Wine Country Mom

Having my first kid at 20 years old, I always reveled in the fact that I would understand my kids better than my mother ever understood me (she had me at the ripe old age of 22).  I was a young, hip mom.  My daughter and I would be the best of friends.  She would share her secrets with me.  I could talk to her bluntly about the difficult topics like drugs and sex and boys and why I thought it was a good idea to feather my bangs and wear them three inches high in the 90’s.  And she wouldn’t get all weirded out.  I would be the mom that all the other kids wish they had, who’s house they hung out at after school, the one they asked to take them shopping because I was young and hip and had better fashion sense than older moms.  I was going to be the cool mom.

My tweener let me know I was dead wrong.

There is nothing more telling than the look a tween can give you to stop you dead in your tracks.  It’s the one that says, “You don’t know anything.”  “Stop talking, you’re embarrassing me.”  “You are not wearing that to take me to school where all my friends will see you.”  “My friends do not need to know that I (insert random fact from childhood) until I was 8.”  “Oh my God, your music taste is so old!”  “Stop looking like that.”  “Stop acting like that.”  “Stop breathing like that!  You’re embarrassing me!”  My daughter has mastered that universal look.  In her case it’s the unfaltering stare, seasoned with a roll of the eyes, and occasionally finished off with a shaking of the head when I am really “wrong”.  It’s the one she gives me when I am “unfair”, being “stupid”, and when I’m prying too much by asking her how her day was.

It’s hard not to take it personally that my daughter suddenly sees me as this old and naïve parent who knows very little about how to do anything.  Her Tweendom has suddenly given her an all-knowing expertise in just about everything, even in how to parent.  The thing is, she has no idea how lucky she has it.  I mean, she could have had it worse.  She could have had MY parents, two people who embarrassed me to no end by not being invisible.  They didn’t actually turn into cool people until I turned 30.  My daughter’s lucky, I’ve been cool all along.

The morning that she woke up on the Tween side of the bed, a morning pretty much like every morning, she kept her mouth shut and looked at me, shooting her Tween Stare at me like daggers to my head.  I knew nothing.  I was being unfair.  Why did she have to be cursed with such an idiot for a mother?  Over time I have learned that the best way to deal with her is to ignore the looks, keep my voice even, and to not overreact.  Over more time I might learn how to actually do this.  The one thing I have learned is that she is still receptive to signs of love like hugs and affectionate words.

(note: I have just realized that having a tween/teen is like going into the wild and learning how to deal with a hungry lioness:  “Keep down low, don’t raise your voice louder than a whisper, tread lightly.  If she looks at you, freeze!  If she gets up, back away slowly.  And when you are within 3 yards of your vehicle, run like hell!”)

The other thing I have learned is that I will never be my kids’ hip, cool mom.  I don’t know all the words to the songs she loves.  I don’t know the names of the characters in the TV shows she watches.  I am starting to be unaware of which boys she likes in her class, and what the latest style of clothes looks like for an 11 year old girl.  Over the years I will become less and less the source she confides in.  As much as I try to be open and nonjudgmental to her life, I know the day will come.  It’s not lost yet, and I really hope it’s never lost altogether.  But for now I still have control in the women she is surrounded by, the ones she may go to if she decides she can’t come to me:  my friends, her aunts, the cool babysitter, her friends’ parents, even my own mother who is infinitely cooler as a grandma, and admittedly pretty cool as a mom. 

How do you deal with the Tween Years?

She woke up grumpy, coming downstairs for breakfast with her PJ’s still on and her hair in the style of wild bedhead.  It was only the start to a Moody Tween day.

“Go get your clothes on,” I told her.

She grunted.

“What do you want for breakfast.”

She grunted.

“You’re going to make us late,” I told her.

She grunted.

“Would you please stop grunting and start getting ready for school,” I told her, exasperated by the caveman conversation.

“I’m not going to school,” she grunted.

“Guess again.  I have too much work on my desk, and you are not even sick.  Get your butt upstairs, get some clothes on, and start getting ready to go.”

She huffed off, and then came back downstairs wearing the same clothes she wore the day before.

“I have nothing to wear,” she said before I could say anything.  I decided to ignore it and move on.

“Make yourself some breakfast,” I said. 

“I’m not hungry,” she pouted.

“Can I make you some toast?” I asked her.  Her brother was already sitting at the table, happily eating Raisin Bran, picking out all the raisins to throw away.  And she was glaring at him for obviously kissing up by eating.

“No.”

“Honey, you need to eat something.  How about a banana?”

“No.”

“Look, I don’t care what you eat.  Just eat something,” I told her, realizing that the whole purpose of breakfast was to eat something nutritious to give her fuel for the day, and at this point I would have been pleased if she pulled out an Otter Pop and just ate the damn thing.  But she was stubborn in her mood, and I wasn’t getting anywhere.  I gave up.  My son, seeing that his sister was in a bad mood, started to exasperate it by making goofy noises and pulling faces at her only inches from hers.  I had to hand it to her for not dropkicking him across the room.

“Stop teasing your sister,” I ordered him.  “Put your bowl in the sink and start getting your lunch together,” I said, eyeing the clock.  He put his bowl in the sink, rinsed it, then opened the fridge to get all the makings for a salami sandwich.  That’s when my daughter decided to get something for breakfast.  She pushed in front of him, got out the things she needed, then closed the door so that he couldn’t get in there.  The squabbling commenced, and then multiple shouts for “MOM!”

“Both of you!  Stand in front of me!” I said, fully aware that the time was slipping away from us and we would be rushing to get to school on time.  “You!” I said to my daughter.  “Get a piece of toast and then start making your lunch.”  She glared at me angrily for even insinuating that any of this was her fault.  “And you!” I said to my son.  “Get upstairs right now and start getting ready for school, and leave your sister alone.  I will finish making your lunch.”  He skipped away happily while my daughter’s eyes filled with tears.  

“You always help him!” she accused me.

“I’m only helping him so that he’ll stay out of your hair,” I snapped back.  “Now hurry up or you’re going to have to get a late pass.”  She shut her mouth tightly, the tears just hovering in her angry eyes, and set to the task of getting ready.  I finished my son’s lunch, fixed my daughter a sandwich, and then went back to getting ready for work.  She finished up and sat at the table, a miserable look on her face.

“Come here,” I said.  She grudgingly did, the fight leaving her.  I pulled her into a hug.  She resisted for only a second before leaning into me.  “I know it’s tough right now.  You’re in a grumpy mood, and your brother isn’t making it any better.  I just wanted you to know that I understand.  And I’m sorry.”  Her sniffles were apparent while she put her arms around me and let me bear hug her.  It was what she needed in her Moody Tween mood, acknowledgment that life was rough right now in her phase of up and down emotions, and a little bit of love when she was trying her best to be unlovable. 

More to come……  Meanwhile, share your horror stories about your Moody Tween!

Yesterday I was able to take my daughter to work with me.  As a service to her, I took her through the whole routine.  We got coffee at Starbucks.  Then she went to a meeting upstairs where she ate tiny muffins and drank OJ.  She then went on a tour of the office.  We went out to lunch at Mary’s Pizza Shack.  We came back and ate ice cream out of the office freezer.  We celebrated a birthday with apple pie and Dibbs.  And then she had a meeting with the big boss with cookies and more juice.  In between eating, we may have even done a little work as well.  Needless to say, she can’t wait to go to work when she gets older!

John Burgess’ daughter also went to work with her dad.  Click here to get to the video she helped to shoot and narrate. 

Many thoughts come to mind regarding the fed up mom who dropped her children off on the side of the road and drove off without them.  It reminded me of one day back in October….

My timing was off, dinner was not going according to plan.  The artichokes were already cooked on the stove.  Truth is, they were softer than I wanted them to be.  And I still had to make the biscuits, caramelize the onions, add the squash, and cook the chicken before mixing in the onions and squash.  I turned off the burner, but kept them in the water just to keep them warm.  The table was full of the day’s debris, the debris from the day before, and the debris from the day before that.  The laundry I had folded that morning still lay in piles on the couch.  I moved around my kitchen, getting more and more frustrated because the tight quarters were even tighter as dishes piled up in the sink.  There was just so much to do in such a short amount of time.  It was already coming on 8 pm, and the chicken was still sitting raw in the marinade.

My son sat at the table doing his homework, trying to alphabetize his spelling list, and getting close to tears as he came towards the end only to find that he had skipped a word that started with C.  He had to erase everything and start all over again.  My daughter lay on the couch, looking through a catalog of Halloween costumes, trying to figure out which costume she wanted to get.  I couldn’t get past the mess in the house, and the fact that we had nowhere to eat when the food was done cooking.

I needed help.

“Hon, could you please help me out by putting the laundry away and clearing the table?” I asked my daughter.

“Not right now,” was her answer, as if I were actually asking.  I was a little taken back, but I let it slide.  Thinking that she had maybe 2 minutes left with the catalog, I asked her to please do what I asked her as soon as she was done.

15 minutes later she was still in the same position.  My son had given up on his homework at this point and was bouncing on the couches.  I was frazzled and could not bear the mess any longer.

“Get up and start putting the clothes away,” I told my daughter.  “And you,” I said to my son, “get back to the table and finish your homework.”

“I put the clothes away,” my daughter said as I eyed the stack of jeans still sitting on the couch.  It was true, HER clothes were now missing from the couch.  But the rest of the clothes remained.  And the kitchen table was untouched.

“Put your brother’s clothes away -” I started before she interrupted me.

“Why doesn’t he have to help?” she complained.

“He’s doing his homework!” I said, tensely. “Put his clothes away, put mine neatly on my bed, pick up anything that’s on the floor, and then clear the table so we have somewhere to eat.”

“Why should I have to clean up his stuff?” she asked darkly.  I stopped in my tracks, placed my hands on my hips and stared her down with my famous “mom stare”.

 ”You know what, you’re right.  And why should I cook your dinner?  I’m making my own dinner, you can fend for yourself,” I said.

“Ok,” she said, unphased.  I nearly lost it.

“Go to your room.  Get ready for bed.  You’re not eating anything.”

“But I’m cleaning!” she said, suddenly very interested in picking up her brother’s pile of jeans and heading up the stairs.  I had too much smoke coming out of my ears to argue with her.  And as if on cue the alarm sounded, thanks to the buscuits baking in the oven and a touchy smoke alarm.  The kids started to fight over the chores.  The mess remained.  The onions were cooking too slowly.  And I was at my wit’s end.  My daughter was back on the couch and the living room looked the same as before, minus a stack of clothing.  My concerned neighbor knocked on the door, and my daughter opened it to reveal the still thrashed living room with the theme music of shrill beeping.  It was pure and utter chaos.  As soon as the door was shut again, I once again expressed my wishes very sweetly, but this time was a lot louder and angrier, and both kids jumped up to get it done.  It still ended up not perfect, but at least I could sit down at the table.

After dinner the homework struggle resumed.  I attempted to get my son to finish his homework while also getting his sister to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Both kids blatantly ignored me in favor of wrestling on the couch.  I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Fine!” I said.  “You don’t want a parent?  Then I’m done!” I said, getting up from the table and grabbing my keys and phone.   On my way to the door, my daughter shot me a look that said, ‘I know you’re kidding, but I’ll play along.’  She was about to be shocked.

I had visions of traveling all night, drive to San Diego, or maybe just until I ran out of gas.  I had dreams of absolute silence, reading a book start to finish, writing forty pages of a new novel without stopping, relaxing in a place with no laundry or toys, no whining about unwanted dinners or the lack of dessert, no fights over bedtime or who has to take first shower, no soccer practice or driving 50 million places that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with the kids…  Seriously, what parent has NOT fantasized about just picking up and leaving?  

In that moment, abandoning my kids was feeling like a very believable thing I could do. I cannot blame that mom for leaving her kids on the side of the road three miles from home.  At 10 and 12, they are not tiny children.  I’ve seen younger kids than that walking home from school every single day.  But beyond that, what mom has not had to deal with children who have gone beyond reasoning with, where the only thing that is keeping her from inflicting bodily harm is to remove herself from the situation?  I’m not saying that she should have driven off, but I’m also not saying I’ve never been there.  In my opinion, this is not the worst thing she could have done.

That day in October, I put the key in the ignition, every fiber in my being begging me to just peel out of that parking lot and get the heck out of dodge.  But ultimately, I knew I couldn’t.  I decided to circle the block and cool down, shake them up enough to calm down and calm myself down, then get back to the house and start over. I backed up the car and rolled towards the edge of the parking lot.  And my kids run out to the sidewalk.  My daughter later confessed that she really did think I was kidding until her brother ran outside to come get me.  It was then that she realized that maybe I wasn’t kidding.  I rolled down the window.  My son had tears, actually scared that I was going to leave him.  And I felt bad for even allowing that thought to fester, allowing him to believe that I would ever leave them for even a second. 

Being a mom is one of the most stressful jobs in the world.  There are no breaks, you cannot quit, and sometimes the rewards are very few and far between.  I hope that this judge takes reality into account when he passes the verdict down on an imperfect mom, a mom who could be me, or you, or any mom in the world.  A mom who just had enough.

My favorite time of day is between 6 and 7 in the morning, that moment of time between waking up and getting the kids ready for school.  The house is dimly lit, the only light from the dome above the kitchen table.  For the moment, the house is free from the sound of arguing children, slamming cabinets, pounding footsteps on stairs, shouts to hurry the pace because “Mom’s Bus” leaves in 2 minutes…..  The only sound that can be heard is the soft rustle of the newspaper as I savor every story as the entree to my side dish of egg and buttered toast.  The gurgle of the coffee pot fills the dining room with its warm aroma, and is the topping on the cake of early morning bliss.  This is my tiny island from reality in a life filled with deadlines, schedules, and the tug of war for my attention.  This is my oasis.

My street crosses a very busy road here in Santa Rosa. On weekday mornings, the traffic is very heavy due to several schools being within a mile radius. To make a left hand turn, I have to keep my car pulled out as far as possible and watch both sides of traffic simultaneously. As soon as I see a car slightly lagging, I’ll burn rubber and merge in front of them, causing them to slam on their brakes to avoid hitting me. If I feel like being nice (guilt passes after doing this several times), I might throw my hand up in a wave of thanks, pretending not to notice the four letter words they are mouthing very blatantly at me.

The second option is to wait very patiently for the light down the road to change, hoping that the traffic will ease up enough to safely merge. Problem with this option is that I’ll be waiting for a very, very long time. And the impatient cars behind me will be even nastier than the cars I might cut off. Due to the intense pressure, this option never really pans out.

After risking my children’s and my life several times at the doomed left hand turn, I finally gave up. My car is not fast and zippy. It’s large and slow. Merging is not as easily done, and it’s nerve-wracking being rushed by the honking cars behind me only to be honked at by a car with screeching tires. My nerves have had enough of these near death experiences. Instead, I have chosen option C, going around the block and turning at the light.

But impatience persists. I soon found out that the rushing existed over here too. The first time I waited my turn to be able to merge left, a large truck behind me blared his horn, and then swerved angrily around me to make a left turn before me. I ended up angry for the rest of the drive because I was only doing the best I could do.

Sometimes being a full-time working single mother feels this way, like I’m trying to be like the other cars only to have the guy behind me in the huge truck leaning on his horn and yelling at me to hurry up. September comes and there are bus passes to purchase and field trips for the year to be paid up in full. Soccer and school pictures rack up a hefty bill, but they must be bought because family members want to see how much the kids have grown. New clothes and soccer cleats are needed. So are new backpacks and lunch boxes, pencils and calculators. Open House comes and the volunteer sheets seem to take over the room, and the teacher’s eyes burn holes in the back of my head as I sidestep the papers and don’t sign any of them. I just don’t have the time to give. Christmas attacks and all the latest toys and gadgets are in the newspaper, on the TV, and already owned by all my kids’ friends. My kids want the most expensive of them all, and my paycheck only goes so far. My friends plan a night out, and I just can’t get the babysitting to go out with them. And little by little the invites get fewer and farther between because they know, and I know, that I won’t make it out. But it still stings a little to not be included, yet hear about it the next time we’re all together. Time I promised to give for a committee must be cancelled due to kids’ sports. I am forced to leave work early because baseball games and practices start before my shift is over. Money is tight and never enough. I don’t have cable like the rest of the world, ensuring with hope that I have enough money to pay the rent for the month.

“Hurry up!”

“You’re driving too slow!”

“The light is green!”

“Can’t you move that thing any faster?”

“Any day now!”

“Move it!”

“Go!”

“That car is not meant to be on this road.”

“You cannot raise a family with only one parent.”

….

Thing is, there is no guy in his big truck behind me. It’s me. I’m the one expecting more out of me. I’m the one who feels the need to keep up. I’m the one who’s hard on me, the one laying on the horn when I start falling behind. And sometimes it’s necessary. Without the kick in the pants, I might give myself excuses to stay in the slow lane when I am more than capable of speeding up. But sometimes it’s self-defeating. I can’t make it to every single committee meeting. We don’t need cable. I can socialize in more kid friendly settings. The latest toys and gadgets aren’t necessary as they will be yesterday’s news tomorrow. We’re ok not living in that house in the country. We’re happy in our small condo on the other side of town with the busy streets and sirens in the distance.

This is home.

I’m doing the best I can.

And I’m not doing a bad job at it.

And I’ll turn when I’m ready.

It’s the crack of the bat.  It’s the cheers from the kids in the dugout, “Let’s go Phillies, let’s go!”  It’s being huddled under a blanket in a foldable chair as the sun goes down just to see my son catch a fielder and throw it to first base.  It’s the coach’s empty threat of laps to be run if he hears another kid throw him a wisecrack, only to then toss that kid over his shoulder with a grin.  It’s seeing the ability of each boy as they round the bases and slide their way safe. It’s watching the life lessons that the game teaches, from learning to win with grace and lose with a smile, to how to spit so that the saliva doesn’t leave a trail, to paying attention to what’s going on at second base while being aware that someone is on their way home.  It’s all the reasons that I am juggling the crazy schedules of two practices along with two games a week, and so far surviving the whirlwind of life as a Baseball Mom.

This is my son’s first year doing baseball.  We’ve always been a soccer family, for the past 7 years.  The crazy autumn schedule of carting two kids to two separate games and practices was all I could handle for the year.  But my son was ready for baseball, and he was asking to play.  And the truth is I wanted him to play.  So in February we signed up.  And come April I found myself suddenly three times as busy as I was before.  And we are officially a two sport family.

Having my kids do sports takes a lot of planning on our parts.  I have a dry erase calendar that lists all of our activities for the week so that any one of us can glance up and know our schedule on a moment’s notice.  In a super organized month, I will even have it color coordinated so that each person’s schedule is in their own color.  Right now, though, it’s enough to just have it all up there in black.   My kids have both learned to utilize this tool so that they know what to expect that morning.  It’s important, because then they know how to pack for the day, and my son knows whether it would be best for him to do his homework at daycare to save time.  Once we leave the house in the morning on baseball days, we will not return until 7:30 that night.  On those days it is my son’s responsibility to pack his uniform and gear into his baseball backpack and then carry that along with his regular backpack.  His biggest responsibility is to make sure that he is dressed and ready to go by 4:30 pm when he is picked up.

Meanwhile, I have to leave directly from work, pick him up, then pick up his sister on the opposite side of town, then go back over to our side to get him to the field by 5 pm for warm-ups.  During practices I utilize that time to get in the jog I never got in for the day, or I catch up on the newspaper, or I just sit and relax for most likely the first time of the day.  When it’s all over, we pack it in and head home to finally have dinner.  On these nights I really try to have the crockpot full of something yummy, or I plan on a quick dinner like tacos, spaghetti, or hot dogs.

As a single parent, it’s the extreme juggling act I must perform that has festered a sense of dread for each game or practice.  During soccer season I learned the hard way how important it is to utilize help from all sources.  The kids both had conflicting games and practices.  I was running myself ragged trying to split myself in two and make each kid happy.  Obviously it didn’t work.  I made friends with several parents on each team who were more than happy to drive my child if I needed to be at another child’s game.  And I asked for help from my family to pitch in when I was spread too thin.  For baseball, I only have my son’s games and practices to worry about, thank goodness!  But I have gotten better about asking for help to prevent myself from burning out.  I could not imagine either of my kids not being in a sport, and the help on the sidelines is the biggest part of what makes their involvement possible.  It’s also what helps me to enjoy the fun in the season instead of viewing it (for the most part) as one more thing to check off of a busy schedule.

Tomorrow’s another game.  We will wake up early so that he can get dressed, eat enough food, then make it to the ballfield for warm-ups.  They might win.  They might lose.  My son WILL perform a slider, either during the game or afterwards if his pants look too clean.   Each homerun and ball caught will elicit cheers from the sidelines reminiscent of the cheers at a professional stadium (on a much smaller level).  And the end of the game will bring on grins, pats on the back, and another memory of a childhood that smells of fresh cut grass, leather, sweat, and spring.

(P.S. Speaking of sports……don’t forget to sign your child up for soccer.  Check the links in the forum for the league in your area)

The skater hair style has become the newest look for boys. You know the one: the non-haircut where the hair is shaggy enough to cover the forehead and eyes, and scrunches over the ears under a baseball cap or beanie, but isn’t quite long enough to touch the shoulders. It’s like every boy in Sonoma County has decided that their level of coolness is directly affected by how messy they can look.

I have always kept my son’s hair short. There is nothing easier than running a #4 grade over the top of his head, then tapering down to an even fade. His haircuts take all of five minutes, and are incredibly inexpensive (hey, what’s cheaper than free?). But it was one day that I openly mused about how the skater look might look on him that I ruined it all. My son refused to let me near him with the clippers.

At first it wasn’t so bad. I had cut it so short that it took awhile for any difference to be noticed. But then it started to stick straight out at every side, kind of like a dandelion. I begged him, pleaded with him, let me cut it! But he wouldn’t let me. And I give my kids freedom (within reason) with their hair, so I didn’t force the issue. But still, I was so tempted to just wait till he was asleep and shave it all off.

A little more time passed, and his hair started to calm down. It actually started to look good. He began to lose that young innocence he had with the buzz cut, and started to look older and more mature. His hair stayed blonde on top, having been bleached by the sun, while the roots stayed dark. It gave his hair a highlighted look that people pay money for. He looked good.

But then his hair grew more. And it became so shaggy I couldn’t handle it. I finally convinced him to let me just trim his hair. And when he wasn’t looking, I shaved it all off. Just kidding. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes (kidding again), and started to trim his hair lock by lock. The end result amazed even me. I mean, I’ve been known to cut my daughter’s hair into the shape of our mildewing mop-head in the backyard. But this was actually pretty even. It looked like I even paid to have this done. Not like I paid a lot, mind you, but like I paid something. And the hair was growing on me. I couldn’t really imagine him with his old style. It suited him. Suddenly he was just like all the other kids in his class with the skater non-haircut.

But skater hair is hard to maintain. You cannot just roll out of bed and have it look that shaggy without putting some effort into it. There is a big difference between the real bed-head my son was waking up with every morning and the wind tousled hair every other kid seemed to have. I had to have my son take showers every morning. Then I would brush his hair straight before taking my fingers and messing it up again. If there was no time to shower, conditioning spray had to do. And let me tell you, conditioning spray is no match for an unruly cowlick.

This morning I took one look at his hair and mentioned that he needed another trim. And he groaned into his cereal at the idea. And I mused out loud about what it might look like if I shaved it all off. Suddenly my son perked up and agreed, saying he was tired of the morning showers, the hair brushing, the bed-head, and the way his hair made his head hurt under hats. And I wished I had kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to buzz it, what if he had outgrown that look? But he was adamant. And I finally agreed, this evening we would do it.

After baseball practice he hadn’t forgotten. I made him strip to his underwear. I took the scissors and hacked away at his hair, trying to get rid of some of the foliage before finally shearing it all off. I had to re-grease the clippers twice as bundles of hair fell in thick locks. A small hill was forming at his heels as I made him look down, tilt his head to the right, tilt to the left, look down again. And I shaped the top with the scissors, knicking my knuckle more than anything else. And soon we were done. He ran his hand over the back of his head slowly before looking up in the mirror. And the grin on his face grew. He loved it. The last bits of blonde lay on the floor amidst brown. The hair on his head was completely dark. And it was so short. He looked very handsome, very clean-cut and innocent once again.

And I do love the new hair. It might even make his teacher forget any trouble he’s caused in the classroom since he looks so sweet. But it’s ironic that I miss the old hair. I mean, yeah, he will look great on the baseball field. But can he still skateboard with a buzz cut?

“Does this say ‘ball’?  Or ‘cat’?  Or….” I asked, squinting to make out the loops and swirls.

“Mom, it says ‘dance’” my son corrected me as I continued to go over his spelling homework.  Nothing was legible.  And if I didn’t force him to do it over his teacher would never accept this.

Handwriting has been a struggle with him.  The kid is smart, his mind sometimes racing ahead of what the teacher is teaching.  He can finish a math page with 100 problems in about 5 minutes.  He can read pages of books fluently without stumbling over words.  He understands it all.  And he is in a hurry to get everything done so that he can play.  As a result, his paperwork usually resembles chicken scratch with a couple pictures of planes shooting down dinosaurs in the margins.  Unfortunately for him, he was gifted with a teacher who has an art background, who believes that handwriting is more important than the actual content.  His “Friday folder” always came back with spelling tests with every word spelled right, yet marked up with frowny faces and words checked wrong because the “e’s” looked more like “f’s”.  Even if it was obvious that he was writing an “e”, the word was marked wrong.  His last report card even went down mostly due to neatness.  So handwriting has become our struggle.

One trick I have learned is the power of sparkly pens.  I found these great gel pens that come in various colors and are easier to write with.  I was nervous the first time he asked if he could use them.  I stressed to him that there was no eraser, that he really needed to write carefully to ensure that he made no mistakes.  The end result was the most beautiful handwriting I ever saw him produce.  I had no idea he was even capable of making it look so beautiful!  He painstakingly created each letter.  It took him three times as long to do his homework, but he was so proud of it.  It came back that Friday with a huge smiley face on it, and approval from the teacher for him to continue using the pens to do his homework.

The refrigerator is my other tool.  When kids are young, we are apt to display every single piece of artwork they produce, covering our fridge so heavily that opening the door becomes a safety hazard of flying papers.  But as they get older, and the teacher sends home every single thing they do in class (and we wonder why there is a tree shortage…..), it becomes easier to use the recycling bin.  Maybe that’s just me, since I feel guilty even mentioning that.  The first time I started throwing away art work and tests with high marks from school, I felt like the worst mom ever.  But who has room for it all?  Of course I’d put aside special art work and exceptional essays.  But the day to day stuff?  Recycled.  And my refrigerator thanks me for it.  The usual scene on the fridge is a couple old cartoons, a shopping list, and some pictures.  Occasionally funny sayings are created thanks to Poetic Magnets.  Sometimes a newspaper clipping, or a reminder, or a bill that needs to be paid….. 

Ok, maybe my fridge door is still a jumbled mess.

When that glittery spelling homework made its way back home with a smiley face that matched my son’s goofy grin, how could I not display it?  What I wasn’t expecting was just how much this meant to him.  And that became apparent when he sat down to do his homework, got out the glittery pens, and let me know he was creating another paper that would be on our fridge.

My son may have just ruined his chances of becoming a doctor, but at least his handwriting is neat.

My daughter is just like me. With her freckles and brown hair, the way she smiles and the way her eyes widen, she is a carbon copy of me. But more than looks, her personality matches mine. She has a warped sense of humor and a sarcastic quip for most anything. She’s not super cuddly. She’s an avid reader and writer. She’s a perfectionist in the work she does. She is reliable. It kills her when someone thinks less of her. She’d rather take charge than follow a mediocre lead. She has a stubborn head on her shoulders. She hates being around conflict. She is skilled at keeping her mouth set in a straight line rather than argue more than necessary in unfair situations. And she and I are very prone to butt heads when it comes to who is right and who is wrong.

When she was younger, I had a very hard time relating with her, and she with me. And I felt bad that we couldn’t bridge that connection. I mean, of course I was her mom. And of course I loved her to pieces. But I just didn’t understand her. And when it all came down to it, I think I just didn’t understand ME. The time when I was going through my divorce was our most conflicted part of life. She was mad at me for my decision but wouldn’t talk about it. I just wanted her to open up and tried to even pry it out of her. She stopped dressing feminine. I insisted that she shouldn’t be ashamed of being a girl. If I said black, she said white. If I told her one way, she went out of her way to go the other.

I think it was when I finally came to terms with me and where I was at in life, when I could embrace the pieces of me that I had rejected before, that I was able to see my daughter for who she was and embrace all the pieces of her. The tomboyishness came from me. The urge to be good yet have a tiny bit of shock value, that’s me too. The craving to fit in and be one of the crowd, yet purposefully setting herself apart to avoid rejection, yup, all me. And in her, they are precious. And they are precious in me.

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And here we were on a Saturday afternoon, my carbon kid and her brother, and their dad standing off to the side. My son sat on the couch, the tears ever present, the frustration bigger than the room. The look of failure in my son’s face was mirrored in my ex-husband. I could see the feeling of loss and frustration coming out of his pores. It was apparent that things really had not gone smooth.

“He just won’t listen to me!” my ex exclaimed, citing all the instances that our son had disobeyed him, had goofed off, and had even blatantly ignored him. “I’m trying to be a father to him, and he just doesn’t allow me to. It’s like he wants a big playmate, and when we’re goofing off it’s fine. But as soon as I get stern, he shuts me out.” The fight between him and his sister had not been the biggest instance, it was only the last straw. Our son had spent the weekend on a simulated sugar high, bouncing from one extreme to the other, and he couldn’t just relax and be calm. He told little white lies to create big stories. He continued doing his own thing even when his father insisted that he mind him. He teased his sister mercilessly just because she was on her dad’s good side. And it wasn’t hard to see the similarity between the two of them, how alike they were, maybe even more alike than my daughter and me. And the stubborness in them was fighting to remain the one in charge of setting the tone.

“He’s your carbon kid,” I told him. And I reassured him that it would take time for them to come to terms with each other’s extreme personalities. But the first step was for my ex to recognize himself in his son. And I hope he understands that those are also the very things he needs to accept about himself as well to be able to love his son fully. If he can’t, our son will grow up feeling unloved, and will reject the pieces of himself that make up who he is and where he came from.

Easter Sunday, and my mother was lamenting the relationship she had with my sister, wondering why they had such a hard time seeing eye to eye. But that’s a long drawn out story all of its own…..