests in constant dance moves and dramatic facial expressions—she was born to Hip Hop. She plays the viola and composes piano music, always moving to her internal rhythms and beats.

I’ve never seen M stand still—that’s what makes her captivating and amazing. That’s what makes all of my children captivating and amazing. And the only reason I recognize this so clearly is because my mother constantly told my brothers and me how unique and special we were, that our active minds were gifts to cherish.

She never told us to sit still, and I realize now that the absence of that statement may be the greatest gift she’s ever given us.

Teen Logic

A. limped to the car after soccer practice last night.

“I got cleated today.”

“How bad is it?” I’m concerned, expecting a battered ankle.

Instead, he pulls down his sock, showing me a battered shin. Simultaneously, I realize it’s a completely exposed shin.

“Where are your shin guards??”

“I never wear them in practice.”

“What do you mean, you never wear them in practice? That’s dangerous!”

“They’re too hot.” My son is a man of few words, by now the shin is swelling and taking on strange hues.

A. and I proceed to “disagree” about the merits of shin guards. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m the bad guy, forcing him to do something against his will.

His shin is throbbing, bloody, bruised—there wouldn’t be a mark on it, if he’d been properly protected…can there be a more logical connection??

And, if he refuses to trust my advice regarding shin guards, how will I reach him about more important life decisions, like drug use, college and possibly getting a haircut? These are the thoughts that pass through a mother’s head when her son makes her feel two inches tall regarding his safety.

I finally backed off, and we finished the drive home in relative silence. M. was in the back seat filling the void with stories about her soccer practice, proudly showing A. her battered knee. Her shins looked great though…

This morning, I accept that it’s my job to be the bad guy once in a while. There are so many things I can’t protect A. from anymore. I have to trust his judgement and the years of discussions we’ve already had.

He’s an amazing person—he’s also a teenager. He’s going to give me joy, grief, laughter and tears for the next few years. He’s also going to wear shin guards every time he steps on a soccer field...until I've left the parking lot anyway.

Who's on first???

“How do I get rid of this?”
“Get rid of what?”
“This picture thing?”
“You’re taking a picture.”
“I don’t want to take a picture”
“Well, you’re in camera mode.”
“I don’t want to be in camera mode.”
“Well, you are.”

This is one of many conversations flying back and forth between a grandmother (GM) and her two teenaged grandchildren. GM loaned her phone to her granddaughter…big mistake. Now there are names, texts, etc. GM doesn’t recognize. Her grandson is having a great time sandbagging, rather than helping, her.

You’re wondering how I’m part of this scenario, right? I’m in a dental waiting room with nothing better to do, and this trio enjoys talking at high decibels. At the moment, granddaughter is with the orthodontist, and GM just expressed relief that she only has two grandchildren...harsh...but she obviously knows her limits.

“Help me get rid of that stuff your sister put on my phone.”
“What stuff?”
“That texting she does.”
“What texting?”
“I don’t know, I can’t find it.”
“You have texts?”
“I have names I don’t know, and I don’t want em. See, like this one—it says new contact.”
“That’s not a text.” (Heavy eye rolling on the grandson’s part) “That’s someone who called you.”
“I know your sister made texts.”
“You have texts?”

Abbott and Costello have nothing on this family.

The slow march of puberty

M. endured the annual “welcome to womanhood” films at school this week. I signed permission slips when J. was her age--now the powers that be send notes home saying, “This is what we’re telling your children, live with it.” I’m totally ok with the open puberty discussions—knowledge is power—but I feel sorry for the parents who are completely blind-sided.

This year, the girls even enjoyed a field trip to the bathroom to view the tampon dispenser—how cool is that? The films themselves are produced by Disney…again, how cool is that. I envisioned Mini Mouse visited by the curse, lamenting her predicament via song in a high-pitched, somewhat annoying voice, while colorful birds twittered in the background. I just checked with my daughter and she assured me that wasn’t the case…I think Disney really missed the boat.

Unfortunately for M., if she’s anything like me, she won’t discover the joys of womanhood for a few more years. My mom gave me “the talk” when I was nine, and we excitedly ordered a boxed kit destined to meet my every puberty need. The kit arrived, I checked out all foreign objects within, then placed it in my dresser drawer. My emotions ranged from awe to fear to relief that I didn’t need any of the strange contraptions it held.

Every year, for the next five years, I repeated that ritual, brushing off the ensuing layers of dust and disappointment. By the time I actually needed the box, there were better, more convenient products on the market. My mom offered to take me to dinner to celebrate my momentous milestone—I was too busy reading directions to appreciate her loving gesture.

I’ve explained to M. that life arrives slowly in our family, and I’m not succumbing to puberty-preparation boxes. I’m in menopause, at a fairly young age I might add, but I’ve lovingly saved the last of my supplies for M’s impending future. I think we have a lot going for us—I’m not affected by PMS anymore, and M. won’t be for a few more years. By the time she is, J. will be out of college and firmly established in the adult world…I’ll just ship her off to his house for a few years.

Fanning the flames of life

I told my preschool students they were “on fire” today. Class was almost over, I was caught up in their interest and enthusiasm, we were engrossed in an amazing discussion. The words left my mouth and everything stopped. I realized my students were staring at me in confusion, turning to one another for clarification.

“Fire?”

“We’re on fire?”

My bad… After clarifying that no one was on fire, I explained that I meant their brains were working hard and full of incredible thoughts. Their little faces lit up, all was right in the four-year-old world, life carried on.

I re-learned a lesson though--one phrase, meant well, misinterpreted, can crush a great moment. How many times do we say one thing and people think we mean another? More importantly, how many times are we unaware of this fact?

The great thing about little kids is they don’t leave you twisting in the wind. Via body language, words, tears, they react immediately to the world around them, giving you clear signals regarding their feelings.

When a child opens his lunch box, views chicken nuggets and dissolves into uncontrollable tears, there’s no doubt his parents are in the proverbial doghouse. Personally, the nuggets smelled great--I was really hungry. But when the child criticized his parents that evening, I didn’t want to diminish the impact of congealed chicken and the sound of his little tummy growling...

I do think we all need to give each other a break. When in doubt, speak out. Harboring hurt feelings, confusion, anger, mistrust, only destroys relationships. When someone tells you you’re “on fire”, ask them what the heck they’re talking about. If you really are going up in flames, you’ll be glad you asked :)

Surviving college

Every day for the past week and a half, I’ve endured the ominous “I’ve forgotten something” feeling. After mentally reviewing my responsibilities, I finally realize something’s missing, not forgotten. The something being a someone…my oldest son.

He’s adjusting to college life, navigating dorm dwelling, excelling in a new computer job, doing a little school work on the side. He still likes calling us…even sends a few texts. But I stopped taking communication for granted after a friend said she hadn’t heard from her son.

I’m doing my own adjusting. Little things catch me off guard, sometimes I still shed a few tears. But, every day it’s easier to handle….until I feel like I’ve forgotten something…

Two friends and I recognize the emotional toll of releasing our children to the world. We’ve agreed to spend a few days at a spa in 2016, when our daughters—our youngest children—leave for college. Originally, we talked about a local get-away, but the more we discuss it, the more we realize nothing will soothe our souls like a weekend in the South of France. Our husbands are handling the situation well, sure we’ll change our minds…we’ll send them postcards from France...

Me-hood vs. motherhood

M. went down on the soccer field today. I saw the ball hit her stomach, I knew her spasming diaphragm would regain rhythm, but sitting on the sidelines, unable to comfort her, was a terrible feeling. I found myself calmly telling her—from my chair—not to be scared, that her breath would return, but minute-long seconds ticked by.

Finally, in desperation, just before her coach reached her, I said, “Please lift your head, so I know you’re ok.” Her head came up, I fought back tears and the game went on. M’s team won, big time, but truly, the only part of the game clear in my mind is the interminable seconds M. lay on the ground not breathing.

These thoughts are on my mind tonight, because I went out with friends last night, and our conversation centered on one woman’s parent/child issues. We all listened and consoled this woman, but part of me resented the fact that my one night out focused on parenting.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a mom—it is the best part of me. But it’s not all of me—sometimes I need to recognize the other parts too. What I understood today, however, is that everyone’s parental timetables are different and uniquely valid.

Good friends eat nachos and discuss parenting issues, even when they’d rather be doing Tequila shooters and romanticizing steamy romance movies. Although, in my case, they'd be discussing the latest action thrillers. What can I say...I'm an obvious throwback to mythical Amazon women... And, yes, the shooters are an exaggeration--I’m trying to make a point.

For a few seconds today, my entire world centered on my daughter--I needed everyone within close vicinity to support that. Which they did...just as I supported my friend last night. Yet, I’m sure everyone on the soccer-field sidelines had their own agendas vying for attention.

So tonight, I’m thankful…for good friends, amazing family and the wisdom to grow from new experiences…

Soccer, goals, life...

A. spent the past two weeks competing for a spot on one of the high-school soccer teams. He’s a freshman this year, still awaiting his puberty growth spurt—sometimes that hinders his confidence. More often than not, it means he’s overlooked and outrun by taller players with secondary hormonal musculature.

I’m 5’4” on a good day, my husband is 5’8” on a great day—we’re not height-blessed genetically . It’s never mattered to me—girls aren’t judged via height the same way boys are. I know how talented A. is—he’s a natural-born athlete. Nothing physically daunted him until sixth grade, when other boys began the gradual ascent to puberty.

By seventh grade, A. was second-guessing himself on the soccer field, backing down to bigger players, afraid to make mistakes. An aggressive, competitive coach increased his angst.

During eighth grade, we saw an endocrinologist, because A. dropped off his own growth chart. Puberty takes its sweet time in my family—I wasn’t too worried—but A. needed professional reassurance. Growth is definitely in his future—knowing that boosted his confidence on its own upward journey.

Still, this week has been hard—fear of not making the Junior Varsity I team made my son testy… I don’t care which team he’s on, although I know his abilities dictate the I team. I just want him to play a sport he loves and believe in himself.

Yesterday was especially difficult—A. fought mercilessly with his siblings—I should have known something was up. He was tense during the ride to soccer this a.m. and told me practice ended early. What he didn’t say spoke volumes…I failed to decipher the words…

During the morning, another soccer mom called, wondering when I was heading to the high school. She wanted to be there when her son found out which team he was on—the coach planned to tell each player individually. I was stunned—A. hadn’t said anything…no that’s not true…I just hadn’t read the signals correctly.

Nervously, I drove to the high school, scared for A., worried because he’d been too nervous to share details. Sitting in the parking lot, listening to M.’s happy chatter, I searched anxiously for my son. Other players stood in groups, laughing, pounding each other with soccer balls, sweating excess testosterone. Minutes ticked by, I wondered if A. was sitting alone, upset, discouraged…

M. hopped out of the car, happily climbing on a bike rack, inadvertently making me smile. Suddenly, she raced toward the soccer players, and I saw A. standing in their midst. Dodging taller boys, she launched herself at A. and he greeted her with a smile—the death grip on my heart relaxed slightly. When A. looked up, searching for me, our eyes locked, his smile broadened…I knew he’d made the right team.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, blinking back tears, I applauded my son’s growing independence, the desire to handle a tough situation on his own. Watching him walk toward me, towering over his sister, I was also stunned by the realization that he’d grown up in more ways than one this summer…

The girly-girl era

I didn’t inherit the girly-girl gene. There was a time I coveted it and felt genetically cheated…namely, during high school. Clothing styles didn’t naturally make sense to me; complicated, blown-dry, Charlie’s Angels’ wings were beyond my capability. I so badly wanted to be Farrah Fawcett…sigh…I had this whole Lee Majors fantasy too…

I’ve since learned to love my casual, wash-and-go style—it suits my personality. I still can’t French braid, and throwing my hair into a giant clip when I exercise is my idea of a chignon.

My daughter didn’t inherit the girly-girl gene either…I probably don’t even carry it. She lives in soccer shorts and t-shirts—I remind her to brush her hair. However, she was graced with hair that stylists treat reverently. It’s an incredible combination of burnished gold, red, brown, light blonde with beautiful natural curl. She’s also petite, lithe, athletic—almost anything she wears looks great on her.

This works well for me. She leaves the house looking sportsy feminine—I get kudos for somehow being responsible. Life threw me a curve ball this summer though, in the form of M’s new soccer team. About half the players and their moms are girly girls—wow, I did not see that one coming.

Suddenly, matching game headbands, cute nicknames, pre-game cheers and a party-like atmosphere dominate the scene. There are constant side-line events to promote solidarity and team spirit. The girls love it—how can you not love root-beer floats, popsicles, pizza, water-balloon fights, etc., at the end of practice?

Now the moms want to embroider every item of soccer-related clothing with the girls’ nicknames and uniform numbers. I felt accomplished writing M’s name on her tags with permanent marker…I soooo need to expect more from myself…

Watching older girls during a recent soccer tournament slammed home the fact that I’m in for years of soccer haute couture. One team showed up with matching, beaded, braided hair styles—I hope they played as well as they looked.

As I grudgingly embrace this new girly phase of life, I give daily thanks for A’s soccer team. They show up, get sweaty and dirty, slap a few high fives and call it a day—what’s not to love about that?

The best laid plans...

I began summer vacation with a plan. It was a good plan, a solid plan, a results-oriented plan. But somehow, the plan got stomped on. No…that’s an understatement. It was shredded, ground up, destroyed…

Who am I to have summer goals? To assume the earth would slow on its methodically spinning axis to suit my time table? Someone without a clue, obviously… But, next summer will be different. My “To-do list” is huge and will survive—what are 12 or so months in the meantime…

Of course, I’m fooling myself. The lazy days of summer are over and have been for a few years…I just wasn’t ready to admit defeat. My house is full of children during the summer…some of them are mine. I never have a quiet moment—I’m interrupted too often to complete any one task. Toss in competitive soccer tournaments, practices, camps…and weekends are dedicated to driving and spectating.

I wouldn’t trade a moment of this chaos though. Well…maybe once in a while, but honestly, when these years are over and my children are living elsewhere, I’ll miss every chaotic nuance. To-do lists will get done, order will reign, writing will happen, and echoes of family activities will follow me through an empty house…

So, with one remaining summer month, it’s time to decide which projects are worth completing and which get shoved into boxes marked “open 2016.” I should probably include tissues—that’s the year M. graduates high school.

Teens, peer pressure and stepping up

Presidential campaigns race forward, Matthew McConaughey is one hot dad, Hurricane Dolly threatens flooding, and local 14-year-old boys and girls share nude pictures of themselves via cell phone. I bet you didn’t see that one coming...anymore than I did…

A concerned parent viewed her son’s text messages and photos recently—stunned by the content. We talked yesterday afternoon—she wants other parents to know what’s happening. Afterward, my head reeling, relieved that my son is a year or so behind in the puberty race, I tried to view the world from these young teens’ points of view.

I’m part of a fairly secretive generation—we spent a lot of time wondering who was sleeping with whom. But truthfully? More happened during locker room bragging than in reality. Teen pregnancy rates were low, STDs weren’t deadly, we didn’t wear colored arm bands proclaiming our sexual prowess…mainly, because no one had any.

We did have hormonal urges though, and, yes, they drove us crazy. However, we were on the tail end of generations who respected privacy and avoided sexual discussions. We lacked electronic venues for touting sexuality; TV shows rarely displayed teens sleeping around. When they did—moral consequences occurred, teaching hard, life-altering lessons. Basically, my teenhood was very different from my children's--all generations are not created equal.

Kids should be proud of who they are, what they look like...but somehow, I can’t relate nude phone pictures to self-pride. I know the viewers don’t. Physical connections are a contest these days—boys and girls "collect" them, comparing notes. Of course people are terribly hurt in the process--sadly, many teens don't care.

I was lucky—my mom was open-minded and honest, she explained a lot, including the value of respect. Respect for yourself, your body, your choices. That lesson is more important today—the media and pervasive electronics diminish personal respect daily.

Electronics are here to stay, in-your-face sexuality is probably here to stay, so parents are responsible for monitoring their kids’ activities, electronic games, TV shows. Know your kids’ friends, meet their families, find out their rules. Many parents are desperate for allies, welcoming your support.

Spend time with your children, listen to their words, especially unspoken ones… Teens won’t ask or tell you everything, that’s part of learning independence.

Accept being disliked sometimes—you’re the parent, not the best friend. Teens are bombarded by peer pressure...it’s your job to enforce limits. Realistically, your teen often can’t.

My middle son wants photo sharing added to our cellular plan—yesterday's enlightenment made that decision easy… A. won't agree, but after explaining my reasons, life will go on. Because my kids share a phone, no one has privacy regarding texts either—I’m soooo OK with that.

I have great kids; however, peer pressure is slowly outranking me. I don’t expect to beat it, but I can certainly pace it, by facing reality and stepping up. I might need a helluva lot more coffee though!

Recipe for life

My coffee is wonderful this morning; no one else is up, including the menagerie…my favorite time of day…

M. taught me a valuable lesson yesterday. She doesn’t like grilled-cheese sandwiches, she avoids quesadillas, but layer grated cheddar on whole-wheat bread, zap it in the microwave, top it with salsa, and voilà, lunch is served!

Once my bewilderment passed, I realized the importance of “ingredient” rearranging. It keeps life interesting—throw things together in a different way and feelings, perceptions, sensations change.

I thought about the things I enjoy least versus those I love but don’t have time for. I need to walk regularly, I love in-depth conversations, I rarely have time with friends. Throw all that together for 45 minutes and walking becomes one of my favorite activities.

How is it possible that a 10-year-old knows more about life than I do? She lives in the moment—I’ve forgotten how to do that. Satisfaction is everything at her age; she knows exactly what makes her happy.

I should pick up on these life-reminders more often--spending most of my time with children--but my adult “blinders” fit well… I cringe when I think of how many times I’ve struggled with an issue, viewing it unidirectionally, then watched someone else solve the problem from another angle.

“Why didn’t I think of that??” is my catch-phrase during moments of enlightened frustration. There are other phrases, but they’re not aesthetically acceptable.

So, today’s plan? Digress from adult narrow-mindedness; live in the moment once in a while. I think I’ll have nuked cheese bread for lunch too.

voilà!

Surviving childhood cancer

During today’s workout, enjoying the “let’s-all-get-a-haircut-together” atmosphere, I overheard two women discussing childhood cancer. One woman’s daughter had been diagnosed as a young child, the other woman’s son as an infant. Both children survived and have families of their own.

Progressing through our circuit—which is set up in close quarters, so I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping…truly—the conversation became almost competitive. One child’s cancer journey provided much of the current knowledge regarding her specific cancer. As her mother proudly announced this fact, the other mom quickly stated that her son had undergone experimental procedures also, providing helpful medical knowledge regarding his cancer.

I found myself thinking, “What a strange thing to make a point about.” Then I realized, maybe that was the point. Maybe when you’ve been through something so terrible regarding your child’s life, you need justification for yourself and the world. Justification that something good came from the fear, worry, pain, anger. Knowing your child beat the odds and helped others must provide a sense of power over a disease that made you feel powerless.

My heart went out to these women—I morphed from inwardly smiling about their competition to applauding their inner strength. I was humbled by the journey they’d struggled through and honored to overhear their tales of triumph.

Staying in shape and learning life lessons at the same time...who knew working out was so good for the soul?

Summer "Vacation"

Three kids, no school, extremely hot weather…

“Move your feet, this is my spot!”
“I was here first.”
“MOM!”
“Give that back, it’s mine!”
“No, I’m looking at it.”
“MOM!”
“I wanted that cereal—he ate all my cereal!”
“It’s not your cereal—I like it too.”
“MOM!”
“I want a turn—you’ve been playing all morning.”
“Have not—I just got on here.” (computer, Play Station)
“You’re lying!”
“Am not!”
“MOM!”

Ahhh, summer vacation…just sharing the joy…

Slices of life

• M. has “walking pneumonia” and can’t seem to shake it—she has another appointment today. Try telling the Energizer Bunny to kick back and relax... I totally sympathize with her frustration regarding inactivity…believe me, I share the same frustration—there’s a definite trickle-down effect when your children are dissatisfied with life…
  
• Very good friends from the Four Corners were here—they own Shania’s sister and two of our “pups” siblings. We enjoyed a wonderful evening reminiscing, catching up and emotionally bonding—continuing those activities while rebuilding their rental-home deck during the week. They’re back in the Four Corners today, after a 22-hour drive…life’s a little emptier than it was Wednesday.

• I’m used to being the leaver, not the leavee—the computer hates when I take English-language liberties :) During the years I’ve lived here, two sets of close friends have moved away—that’s never happened to me before. How egocentric, assuming that when I settled in one area, life wouldn't change!

• C. brought me an amazing gift from her property…a piece of history that raised goose bumps the instant I held it. You know my feelings about time and the past—the link I felt was instantaneous and powerful. To say I treasure this gift is an understatement.
  
• J. returned from his Greece trip on the 5th. It was a fabulous, unforgettable experience, and he definitely came home more independent. He’s struggling to find his new role in our family—his dad's struggling just as hard against it. I don’t quite get the man thing…I don’t understand competing with your child. Is it nature’s way of ensuring kids leave home? It definitely works—I think J’s more excited about college by the day…
  
• Have I mentioned my Curves membership? I don’t believe I have…let me fill you in. I’ve never belonged to a gym before, preferring outdoor activities—plus, it seems counterproductive to pay for exercise. Oregon weather has a way of wearing a person down though…I joined Curves last month. It’s for women only—I love that. There’s nothing more liberating than sweating profusely without a second thought to appearance. I get my daily dose of local gossip too—it’s kind of like attending a giant, group haircut.
  
• My brother arrives tomorrow. Check out the link to his blog in the left-hand column, and you’ll see why I love spending time with him.
  
• All in all...life is just life, sliced up into days of the week.