Summer Storms: A Reflection on Parenting

My daughter is at the age now where she has nightmares and assorted creatures scare her in the dark.

All of this means that I am jolted awake by the sharp rap tap tap of five-year-old knuckles on my bedroom door, usually around 2 or 3 a.m. Did I mention I have to be at work at 7:30 a.m.?

We forget this part. We parents think we just need to make it through the first few months, six months, year, two years, three. Sleep deprivation only lasts so long. Tantrums have a limited duration. They'll grow out of it and our lives will go back to normal.

But normal never comes.

You find yourself stumbling in the dark to soothe another baby five years later. Only it's the same baby and this time there's thunder and lightening instead of an empty tummy. Sometimes my eleven-year-old son wakes me up in the middle of the night too, but not as often anymore. Sometimes it's just to tell me, "I can't sleep!" Other times it's to vomit 360 degrees all over the hallway walls.

Last night, as I lay on the floor of my daughter's bedroom sleeping on an all-too-thin duvet, a child tucked uncomfortably under my arm and a cat furiously purring behind my knees, I wondered at how she would never remember any of this.

So much of parenting is without credit.

Maybe it's the most selfless form of love? You sacrifice sleep, comfort and barrels of cash for these little beings and you ask nothing in return. I mean, maybe you ask them to make their bed or empty the dishwasher, but does the really even out?

I gave you life!

I comforted you in the middle of the night!

When she's thirteen I'm sure she'll roll her eyes at me and say, "Gawd, Mother!" Or she'll shoot me a dirty look like my eleven-year-old shot me the other day when I wouldn't buy him an Xbox game that was rated M for Mature.

I snuggled that boy in the middle of the night too. When he cried out, I raced to stroke his brow and tell him everything would be okay. I do the same for her now. And neither of them will remember it. Or care. They'll just be annoyed at whatever it is I'm preventing them from doing on any given day.

And it will hurt.

Because I'm the one that comforted you. I took you from the dark and made you safe. How did I become the enemy? It's a hard thing, this parenting. We take them helpless from the womb and it's our job to protect and nurture them.

But then it's also our job to let them go.

In the end, they owe us nothing. They did not ask for life. We willingly gave it. We raised them and loved them to such a degree we think it might kill us. And then they just walk off into the good green earth and don't think much about us anymore.

They have someone else to love.

They have their own life to live.

They'll forget to call.

And it will be right. It will be good. They will function without us and we will have done our job well. 

But oh how we'll miss those nights of thunderstorms and hard floors.A little girl crooked awkwardly under your arms. A cat purring on your leg.

Winning at Parenting.

My three-year-old daughter and I have been taken out this past week by a nasty case of Bubonic Plague. Or Croup. Or RSV. Or Adenovirus. I don't know. Take your pick. We have both been sneezing, hacking and coughing like the tuberculosis wing of a hospital in an Irish short story.

So the other day,  my daughter walked into the kitchen. She looked pathetic and adorable in her pink jammies in the middle of the day. I looked less adorable in my sweats and my sicklady top-knot. We had matching red noses and chapped lips. We both looked slightly bleary eyed and confused. I was drinking hot tea. She was carrying her little pink doll, "Baby," the doll who goes everywhere with her. Her brow was furrowed and she was rubbing a spot on Baby's forehead.

"Oh shit," she said. "I sneezed on Baby's head."

I made a note to myself to talk to my husband about our language. But at that moment, I just wanted to douse that Baby with some Windex.

No more F-bombs and I mean it!

Parenting. I'm winning at it.

We'll Be Here, Listening to You Breathe

There's a striking age difference among the children in my family. We've got babies as young as my daughter who is one, and babies as old as in their twenties. But what strikes me is no matter how big or small, all of their parents continue worrying about them.

Just last night I put my own sturdy one-year-old in her bed and heard her throwing various stuffed animals out of her crib. The Soothe-and-Glow Seahorse is particularly heavy. It doesn't sound all that different from what I imagine a 20 lb. one-year-old body sounds like as it hits the floor. Then there's the kicking of the side of the crib to activate the Ocean Wonders Deep Blue Sea Soother that's strapped to the side of her crib. She kicks it to activate it.

My point is, there's a whole lot of ruckus going on in there and I think that smart little conniver is banking on freaking me out so I come to check on her to make sure she's alive. But because a pediatrician in my parenting group told me to leave that baby alone for 12 hours and I don't want her to wind up living a life of crime, I leave her in bed.

But I do stand outside her door with my ear pressed to it. And listen. I wait to hear the sounds of her breathing, or rustling around, or making whatever baby murmurs she might make. I also watch my sister talk on the phone to her 19-year-old baby (who doesn't like us calling her a baby) and the way my sister presses her head to the phone reminds me of myself. It reminds me of the intent way my brother and husband email, text and call their college-aged children – waiting and listening – to hear that their babies are okay.

But with the grown babies, they're not as easy to protect. It's not as easy as gathering them up off of the floor and covering them in kisses. It's not as simple as putting the plastic covers on the electrical outlets. You can't follow them around the house and prevent every fall.

More importantly, you have to let them fall. So they can learn how to pick themselves back up.

But I imagine my sister, my brother and my husband don't really see the grown adults their children have become. They still see these little babies in footed jammies, crying because they've bumped their heads. I'm sure they long to gather them up and make everything okay.

It makes me realize as I worry about my little baby sleeping in her crib, that it won't get easier. It gets harder. You get further and further away from the door, waiting longer and longer to know that they're okay.



I wrote this over a year ago and I guess I didn't think it was good enough to post. Now I like it. Hope you do too.

Building a Fort.

My friend built a fort for my daughter out of the living room chair and a blanket. Because he has carpentry skills, he used a broken-down cardboard box to support the roof. She loved the little fortress so much, she didn't want to come out.

"HOUSE!!!" she wailed as I tried to extricate her.

When I got home, I built her an identical fort out of a cardboard box, a living room chair and a big blanket thrown over it. It managed to stay intact for the most part, except for when she would grab the blanket and pull down on it until the cardboard roof caved in.

"HOUSE!!!" she wailed each time it fell.

"House!" she chirped each time I put it back up.

I remember trying to build a fort out of a blanket as a kid. I laid on my back and stuck my legs and arms straight up in the air to support the roof. I tried using a cardboard pole leftover from wrapping paper to act as a prop. I tried using throw pillows and stuffed animals as walls.

The trouble was, the blankets kept falling back down. Propped up for a moment, they'd soon return to brush my face and cover my body again. No matter how much effort and how many contraptions I'd build or finagle, the blanket fell down and covered me.

Today I was thinking about that blanket and how I could never keep it off of me. Sort of reminded me of depression. I've spent a lifetime propping it up and trying to keep it off. But every so often the cardboard scaffolding I've built gives way and I feel it brush my face and cover my body once more.

Sometimes I just want to lay down in the dark and give in to it.

But most times I brush it off and try to prop it up. I rummage around for the cardboard poles and stuffed bears in my head and build walls out of plush. Sometimes it all seems so pointless.

Building an imaginary fortress against pain.

Why bother?

But that inner kid in me doesn't care about logistics and logic. I hear my daughter's voice yell, "House!" and I put the structure back in again. She needs me to keep a roof over this house of mine. She needs the shelter of my joy.

When You Can't Fix It, Make Someone Else Happy

Many years ago when I was in an unhappy marriage, I got some advice from my therapist that didn't work.

It's not so much the marriage that was unhappy, but the two people in it. The root cause of our unhappiness was not each other. Unbeknownst to me, he was descending into schizophrenia. Me, I was trying to crawl out of life-long, low-grade depression.

I came to a point of frustration. Frustration with my husband. Frustration with myself. Frustration with the marriage itself. It was stagnant. It was institutionally and fundamentally sad. I felt helpless to change any of it, most of all myself.

"Sometimes when you are unable to make yourself happy, it can help if you try and make someone else happy," my therapist suggested.

This was new.

This was different.

This was mildly annoying.

Yet I did attempt acts of kindness for my then husband. I offered back rubs. I made meals. I tried to strike up conversation. I even left the couch and slept in our marital bed for a change. I spooned.

None of it worked. Not even a little.

I was even more miserable for having tried it and failed, and he didn't seem the slightest bit interested in any of my gestures. I chalked it up to some monumentally bad advice from an otherwise terrific therapist. Yet here I sit, a decade later, and I still remember that advice. It stuck with me for a reason.

What I have found is that I am able to follow my therapist's advice when it comes to my children.

For instance, I was thrown for a loop this weekend. I rather spastically and inexplicably threw my new Blackberry Torch in the bathtub with my baby daughter. I know! It seems impossible, but it happened. I'd been holding it a few feet away from the tub when it started to slip. Rather than let it fall harmlessly to the floor, I freaked out and started bobbling and batting at it until I hurled it high into the air, where it made an Olympic dive into a bubble bath.

I can still hear the splash.

I'll spare you the details of the three AT&T stores I visited, the multiple visits and phone calls, the black tape, the out-of-town husband, the one-year-old and seven-year-old children who couldn't wait that long in a store, the benevolent niece who accompanied me and talked me out of my cellular-induced emotional breakdown. (Slight exaggeration, but I was pretty riled and I'm normally unruffled by such things).

It all added up to me being a pretty high-strung madre by Sunday afternoon.

So I took my children to Chuck E. Cheese. There was so much built-up tension on the Saturday of the Smartphone Swan Dive, I knew something had to give. My seven-year-old son is a sensitive little soul. He was worried about me. He knew I was agitated, irritated and mad about my phone. He gave me a lot of moon-eyed looks of concern. I felt bad about that.

Because I couldn't fix me and I couldn't fix my phone situation until regular business hours on Monday morning, the only things I could fix were the two little people who depend on me. I packed them up and took them to Chuck E. Cheese for no damn reason on a Sunday afternoon.

I'm basically a parenting god.

My son was overjoyed. He couldn't believe his good fortune. My one-year-old daughter wandered around admiring the sights and sounds for two hours, uncomplaining and thoroughly entertained. She had a sweet little smile on the toddler rides and toddler slides. My son marched around with a cup overflowing with tokens and tickets draped around his neck like a paper garland.

That night, I went upstairs and examined my son's face as he slept, his arms wrapped around his stuffed kitty. Such a cherubic face. The round cheeks, the dark lashes, the tender little hand curled under his chin. He's such a tall, slim boy now and he's getting so big I can barely hold him, but in the darkened room I saw him for the little boy he still is. And he was at peace with his world.

I made somebody happy.

Maybe there's hope for me yet.

Who Are You?

My son started kindergarten this week. This means he is officially a "big boy." And oh, he is. 

I watched him stand in line outside the school doors and marveled at how tall and boyish he is. The baby is all gone. Long lean limbs jut out of his cargo shorts and short sleeves. He was all smiles and excitedly gripped his backpack as he waited for the school doors to open.

The parents were all greeting one another and coming over to say hello. His father was approached by at least ten people, social butterfly that he is. And then my son looked up at me and said, "That boy over there is wearing a cool shirt. Can I go over and tell him it's cool?'

"Yes, of course you can," I said.

I watched as he marched up to the kid, an older kid, and told him he liked his shirt.

Who are you? I wondered.

Who is this boy? Who is this friendly, outgoing, happy, self-possessed person? When I look back on my own first day of kindergarten, I clung to my mother's leg and howled as she walked down the hall. For the first hour or so of the day I refused to play with the other kids, despite my teacher's attempts to encourage me to play with the other girls in the play kitchen.

(Maybe I was crying because of the forced gender roles?)

But not my son. He was happy to find his kindergarten class, delighted to hang his backpack in his cubby, and proudly took his seat at the table. He immediately looked around and started talking to the other kids. He smiled at his teacher, and looked somewhat surprised that his dad and I were still there when we came over to hug and kiss him goodbye.

He was like, "Oh. You two are still here? Yeah, bye."

No, he wasn't like that. He just gave us hugs and kisses goodbye and happily waved goodbye as his father and I peered through the door.

I've always marveled at my son. He is this separate entity. He is not mine. I am merely here to hold his hand from childhood to adulthood, and then let go.

But I still marvel at him.

Where did he come from? Who is he? He is not me and he is not his father. He is more outgoing and confident than I am, and he is more tender and sensitive than his dad. Sure you can see a little of each of us in him, but he really is his own person. People often credit his various attributes to my good parenting, which I discount. I don't discount it because I'm modest. I discount it because I know this is simply who he is.

It is not the result of me or my work.

It is his nature, his temperament, the personality that was set in stone when his heart first began to beat in my womb. His genetic code was set and he would be who he is. Yes, I understand that this is Nature, and the other part is Nurture. So yes, his father and I may have each done a decent job of nurturing his nature to fruition — but he is still Cracky.

A certain Crackiness that is not my doing.

The innate Crackiness of him.

Beautiful.

What a beautiful human being he is! I know most mothers will say such things of their children, but I say it not in ownership or pride. I say it as an observer. I observe that this strange human being that came into my world is lovely. Such a lovely, kind-hearted, funny, sensitive, thoughtful, caring, affectionate, confident, character-of-a-boy.

That's all him.

And I marvel as his personality continues to unveil as he grows. I know the five-year-old boy, but wonder who the man will be? Just as I wondered that first day I discovered he was in me. I sat on my porch rubbing my belly, mystified and incredulous that a separate entity resided within me.

"Who are you?" I said to him then.

And I still say it now.

That's the beautiful mystery of children. They are not ours. They are their own. We are merely temporary custodians.

But what a lovely shift it is.

The Sheet of Secrecy and Other Vaginal Mysteries

My five-year-old son's curiosity about sex and babies has continued unabated. 

Now that I've scientifically answered "Where do babies come from?" the boy wants to know "How do the babies get out?"

"The birth canal," is not cutting it as an explanation anymore.

"Where is the birth canal?" is the new refrain. "Is it here?" He waves his hand over his belly-area. "Is it here?" He waves his hand over his pelvic area. "Do babies come out of the mama's toes?"

Oh lord.

"How about we buy a book?" I suggested. I don't know why it took me so long to think of this. I'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes.

"Where's the Sex Ed for Preschoolers section?" I asked the Borders lady. She took me to the Sex Ed section (they actually have one!) and showed me three titles that were appropriate for the preschool/kindergarten set.

After previewing them (and snickering at the pencil-drawn naked man and woman, with their hairy gender-specific parts) I couldn't decide which Cracky would prefer. I decided to turn it over to him.

"Which book do you like best?"

"Let me see," he said, all business. He grabbed the three books, sat on the floor of Borders and started flipping through the pages. He studied each drawing, nodding his head here and there, asking me, "What's that?" and approving my answers ("Those are sperm, that's the vas deferens") as he scoured the books like a doctoral candidate.

When he got to the page with the baby pictured in its mother's uterus, I could feel his excitement build. He flipped the page and at long last beheld the birthing room. There stood the doctor, poised between the mother's legs. The nurses and father were standing by. Mother pushed and did her lamaze breathing behind a modest sheet draped across her legs.

"What?" he said, confused, bordering on outrage.

He quickly flipped the page back, then forward, then to the next page. He flipped through several times, frantically looking for the birthing scene.

"I think a page is missing!"

"What do you mean?" I said, feeling like a fraud.

"Here's the baby inside the mother's tummy," he explained, clearly exasperated. "Here's the doctor and the mother with the sheet over her tummy. Why's that sheet there? And then here's the baby." 

"Yep, that looks right to me!" I chirped.

"But HOW does the baby come out? Where's the HOLE?"

Crap.

"The baby comes out of the mother's vagina," I said, at long last.

"There's a hole in the vagina?"

"Yes, and it stretches so the baby can get out."

"But where is it?" he flipped through the other books, only to confront the same draped sheet of modesty. "Why do they have the sheet over her? I can't see!"

"I think they put it over the mother so she has some privacy," I said.

"Oh. But I want to see the baby come out."

"I might have to buy you a DVD for that," I said, recalling a Miracle of Life video on PBS or the Discovery Channel.

"Yeah, let's get that!" the future doctor said.

As I sat there and thought about my son's thwarted curiosity, and how matter-of-fact he was about the w(hole) thing, I realized that it was my fear of revealing that a baby comes out of a mother's vagina, my discomfort. Five-year-old Cracky is not shocked or surprised by anything. It's all new to him, so nothing is a surprise. If I say a baby comes out of its mother's vagina, and that the vagina stretches so the baby can get out, it is no more shocking to him than the fact that the stars are planets or that a caterpillar turns into a butterfly.

He finally relented and picked the least disappointing of the sex books, the one with the picture of the baby happily floating in his mother's tummy. He decided he could live with the SHEET OF SECRECY in the birthing room, and we went home to read it three more times before bed.

When I closed the book for the last time that night, Cracky put his finger in the air and raised his eyebrows. 

"I have a great idea!" he said and reached around to grab the throw blanket from the back of the couch. "You go lay down on the floor. I'll put this over your legs and we can pretend to have a baby! I'll be the doctor!"

He busily started unfolding the blanket and was just heading towards the floor when I finally managed to speak.

"Noooooooo way!" I said.

"What?" he looked up, honestly confused by my reaction. "Why not?"

"I already went through this once! For real. I'm certainly not going to act it out again." I was laughing and kind of shocked all-at-once.

"Oh. Okay," he said, and scrunched up his eyebrows. But I knew what he was thinking. 

He was totally thinking of the girls at school. And I totally knew I'd be getting a call from his teacher the next day.

Oh well.

I'll let the school know I have a video they can borrow.

Nuts.

"Mom, where do babies come from?" my son asked as we were enjoying a summer evening on The Boyfriend's deck.

"I've told you, they come from their mothers' tummies," I said, somewhat surprised at this out-of-the-blue question.

"I  mean, how do babies get out of their mothers' tummies?"

"Through the birth canal, didn't I tell you this already?" I asked and smiled at his sweet little choir-boy face.

"Yeah, but I think I know how babies really come out of their mama's tummies."

Ruh roh.

"Okay. Tell me." I was careful to remain light and calm, though I figured this would be good.

"You'll get mad." 

"No I won't. Just tell me and if you have it wrong, I'll correct you. But I won't be mad."

"Well Ben at school told me that babies come from their mother's nuts." 

Pause.

The sweet cherubic face stared at me, waiting for my response. Braced for anger, perhaps. The Boyfriend and I stared at each other, each caught in a stunned moment of silence. I fully expected him to laugh first, but the bastard kept his shit together. I, on the other hand, collapsed into a fit of laughter.

"What? What's so funny, Mom?" My son was smiling nervously, confused.

"Oh baby, girls don't have nuts," I managed to choke out, just to assuage any fear of his mother's wrath for saying a word he obviously knew was loaded.

"They don't?"

"No, only have boys have nuts." I heard The Boyfriend finally start to snicker across the table. But I stumbled through. "Do you know what nuts are?"

He nodded.

"Where are they?" I asked.

He pointed at his nuts.

"Okay, so you know boys have nuts and a penis. Well, actually 'nuts' isn't really the polite way of referring to them. You really should call them 'testicles.'"

"Testicles?" 

"Yes, that's more polite. Calling them nuts or 'balls' is considered rude. Anyway, boys have testicles and penises, and girls don't. Girls have a vagina."

"You mean that flat thing?" He scrunched up his face and made his hand flat.

"Yes, where you have a penis and testicles that stick out, girls have a vagina, which is flat, relatively speaking."

He nodded his head soberly.

"What are the other names for 'vagina?'" he asked, rather shrewdly, I thought.

"I don't know," I paused and looked at The Boyfriend. "Do you care to fill Cracky in on the other names for vagina?" I smirked.

The Boyfriend just shook his head, mouth clamped shut. I have never known the man to miss an opportunity to talk about vaginas and nuts, but now Mr. Prolific was suddenly at a loss for words.

"I think we should stick with 'vagina,'" I explained to the boy. "It's more polite."

Just then The Boyfriend caught my eye and mouthed the word Poontang, which I studiously ignored.

Though that'd be quite a word  for Cracky to teach Ben. It'd be a nice little tit-for-tat for Ben's parents at their dinner table, I think. 

"Mom, Cracky told me babies come from their mamas' poontangs."

What?

At least it'd be anatomically correct.

Huevos

My son just announced, "I'm going to do something funny."

Then he scooped up all his plastic Easter eggs and shoved them under his legs.

"I'm going to hatch you, babies!" he said, and hunched over like a mother hen and made a goofy face. Okay, the face was alarmingly like my own goofy, intentionally dorky face. You know the face, when you force out your bottom lip and jaw in an exaggerated underbite and smile with narrowed eyes.

What have I created?

Yesterday I tried to teach him about his balls. Or "huevos" as they call them in Spanish. My boyfriend grew up in Fresno, California. He tells me it's the armpit of California and he has regaled me with a number of tales of the Mexican gangsters who used to threaten him on his way to and from school. One of the many cultural lessons he learned from them was how to say filthy disgusting things in Spanish. Calling the balls, "eggs" is actually more accurate, I think. They are more egg-shaped than ball or nut-shaped.

They are also delicate.

Anyway, I tried to teach my son Cracky about his huevos yesterday because I've been concerned about his total indifference towards his own ballsack. He doesn't even fumble around with his penis either. I guess he's just not in the "genital" stage yet. Although he knows his penis is called his penis, he's never asked me what the heck that ballsack is hanging beneath it.

Weird.

So yesterday Cracky was digging away at his groinal area and I asked him, "Is something bothering you?"

"Yes, it itches!"

"Do you want me to take a look?"

"Yes, please!" So he came over and pulled his shorts over to the side and showed me the little crevice next to his ballsack, sort of in the crease of his leg, and it was red and dry. I had a little bit of eczema or dermatitis or some such thing when I was a kid, so I went upstairs to get some hydrocortisone.

"This will make it stop itching," I told him and squeezed out some of the ointment.

"Can you warm it up first?" he asked.

*Laugh*

"Do you know what this is called?" I asked, pointing at his testicular-region.

"No."

"Well you know what your penis is called, right?"

"Yes," he giggled.

"Well, these are your testicles."

"Testicles?"

"You have like, uh, balls inside that sack. Those testicles make babies," I said, trying to make it scientific.

"I have balls that make babies?" he looked at me as though I'd lost my mind.

"Well, yes. It takes a man and a woman to make babies. They each contribute half of the genetic material to make a baby. Men have testicles that make sperm, and women have ovaries that make eggs. When you mix the sperm with the egg, you make a baby."

"Sperm?" Again he made a scrunched up face, and looked like he was about to laugh.

"Yes, to make babies."

"Boys make babies? I thought girls made babies?"

"The girls need boys to make the babies. Like I said, a boy contributes the sperm, and the girl contributes the eggs, and together they make the baby."

"I have a baby inside my testicles?" He bent over and peered at his sack.

"No. When you are grown up, and you get married, you'll be able to make babies if you want to. With your wife." I figured I'd better add a dash of morality to this play.

"But I already have a wife."

"Well, that's just your pretend wife. You're not making babies until you're an adult."

"We pretend to make babies at school."

*Pause*

"Kayla pretends to be our baby," he explained.

"Okay, that's fine. Pretending is fine."

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"How does the boy give the girl the sperm?" He made a handing-over gesture with pinched fingers, as though handing me some jelly beans.

*Pause*

"He just gives it to her. Um, er, when you love someone, you get to share your sperm." Christ almighty, this wasn't going how I intended at all. "Well, if you want to make a baby with your wife, you and your wife can decided to share your eggs and sperm and make a baby..." I was flailing.

"You mean to make a family?"

"Yes," I sighed. "To make a family."

Thank you Cracky. Thank you for saving me. You're one good egg.

Stretched Out

Sometimes I'm not the best mom.

Sometimes I'm running late for this thing or that, sometimes I have to bring work home night after night, weekend after weekend, and sometimes I have to deal with jerks. All of these things collectively build until the relentless barrage of a five-year-old's questions can irritate me.

In this case I usually close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say:

"Cracky, can you give me a minute? I'm a little stressed out."

Which usually leads to him asking me:

"Mom, why are you stretched out?"

So then I tell him, and then he asks me if it will help if he gives me a hug when we get home.

Gah.

If only all relationships could be this easy. I know it's an oversimplification to suggest that the relationship skills you use on your child and your child employs on you could be applied to other adults, but damn. If only we could do that.

Instead of snapping at each other, it would probably help if we thought about other adults just as we do five-year-olds. We know we can't snap at a five-year-old because they won't understand why we're yelling at them. They'll think they did something wrong.

That's why I explain to the kid that Mama's stressed out. He asks why, I explain the root cause of my stress, and then he hugs me.

I think this could totally work with other adults. Hell, if I snap at a grown-up, I'm sure they wonder what the hell they did to piss me off. Either that or they think I'm a bitch.

Ha.

Who would ever think that?

*Glares*

Anyway, if only I could picture adults like over-sized kids. I'm sure I'd communicate much better with them. I certainly don't expect my little boy to be a mind-reader, why should I expect anyone to do so regardless of age?

I also think Cracky's misunderstanding of the word "stressed out" for "stretched out" is pretty apt too. I know when I'm stressed, I do feel as though I were stretched thin, like a bow ready to snap.

* * *

Please check out Megan's blog for a little stress-relief. She's hosting a Pay-It-Forward blog. It's your chance to win an act of kindness by commenting on her blog. I really want the scarf. I mean, I really want to do something nice for someone else. Check it out.

On Birth Canals and Other Bodily Holes

"Only you can call me baby, right?" my son asked me for the thirty-zillionth time.

"Right."

"Because I'm YOUR baby but I'm not A baby."

"Exactly."

"And I'm YOUR baby because you carried me in your tummy."

"Yes."

He seemed momentarily satisfied with this explanation. Again. At four-years-old (almost five!) he is deeply preoccupied with not being a "baby" but still wants to be his mama's baby. I think this constant reassurance reflects the fact that he has one little foot planted firmly in boyhood, while the other still wants to snuggle the madre.

Which is fine by me. He WILL always be my baby, as I frequently tell him. No matter how big he gets (and the genetic lottery would indicate this boy is gonna be a big'un) he will still be mama's baby. He finds this reassuring.

So do I.

"I was a baby when I was in your tummy," he said. I knew more was coming.

"Yes."

"And when I got big enough I got out of your tummy."

"Right-O."

"But not too big."

"Thank goodness," I agreed.

"How did I get out of your tummy?" he lifted his shirt and examined his stomach. "Did I come out of here?" he asked, and pointed to his belly button.

"Uh, no. You came out of the birth canal."

"Oh right. The birth canal," he nodded his head quickly as if he already knew this. He paused. "Where is the birth canal?"

*DANGER!*

"Um, it's where the baby comes out." I waited to see if the enigmatic zen-teacher of a mother technique would work this time.

"Out of the birth canal."

"Yep."

"Is it a hole?" he cocked his head and looked at me.

*WARNING!*

"Yes. Yes it is."

"It's a hole big enough to fit a baby?"

(This is where I started sweating.)

"Sure!"

"YOU HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR BODY BIG ENOUGH FOR A BABY TO COME OUT?!?" My son's eyes were about to pop out of his head. He recoiled from me in horror.

*EMERGENCY BROADCAST WARNING*

"You have holes in your body," I pointed out, casual-like.

"I do NOT have holes in my body!" he looked at me as though I'd lost my mind.

"Sure you do. Your mouth is a hole, your ears are two holes ... " I pointed accusingly at his pie-hole and his ear-holes.

"OHHHHH, those kind of holes!" he looked relieved. "So only mamas make babies, right?"

"Sort of. Only mamas carry babies."

"But daddies don't carry babies. I'm not my Dada's baby, right?"

"Well, yes, actually you are. Moms and dads make babies together, but then only the moms carry the baby."

"Why?"

"Because only the mothers have birth canals."

"Oh."

*Sweet!*

"How do dads make babies with moms?"

*Pause*

*Longer Pause*

"Well, the mother has half the genetic material that makes up a baby, and the father has half the genetic material that makes a baby, and they get together and mix it up and put the baby in the mother!"

*Phew*

Cracky was not to be distracted by my pseudo-scientific use of big words.

"HOW do they put it together?"

"The baby?"

"Yes," he was starting to look impatient.

"Well, the fathers have something called sperm, and the mothers have an egg, and they put that together and then put it in the mother to carry to term."

"HOW do they put it in the mother?" he stared at me hard, now. I had not thrown him off the scent of knowledge.

"Through the birth canal!"

"OH! I get it now!"

*SUCCESS!*

"I want you and Fred to get married and make a baby," he said, and held his arms as though rocking an invisible baby.

*ALERT!*

I should have known this was all about angling for a baby brother.

*SIGH*

Even When I'm Mad at You

Sometimes I get mad at my son. Yes, it's true. Sometimes he pushes his friends at school or tells someone he won't be their friend anymore, and I get a talk from the preschool director. Other times I catch him in a lie. Oooh, lying to Mama makes her really, really mad.

My son knows the look.

He knows the set jaw, the narrowed eyes and the frozen look of disapproval.

"Are you mad at me, Mama?"

"Well, I'm not exactly happy with you."

"You're not HAPPY with me?" His big, round eyes peer at me in the rearview mirror. Tears are imminent.

"I'm just disappointed."

"I'm sorry Mama! I will never, ever do that again! I promise!" His entire world is collapsing around him.

"I certainly hope so."

"Are you still mad?"

"A little bit."

"YOU ARE?" Armageddon is upon us.

"You know, even when I'm mad at you, I still love you."

"You do?"

"Yes. When you love someone, you care about them a lot. When you love someone, you get mad at them sometimes, and sometimes they make you sad, and other times they make you laugh. But you still love them no matter what."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"You promise?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, Mama. I'm sorry. I don't want you to be mad at me anymore, even if you still love me."

"Okay, I won't be mad at you anymore if you promise to try and do better."

"I will."



Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I treated everyone as generously as I treat my son. What would that cost me? Would I lose something in being so forgiving? What would really happen if I loved like that and someone took advantage of that love.

Would it really be the end of the world?

Would I really lose anything in that?

Aren't we all just children, trying to figure it all out. Isn't the best any of us can offer is to try and do better.

Sometimes I don't think so. Sometimes I think adults are supposed to know better. But what if they don't? What then? How are any of us ever going to learn unless someone loves us like a mother? Sure, it's not my job, it's not your job. But what if we did it anyway?

What if we just went ahead and forgave everybody? And loved them. And let them fall, helped them up, brushed them off and guided them in the right direction, with only their best intentions as a guarantee?

You never know. Maybe if you loved someone like that, they'd love you back like that.

Why Are They Pushing It In So Far, Mama?

Because I am a procrastinator, I waited until the last possible moment to get my vaccinations for India. I have a few, grievous phobias which cause me to pass out. I've covered this before, but just to recap: Crowds and Needles. The centipede phobia only causes me to scream bloody murder, but I have never lost consciousness at the sight of one. Yet.

So I can only get an appointment at the Passport Health Clinic at 5:30 p.m., which means I have to pick up my four-year-old son first, and take him with me. Now I've gotten much better about shots in my old age, and I'm pretty much fine if I don't see the needle and they don't take blood. I got a Tetnus shot last winter and did not pass out.

I thought everything would be fine.

I sat in the chair and decided to put on a brave face for Cracky. The first shot went in and I didn't even flinch. While the second shot was going in, my son announced:

"I SEE BLOOD!"

It was then that I started to hear the distant train whistle of unconsciousness, and then the roar of the engine took over my entire body.

"I think I'm going down," I announced to the two nurses, who immediately stretched me out on the floor. I awoke with a cold compress stuffed beneath my neck and two worried nurses peering at my face.

"Do you want us to continue, or do you want us to wait until you've fully recovered?" they asked.

"Get it over with," I groggily responded. My son got up from the chair where I think he'd been crying to come watch the proceedings again.

I felt the nurse pinch the flesh on my limp arms to inject the rest of the shots.

"Why are they pushing it in so far, Mama?" my son chimed in.

Note to self: Do not bring son to any future doctor's appointments.

Life on Cracky

My son tells me I'm beautiful at least once a day, if not twice If I put on heels or add a necklace, I am sure to receive an emphatic, "You look so beautiful, Mama!" You grown men should take note. Cracky knows a thing or two about keeping the Mama happy.

"You're the mama and that means you're the boss," he tells me.

"That's right," I nod.

"I always do what you say."

"Yep, pretty much."

"I was just kidding earlier when I said I didn't want to wear my coat," he hastens to add, remembering the incident at daycare not five minutes previous.

"Oh, okay," I laugh. It was not a grievous error. He rectified it immediately.

"I didn't mean to whine," he adds.

"That's okay, you've got your coat on now."

"I always listen to you."

"I know."

Later, we are sitting in front of the TV, looking for a video. Our noses are not five inches from the screen.

"Is that a baby being borned?" he asks, witnessing a bloody baby on the screen.

Uh oh.

"Um, yeah. That's a brand new baby."

"Did I come out of you like that?"

Er.

"Sort of, except you weren't all messy like that. You came out perfect," I say, not lying. The child was born on his due date, and the nurses barely had to wipe him off. Clearly the boy was "done."

"How did I get out? Through your belly button?" he lifts his shirt to inspect his stomach.

"No," I pause. "You came out of the birth canal."

We stare at each other.

"Okay," he says. "And I drank milk out of your boobs, right?"

"Yes," I breathe a sigh of relief. He bought the "birth canal" business and didn't require any further clarification.

*High fives self for awesome parenting*

The boy straddles my lap and hugs me while I try and put in his DVD. After a moment I notice he's not just hugging me.

"What are you doing?" I pull back to see what's going on.

"I'm pretending," he says, nuzzling my breast.

"PRETENDING WHAT?" I pull him off of my boob.

"That I'm a baby!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not a baby."

"Just pretend!"

"No. My boobs are private."

"But how come babies can have your boob?"

"Because they're babies and they need milk."

"I drink milk."

We stare at each other.

"Because I'm the boss and I say no."

"Oh. Okay," he says, and sighs just a bit.

The little perv.

*Deduct one point for bad parenting.*

*Note to men: Don't try the "milk" excuse for boob nuzzling. You'll get caught every time.*

Because I Love You

We hunkered down under his comforter, the one with the construction trucks — frontloaders and forklifts and so forth. I bent my knees and spooned him up into the C of me.

"You are such a nice boy!" I said in his ear.

"Thank you, mama."

"You make me so proud of you," I said, and squeezed him.

"Why?"

"Because you're nice to your friends at school..."

"And what else?" I could see the dimple forming on the side of his cheek.

"Because you pick up your toys..."

"What else?"

"Because you listen to your mama..."

"And?"

"Because you make people laugh, you give good hugs and you're just such a sweet boy."

"I am?"

"Yes, you are. And your mama is proud of you."

"Thanks!"

"Why are you so good, baby?"

"Because I love you."

Upside-Down Heart

Seeing as I'd avoided getting a check-up for fifteen years, I've decided to make up for it by giving my health a lot of attention. That's the way it is with me. I'm either all in or all out. You can look at the herbal supplements and prescription medications in my cupboard and see all the proof that you need.

What I forget is that I have a son who is keenly aware of my every move and word. He misses nothing, this kid. If I make a face, he's all over me:

"Mama, are you happy?"

"Yes, I'm just squinting at the sun."

Like that-kind-of attentive.

I was trying to choke down my latest supplemental beverage, gagging and grimacing as the fiber quickly thickened and congealed mid-swallow.

"MAMA! WHAT'S WRONG! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" My son parroted my disgusted face, and looked as though he was about to cry.

"Ack! Blech! Gross!" I spat the translucent gel back into the shaker cup. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm just trying to drink this fiber stuff and it tastes bad."

"Well WHY are you drinking it?" my son asked, looking at me as though I had lost my mind.

"It has fiber in it. It's supposed to make me feel better."

"You don't LOOK like you feel better," he said, eyeing me and the fiber gel still adhering to my lips.

"It's not supposed to taste good. It has fiber in it that will make my stomach feel better," I said, and rubbed all over my entire abdomen, including my colon area. As though that would politely explain my condition to a four-year-old.

"Oh no! You have a tummy ache?" He looked panic-stricken again.

"No, no. I'm fine. This fiber business is to help me poop." There, I laid it out for him in language he could understand.

"You don't need help going POOP, mom!" he grabbed his belly and had a good laugh over that one.

I really should stop kidding around with the boy so much.

So my son and I are hanging out at the park one Sunday and I call my sister. I call my sister a lot. Every day on the way home from work, and any time anything significant happens in my life (after doctor's appointments, if I don't feel well, if I lose weight, if I gain weight, if I buy a new bra, if I can't poop, if I have a flashback to our childhood that seems wholly unbelievable, you get the idea). My son is always a party to these frequent conversations, and to be honest, I hardly notice he's there. Unless he pops off with a "You just used a bad word, Mama." So he asks to talk to his Aunt Beth. He usually asks her how she is, inquires after his cousin and uncle, and then tells her he misses her.

"My ankle is sore," he begins. I watch him hold the Blackberry in one hand, gesturing with his other hand. He paces around the park, just as I had done. In fact, the entire act is a mini-Mandy performance.

"And yesterday my tummy was upset," he paused, to listen to his aunt. "Yeah, it's a little better today." There is more silent nodding into the phone, and he continues to pace around the playground, the picture of a little old man with a lot of ailments.

"I'm worried that my heart's not pink and it's upside down," he announced. I slapped my hand over my mouth and tried not to guffaw. I have no idea how my sister was handling her end of the conversation. He nodded his head at whatever it was she was suggesting.

"Yeah, maybe I should do some yoga," he agreed.

My god. I've turned my son into a hypochondriac-buddhist. My sister is always warning me that I have to watch what I say around four-year-olds. They repeat everything. I know he's been going around telling everyone, "My mom cried when Fred was in California" even though that happened a while ago.

I told my sister about the fiber drink and how I tried to explain to Max that it was to help me poop, not to hurt me.

"Why would you tell him THAT?" she yelled.

"What? Why? I didn't want him to worry!"

"Now he's going to tell everyone that his mom makes faces and drinks something yucky to make her poop!"

"Oh crap!"

I was sort of hoping he might forget, but then he crept into my bed that night. It was dark and silent in my room, and he stroked my hair in that sleepy way he does. Both of our pink upside down hearts were beating in uterine unison.

"Mama," he said.

"Yeah, baby," I murmured back, smelling his fruit-flavored hair.

"Remember when you drank that yucky stuff to make you poop?"




*This is a repost from my friends David and Kurt's site, The Julia Set. They let me blog there occasionally, but now the site is retired. Check out Kurt's new blog site here.*

An Unexpected Guest

Guest House

This being human is a guest house
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-Rumi


Sometimes you come across just the right words at just the right time. This weekend I listened to vitriolic voicemail after vitriolic voicemail, each one nastier than the previous. Each one mocking me, making fun of me, questioning my morals, questioning my decency, lambasting my character.

I mean, it could be laughable since this diatribe was mainly based on the fact that I wear high-heeled shoes (hence, I am a whore). But even the laughable isn't so funny if you hear enough of it.

I really wish Mom wouldn't call so often.

(Kidding.)

It wasn't my mom, and it wasn't a friend or family member — or anyone that has anything to do with me. It was a very troubled person, a person who is suffering, a person who would like to see me suffer, others suffer — anything to not be alone with such intolerable pain. In such a state, we can fire off shots haphazardly, not caring who they hit, only hoping they hit someone other than ourselves. Well, in this case the person knew her desired target.

If only they knew there's no need. Everyone suffers, you don't need to supply suffering to anyone. None of us is alone in pain.

And though I was rattled by this tirade, and though I was shaken to hear such things about myself — however untrue — I dug down deep into myself and found a shelter there. I know who I am. After all these years, after all this struggle, I really do know me. It has taken so long, and there have been many curves along the path, times I got lost and more times that I fell, but they've gotten me to where I am.

And those things for which some would have me be the most ashamed, are actually the things of which I am the most proud. I am a single mother. I had a child out of wedlock. And truth be told, that has made me who I am today. I am so much stronger, so much more resilient than I ever knew I could be. Having the strength to say "No" to those who would bully me into an abortion changed something in me forever.

I never had to take a stand before that day, or I never had the will. I never thought I was strong enough, important enough — hell, never thought I was "enough."

Well I am enough. I like me as I am. I am better for the very things you would criticize. And so bring it. Bring your criticisms and your judgments, call me a whore. Hell, sew that red letter and affix it to my chest, it won't change me. I know who I am and I like who I am.

I am remarkably human. Fragile. Imperfect.

Any other names you want to toss at me may stick or they may fall. It doesn't matter. So far as I'm concerned they're just synonyms for my humanity, and yours. You lob your pain at me in hopes to rid yourself. I see it. So toss away, toss away your pain, your rage and that profound fear that threatens to tear you apart.

If it lessens your suffering, I can take it. I know your words will fall away as I continue on my path, and I'll thank you for reminding me of who I am, and of how much love I have discovered in myself.

Namaste, suffering woman. You are a guest in my house, and I will make something lovely from your pain. Let it humble me, and let it teach me to love even more. I only wish the same for you.

How Our Kids Love Us And How To Love Them Back

My son is leaving me for a week.

I'm half-excited for the freedom, and half-sad to have him gone that long. I don't think he's ever been gone from me that long when I wasn't on vacation or on a business trip. It's going to be hard to be at home for a week without him.

Last night he snuck into my bedroom and played with my hair while we listened to the thunder.

"I'm going to miss you when you're gone," I said.

"Like you missed Fred?"

"Yep."

"I'll come back, Mama," he said, not sounding at all sad to be leaving. He's never sad to leave me.

"Who will be my teddy bear?" I asked, trying to guilt him a little.

"Fred," he said.

He wrapped his arm around me and slipped his fingers through my hair over and over again until he fell asleep. I reminded myself that the fact that he is so comfortable leaving me, and so unconcerned about me is a good thing. I've done a good job. My son does not feel responsible for my happiness. He knows I'll be here when he gets back, and I'll be just fine.

But still.

Sometimes I wish I knew he missed me. Or maybe just once he could be sad to see me go? Okay, there was a time or two that he was sad, and I didn't like that. Whenever I get to thinking that his dad is his favorite and I'm just reliable old mom, I remember that when I pick him up from daycare, he always has a picture he's drawn from that day. For me. Of me. And my yellow hair.

And when he was named Student of the Week, this is what he had to say in his interview:

"Hi my name is CRACKY.

I am 4 years old. My favorite thing to do at home is play with my toys.

When I am at school I like to make art. I have 0 brothers and sisters. My favorite thing to watch on TV is "Aladdin." My favorite color is Dark Blue. My favorite food is chicken nuggets. My favorite animal is a horse. My favorite toy is Potato Head.

If I went on vacation I would go to my Mama's work and bring my music playing thing."

I guess he does love me after all. I mean, he must, if his idea of a vacation is coming to work with me. And I guess I don't need him to carry on about how much he'll miss me in order to know that. Besides, what's important here is that he knows I love him.

That's the way parenting works.

Stealing a Centipede's Life and Other Buddhist Parenting Hypocrisies

I was trying to get the key in the back door when I heard my son furiously stamping on the porch. I turned around and saw him stomping on a bunch of tiny ants.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I gasped.

"I'm killing these ants," my son said and stared at me round-eyed.

"Why?"

"'Cause they were moving around."

We stared at each other.

"Were they hurting you?" I asked.

"No," he said, his eyes getting bigger and more troubled.

"Well then why did you kill them?"

"I don't know. I just did."

We stared at each other.

"You know, once you take an ant's life, you can't give it back," I said.

"I didn't mean to!" he said, eyes getting bigger and sadder, the full impact of his actions now dawning on him.

"You need to be careful about killing things. It's stealing life, and you can't give it back. Those ants weren't bothering you, they weren't hurting you, and you killed them forever."

"I'm sorry!"

Now he looked like he was about to cry. My work was done. Time to reel him back in from the edge.

"It's okay. But just promise me you'll never kill anything that's not harming you, okay?"

"Okay, Mama! I will never steal an ant's life again!"

Buddhist lesson for the day: Check. Awesome parenting: Check.


Fast forward to yesterday morning. As I'm putting the finishing touches on my shimmery face, I hear my son begin to whimper in the hallway.

"Mama, there's something SCARY in here!"

I freeze, mid-dusting of bronzing powder and feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I walked into the hallway with my make-up brush held out before me like a switchblade.

"What is it?" I asked, nervously looking down the hall.

"THAT," my son pointed to the floor at the end of the hallway.


A.

GIGANTIC.

FURRY.

CENTI-BEAST!!!


"AHHH!" I yelled and jumped straight into the air.

"Oh no!" my son yelled and ran into his room where he started to cry.

I have an enormous and well-documented phobia of centipedes. I have even discussed it in therapy. It's that bad. I usually cry and scream and run away. I have had several shriek-y battles with them involving Edge shaving gel and other people's shoes. I once saw the granddaddy of all centipedes take a free fall from the ceiling and land on my husband's chest. I had to divorce him after that.

THAT bad.

So in this moment, my fear putting me on full-tilt irrational panic attack mode, and my weeping son beckoning me to be strong, I was caught. Fortunately my love for my son enabled me to get out of my freak-out-induced paralysis, and I went to his room and hugged him.

"It's okay, baby. It's just a centipede. It's a scary-looking bug and mama is afraid of them too, but I will get it for you."

"IT'S SCARY AND I DON'T LIKE IT!" he wailed.

"Mama is going to be a super hero and get that centipede for you," I said and marched out of his bedroom in search of a shoe I didn't care about.

I held the ratty flat sandal I use for gardening out before me. I felt like I was going to throw up, but I lunged forward and squished the huge, hairy, wriggling beast.

"GAH!" I yelled, shuddering as I heard it crunch.

"Did you get it, Mama?" my son called, still sounding weepy.

"I got it!"

He came out and stood next to me, and we examined the remains of the beast.

"What are all those things?" my son splayed his fingers out to represent the multitude of legs and grimaced. I grimaced in return.

"Those are its legs," I said.

"Yech!"

"Seriously," I agreed.

"What do you call that thing? Anemone?"

"Centipede."

"It's not going to get me any more?"

"Nope. I killed it."

We stood in silence, watching our fallen enemy. He had been a worthy opponent.

"I only kill centipedes. Nothing else," I added.

"Only centipedes. Not ants."

"Right," I said.

I'm totally certain if there had been centipedes in India, the Buddha would have put a disclaimer on that whole "Do Not Kill" thing. I'm sure of it.