Life Outside Is Always More Interesting

The hot dog bought at the baseball game tastes better than the one cooked at home.  The sweater found in the thrift store is more fashionable than any bought by Mom.  Every gift offered is not as valuable to the one who receives it, as the ones they seek themselves.  

No one who is a parent ever gets credit from their kids for any expertise they might have based on degree, profession or even prior experience with prior children.   We can be accomplished as one wishes, but everywhere else is more compelling than anything close to home.   The hard dicotomy of parenting teens and adolescents and being a parent to adults is, they want your help but always and only one their terms, and sometimes, not even then.  

It's not that they're ungrateful, it's that we are the water in which these fish swim.  They expect to breathe. They do not know themselves to be wet.  We've spent their whole lives ensuring they're fed, they're kept warm, they're kept clean and while they know they need and want the whole of the world, they and we don't now if they can endure the ocean.  

Figuring out how to manage and support is a process of determining what they and we will bear, and how to always respond with love even when everything feels tired and worn. It's work but the hardest part of it is knowing everything could be easy but it won't be. 

That's the hardest part of parenting, knowing it will be hard and unnecessarily so.  Parenting not kids, not toddlers, not babies, means loving through the rough spots, when the outside seems always more interesting, and knowing the interior is where the work must be done.   

If You Want to Know How You're Doing with Your Kids, Get a Pet

A month ago, we acquired turtles (plural).  I have since learned what type of parents my children will be once they have children.  Maybe I've mellowed in my fifties, maybe they've eroded my will to worry sufficiently that I don't sweat it, or maybe I was always a slacker mom.  Whatever the case, I've raised adults who will be hyper vigilant about their prodigy if caring for reptiles is any indication. 

As one explained to me after doing extensive research watching Youtube turtle care videos, we can't have just a posse of them in one tank. They're solitary creatures, and thus, we have two so that the biggest one can be alone in his bigness.  I pointed out that my own offspring don't have solitary space and they're much bigger and more complex, but this didn't sway any of the new experts fresh from their crowdsourcing the internet. 

They make the turtles eat. They watch over what they eat. They foist more veggies on them than I ever did and they keep notes.  There is a record of what has been fed to which at what time by whom.  As I wrote this, I became aware my eleven year old had mastered the art of making his own sandwich from Oscar Meyer Beef Bologna, whole wheat bread and a thick squirt of ketchup.  I declared that since he made it and he seemed pleased, he should be allowed to eat it without comment.  He did.   They're thinking, "Ewwww." I'm thinking, "independence...good." 

There is exercise and turtle field trips. The terapins sojourn to the back yard for sun and to the pond for a fresh water dip to meet the neighbors, the frogs and the gold fish that have yet to be eaten by Mr. Fox that capers through our yard and does nothing to fend off the endless parade of rabbits or deer that mauraud our garden. The turtles like the pond but it's my opinion they view these excursions as opportunities to escape petivity entirely, but have thus far not been successful. 

While we haven't yet witnessed anyone reading Harry Potter to their pets or playing Motzart to make them smarter or insisting they wear helmets when they plunge head first from the bridge into the water, I feel it's only a matter of time.  My children maintain a strict bed time for when the blanket goes over the tank.  They regulate a  strict water temperature and a regular schedule for tank cleaning and clearing. They rearrange the rocks and have lengthly discussions about the best terranium arrangement for both turtle health and enjoyment.  As one child discussed the diet of shrimp and dandelion leaves with another who argued for blueberries and cucumber, while another questioned whether they were receiving sufficient UVA rays from the light bulb purchased for said purpose, pointed out the turtle food is created for feeding pet turtles, and that turtles survive in the wild without gourmet food or special perfectly maintained water or light. 

They shook their heads at me for not getting it, I had to wonder if one day when I'm a grandmother, if I'm going to be the one that corrups their kid's tastebuds with McDonalds, Cheetos, 7-7up, comics and poptarts while binge watching Animaniacs.   I took the temporary hair dye brush and picked out pink and tossed a few turtle pellets in the tank and added a twelve pack of soda and poptarts to the online grocery order.  If I'm going to one day be the rebel in their lives, I better start to look the part and start stocking up. 

The Joker in All But Costume

My oldest son at home does not care to dress up at Halloween. He eshews candy as "unhealthy" and has for the past four years, contented himself with passing out the goodies to whatever trick-or-treaters show up at our home.

Yet I've always thought perhaps it was a cover to allow him to cherry pick the offerings, both before Halloween got underway, and after we returned and everyone went to bed.  I couldn't prove it, thought I would find candy wrappers in his room.  He'd complain his siblings came in to wake him up.  Yes. I know, I didn't believe it either.

Still, I couldn't prove it, and I never really tried.

Today, after we'd been out going door to door, once all were tucked in bed, we found our teenager going upstairs carrying the cauldron filled with candy.  "Why are you taking that upstairs?"
"So they won't eat it. They'll eat too much candy. It's not healthy."

But no one is reaching for this candy. No one is asking for it. Each of them came home, had their stashes inspected, sorted, they traded and each ate three pieces, they brushed their teeth and everyone's fine.  Why does this need to go upstairs?

"So no one will sneak candy. You know I won't. I don't like it." He put his hand in and took out a Starburst.   "Right."
"It's just this one candy."  He had the grace to grin.  

****
Working Title: I Know Where He Gets It

Later, we talked about upcoming races. I mentioned I might bring everyone to see his next run.
"My race is Tuesday."
"I know for a fact, your run is on Thursday. It's not like we're going to hold up signs that say "Yay Peter!" and "Run Peter Run!"
"It's Wednesday."
"Maybe I will bring signs. Oh! We can dress up like we do for Halloween."
"MOM!"
"I'll dress up too."
"I'm not running. The Coach said I should sit this one out."
****

ConText messages...

"Hey Mom.  I need running food."
Me:  "Like?"
"Quinoa, chocolate milk, mangos, banannas, smuckers uncrustables and protien shakes."
"Okay."
"And spinach, and eggs and navel oranges and protien oatmeal."
"Anything else?"
"Some beets, pomegranite juice, salad mixes (Caesar only), and cliff bars."
"Is that all?"
"No.  Water, good pasta (tortellini), meatballs, and sauce, string cheese and mabye Cantelope?"
"When is the race?" (Today is Monday).
"Tuesday."
"You won't need all of this for tomorrow."
"I'll do the dishes and fold the laundry."
"Will you make the bus in the morning?"
...
"Will you make the bus in the morning?"
...
"Hello?"
"Just get me some banannas and cliff bars."

The Universe, My Teen and Me

At some point after kids turn 13, they stop trusting your experience as having weight, until you turn the table on them and ask an adult question.

"So, what do you want to do after high school?" is a question that generally elicits one of two responses.  

Response 1:  Stare at one's sneakers until the question goes away.
Response 2:  Do anything else other than answer.

When I asked my son, "Can you name five careers you could imagine yourself possibly doing, things that you think would be cool to do?"   He nearly bore a hole in the floor from his intense stare at his shoes.

Not wanting to have silence as an answer, (since a career as a mime seems to have limited upward income potential) I opted for a subtle approach.

"Hey son?  Can you read Anna a bedtime story?"
"Sure."
"Maybe You Can Be a Vet, Maybe You Can Fly a Jet" might be one of the lamer Dr. Seus titles out there, but it did at least get the hint across, I wasn't going to let this go.

The next morning he cooked himself an omelette.  "You could be a chef." I said.
He left the room.

That afternoon, he fixed his bike.  "Mechanic?" He took off on his bike.

He brought me papers to sign.  "Lawyer?" I wasn't giving up.

I played games with the younger ones, having them talk about Halloween Costumes if they could only choose from careers.  JUDGE!  FIREMAN! POLICEWOMAN! SINGER! ACTOR! TEACHER! NURSE! ARTIST! We kept going around, as many of my kiddos wanted to have two, maybe three careers over the course of their lives.

He ran up the stairs holding his ears.

Surrendering didn't seem prudent, and yet I couldn't think of another way to approach the question and get an actual response.  My son gave a scream of irritation from his room. I ran upstairs.  "What's wrong?" I asked.

"The UNIVERSE Mom."  He led out a sheet of paper.  I looked at it blankly. It gave the schedule for Spirit Week.  "LOOK AT THURSDAY!" he shouted.

Career Day.   I couldn't help grinning.  Guess I'll find out at the end of the week.

Ten Signs You Live with a Cross Country Runner

10) He has more pairs of shoes than you do.

9) You always cook two dinners.  One for the non running crew, and one for the runner.

8) We are always out of bananas.

7) No one save the runner may take the last water bottle under pain of death.

6) The mail man understands when he drops off the mail and there is a dish that once contained oatmeal and a spoon, that we aren't mailing away our dirty dishes.  It's just, he was running late to catch the bus and ate on the fly.  

5) You don't ask where the protein bars went.  Or the yogurts, or the chocolate milks.  You know.

4) His wardrobe consists of running clothes and one pair of jeans for when he has to dress formally.

3) He will do the dishes and babysit for chocolate milk and pasta.

2) The speed at which he can run is inverse to the speed at which he gets ready for anything where he is not running.  

1) The weather is irrelevant to the runner.  The time of day is irrelevant to the runner.  The amount of distance he will run, is also irrelevant.  You, as mother, and not a runner, will understand none of this, you must merely accept, he's going to run.

Over at Aleteia Today Too!

So today I take on the issue of how to teen whisper. It's similar to toddler whispering, but taller.   Please, go click, like, share, etc and enjoy.  Meanwhile, I'm going to pack up some kids for college...(Sniff), and maybe write about sending off my youngest to kindergarten.   (Sniff, sniff).

I'm Sorry Mom, You Have Been Chopped

Mom! What's for dinner?

I have cooked meals in this household since it became a household, and no one has ever been poisoned or even slightly agitated by my cooking.

Until today.

You see, my kids watch Food Network, it's one of our favorites.  Unfortunately, it has lead one of them to think it is their mission in life to never experience a non gourmet meal.

Which meant when the answer was "Hot dogs," I was given an impromptu lecture on how unhealthy such fare is for children.   Adding raw carrots and black beans did not change the critic's mind. So I also fixed a Caesar salad.  I figured, I had him.

Except I fixed it from scratch.  Meaning, the lettuce came as a head, not in a bag with all the ingredients presorted and prewashed and pre-torn.  

"You don't make Caesar salad with that sort of lettuce..." he explained.
"Yes you do. Caesar salad uses romaine.  People used to just buy heads of lettuce, wash them, tear them up and use them."
"Prove it!"

So the guy who doesn't know how to make a Caesar salad is telling the Mom who introduce him to Caesar salad to provide evidence that Caesar salad uses Romaine.  I produce a cook book.

"That's old.  No one uses a cook book anymore. It's not proof."  Producing a second, third and fourth cook book did not change his mind.

I pull up recipes on the internet.  They collaborate my understanding of Caesar salads.  I even explain that they used to make Caesar salads with raw eggs and in some restaurants, with anchovies  in an attempt to round out my knowledge of all things related to Caesar salad.

Meanwhile he'd been googling on his i-phone.  The recipe did not mention a particular lettuce, which to the expert teen's mind meant Vindication.  Thus I listened to a smug adolescent explain that I didn't understand how to really cook. "There's only one way that's the right way." he explained.

I handed him a bowl full of romaine tossed with croutons, a Caesar dressing, salt, pepper and parmesean.  He ate it all, and ate what was to be my and his sister's serving.  

I looked at him and the empty salad bowl. I was feeling smug and triumphant.  Except I'm dealing with a teenager.

He told me, "It's still wrong."

Uber Parenting Bar

Those parenting books fill your head with all sorts of helpful tips right up until the point when it gets hard.   Sure, they talk about teething, night terrors, bedtimes, temper tantrums, toilet training and dealing with discipline, with the unspoken promise, if you do all these things correctly, it's smooth sailing from here on in...It's not true.

I know why they don't talk about the fierce will of a tween to never go to bed before 11, or the struggle to discern which drives you crazier, the kid who cooks eggs for himself three times a day, or the teen who changes outfits on the hour.  It would be nice if there were more resources out there, not just books, but places to commiserate about how much we love these crazy people, and how much they seem to love driving us crazy.    We need a Parent Bar.  Drinks, sympathy and counsel or at the very least, a call in show that focuses exclusively on helping parents love their kiddos through the porcupine years.

I imagine if they did a show for parents of older kids, It would go something like this:

"This is Uber Mom, the Mom who goes everywhere, for everyone.  Why?  Because that's what an Uber Mom does...she shows up where she's needed, even when she's not wanted.  From Allentown, PA, we're on the line with Patty..."

"Hello Uber Mom?  I have five kids with phones.  I asked them to call for a pizza.  They wanted me to do the talking on the phone...why is that?"

Uber Mom..."Patty, Patty, you must understand, the cell phone is a method of limiting exposure to others.  You're thinking of it as an old fashioned phone.  No one talks anymore.  Tell them to order the pizza online. They get the food and you don't have to talk either."

or  Susan and Mike from Deerborn, Michigan.  They tried to go toe to toe with their teens.

"Last week, we tried NOT doing the work to let them become more self sufficient.  Now we're buried to our hips in last week's laundry."

Uber Mom  "You have to commit to this for it to be effective.  Be strong.  Tread laundry for six more weeks and they'll begin to come around."

or this email question exposing the universal truth about parenting people ages 10 and up.

"Why is it, if they read an article on it somewhere, like say the internet, it's fact beyond contestation, but if I say based on experience, something shouldn't happen, it's always subject to debate?"  

Uber Mom   "Answer? This was true before the internet.  It will be true long after the internet.  It is the nature of things.  No worries, the cure for this is turning 30."  

I know why they don't write in those parenting books, What to Expect When Your Kid Hits Adolescence. Telling parents they have to slug it out for two more decades would lead to despair. Mankind can only bear so much reality.

Those newbies cutting their parent teeth on potty training would despair if we brought up not just driving lessons, but having to convince your child to take driving lessons; and knowing it might take longer to achieve than it did to get rid of the diapers?The human race would cease.

No, ignorance helps shield parents for the long haul of this game called life.  

Besides...we don't want this knowledge to be too public.
The only chance we have at schadenfreude requires patience and cunning on our part.   Waiting for them to grow up and endure the same struggle can only be achieved by maintaining this veil of ignorance.

So, until they all hit thirty, this is Uber Mom, signing off with the assurances, we love you enough to wait.   I'll be at the bar, commiserating.

Ten Tips for Parents of Teens and Future Teens

10) Video your children now.  You will need the nostalgia when they're upset with you.  As an added bonus, you can bring up the videos in front of their peers or just suggest you might as a credible threat.

9) Remember when potty training was a  pain?  Remember when you hoped for the day you'd be able to be free of diapers? (I can't say I remember because I'm still in it).   It's preparation for the day you start training drivers.   It will take longer than you hope, and you'll spend the next few years after they master it, worrying when they go out into the world.

8) Kiss them good night, tell them you love them as they walk out the door and sometimes, surprise them with a bedtime story.  They'll appreciate it more than you know.  It also ensures all your conversations aren't nags --study your algebra, did you do the dishes? Why did you shoot ping pongs at your sister?   Plus, you might even get the rarest of moments, a genuine smile.

7) Just as you had to recognize, you would not get sleep until they slept, (And this is true with them as toddlers and college students),  you must accept the reality, you will never have enough food in the house.

6) That being said, feed the teens.  It helps them stay more friendly.

5) They may have phones and computers, emails and unlimited text messaging; they still won't come when they're called.

4) Never try to be cool.  You never will be.  You're mom.  The only thing that will make you more uncool than you already are, is if you try to be cool.

3) Every once in a while, throw a brush back pitch.  Feel free to beat them in card games, chess, Mario Brawl or Magic, but do it with a smile so they know...you love them, but you could have crushed their egos if you'd wanted...just a reminder to stop crowding the plate. (It is the closest you will come to being cool).

2) Cheering for your kids at their sports meets is a fun way to prove to the world you really support your children in their activities, and at the same time, embarrass them for life. Again, if you're not going to ever be cool, might as well work that uncoolness in your favor.

1)  They won't be teens forever.   You'll actually miss this time the same way you did the time when they were toddlers.  

The Rule of Thumb

The rule of thumb with exercising is it doesn't matter how you feel, exercise.

The rule of thumb with writing is if you only write when you feel inspired, you aren't a writer, you're a hobbyist who keeps a diary or a journal.  
The rule of thumb with cleaning is don't procrastinate.

So this is an all thumbs day.  

Yesterday, I climbed back onto the exercise wagon, but writing still lagged, so I told myself, today, no matter what, you would be stuck with me for 1000 words.   Normally blog posts are 400 words, 800 if I get going.   You are doomed.   Why? Because I've climbed onto the computer version of a treadmill, set the timer, and I'm not getting off until it's done.  No cheesy clips. No links. No.  I need to get back to writing 1000 words a day, either in Penelope or here, or for submission.  To do that, I need to start.  

How many words is that?  181?  Nuts.  I’ve barely begun and feel winded.  I’ll put on some tunes to keep me going.   Googling “Unwritten.”  (My favorite song to get started with writing).   But I’ve got nothing. I’m staring at this stupid page and crawling for each word. 

Where did my muse go?  Answer, she’s lurking beneath the flab in my brain.  I’ve got to start exercising to tone her into shape, to make her more present.   Sigh. 

AHHHHHHH. I’m “staring at the blank page before me…” Maybe this wasn’t the best choice for a song as background.    Don’t look at the count. You’ll be disappointed.  Don’t look. Too late. I looked. Nuts, I’m only at 292.   Push. Push through the mental pain of having a block.  Write. Damn it Sherry! Write!  

Story.  What story will I tell you today? 

There’s the discovery my kids have a Wikipedia understanding of the world. 

Readers of this blog know my dryer has commitment issues.  Sometimes it works beautifully, other times, it needs more reminders to do its work than my children do to put their laundry away.  I’ve learned to give it smaller loads.  To keep up with our family though, I need more dry than the piece meal approach allows.   Sunday, I opted to string out a line and hang the towels and other things, so as to double our output.
  
My teen thought I’d lost my mind.  “The sun can’t dry those things.” He announced.  His sister agreed.  Pointing out clothes have dried since clothing began via the sun could not dissuade him from his opinion.  Googling proof didn’t help as a fellow blogger, the Frugal Momma, came up as the top post. “Why I no longer line dry my clothes.” Now she wasn’t saying it didn’t work, only that it wasn’t as time efficient as the modern method.  But the headline gave him the proof he needed.  “She doesn’t do it, so you shouldn’t either.”  Pointing out she had a different issue than I did, I wasn’t doing either method exclusively didn’t work.  “Just put them in the car and drive to the laundry place.”  He suggested.

I proposed a race, between the dryer and the sun.  Equal sized loads. Both got two towels.  We’d start them at the same time. The dryer would run until they were dry.  I bet the sun would win even though there were clouds.  “This is stupid.” He said, and told me the race was fine, but his clothes were going to the laundry mat, neither my dryer nor the sun would work.   While not as gripping as the race between the iron horse and the horse drawn carriage, or the tall tale of John Henry vs. the Steam Drill, (My kids have been watching Disney Short films), in this case, I bet against technology.  All I wanted was dry clothes, but now, I had to prove to my son, the capacity of the sun, and my own wisdom despite google headlines to the contrary.  

One cycle through, everything is still damp.  The toy house propping the line blew over from the wind resulting in a scramble to rehang all the laundry.  My son gave me one of those smug “SEE I KNOW BETTER” smiles.   Two cycles through.  Watching me flipping some of the laundry on the line, he gave me a thumbs down.

Some of the stuff in the machine and on the line feel dry to the touch but the rule is it has to all be dry to count, whether the dryer or the sun.   The laundry starts cycle three.   The sun wins. The dryer still needs another cycle for the towels.  My son has put his wet clothes in the car.  He explains, “Don’t put my clothes on the line. In fact, don’t wash my clothes. I’ll do my own laundry.”

It turns out, he doesn’t want me airing his dirty or for that matter, clean laundry.   So in addition to proving that I may actually know something and that the sun can be used to dry clothes, I’ve eliminated a chore for me…at the price of once a week dropping him off at the Wishy Wash place.  Is there a downside to this?  I’m thinking no.  

In fact, upon consideration, I’m wondering if I did the dishes outside in public view, if I could get out of kitchen detail as well.  Maybe if we made the home transparent, I could get the kids to clean.  

Am I done yet? 

905 words.   

Last push, cool down part of the exercise…before I have to also go and exercise. 
The music is back.  The procrastination is back.  I registered two girls for Girls on the Run, answered emails, watched an excellent video on Syrian crisis and moved the laundry along before recognizing, I was opting to do chores rather than write. SIT BACK DOWN.  Finish the damn thing.   971.  Man I’m out of practice.   Thanks for bearing with me  in this exercise, I hope you’ll come back tomorrow as I try to have my blog become the equivalent of my mental treadmill/trail run.  

Go. 

Exercise. 

Write. 

Pray.

Persevere.

And a big "Thumb's up" for persisting. 

Signs You Have Teenagers

10) Your taste in music is curiously updated but you can't acknowledge it publicly.

9) You have an Instagram, Twitter and Tumblr feed.  You only use them to see what's going on with your children. You don't think they know.

8) You worry there is some new equivalent of Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook that only teens known about. If they know you teen-cyberstalk.

7) On occasion, the teen will suggest, you borrow from her wardrobe or that you need to go shopping.

6) If they have lots of friends, you worry who are they and why do they like my child?  If they don't have lots of friends, you worry, why not? Why don't they like my child? What's wrong with them?  

5) When the teen texts you asking for a run to Starbucks. You bring an ice coffee even though you don't drink Starbucks.  On occasion, when the teen says I could use a protein shake, you bring a protein shake, and when you stop for gas and lament "We're out of diet coke."  Someone runs into the station, and with their own money, brings you back a diet coke.

4) Your experience as a teen, as an adult, your educational background, your years as a parent, your knowledge base, all count for squat.  

3) The surest root to silence is an attempt to have a conversation.

2) The surest root to a conversation is to plan for silence. (like reading a book, planning to take a bath or a nap).

1) On Twitter you find a "Thanks Mom."  with a photo of the ice coffee.  They know.

Pssst.....really not dead....I promise.

Okay, so this past week blogging has been at the bottom of the to do list, somewhere between organizing the back basement, folding socks, gardening and filing.    Why?

Well, it's not because I've been organizing the back basement, folding socks, gardening or filing.

I've been adjusting to having three teenagers home.  Three toddlers are easier...but I have both.

Getting up.

Toddlers: Easy.  You get them up. They are up. You get them dressed.  You feed them. They eat what you serve.  It is straight forward.
Teens: They are not up.  You can set alarms. You can go in and wake them yourselves.  You can tell them they cannot sleep all day and what do they have to be tired from?  They do not get up until after noon. They then present themselves to you and say, "I'm hungry."  You offer food. They reject it in favor of different food.  They fix their food.  They leave to go get dressed and you will not see them again until around 4, when they will again say, "I'm hungry" and refuse the food you offer. 

Going out.

Toddlers: Not easy.  You get them to the car. They kick off their shoes and socks. You strap them into their seats.  You debate furiously in your head whether it is worth it to re sod said children or wait until you get to where you are going to re sod children. 

Teens: Easy...but terrifying.  They are ready, already ready, really ready, can we go already ready to get in the car.  They're driving.

Chores:

Toddlers: Want to help. It is not terribly effective but it is sweet.
Teens: You want them to help.  It is also not terribly effective. 

Bedtime.

Toddlers: Bath, brush teeth, story, kisses, tuck in...play Whakamole with children until they give up while you camp outside the room on the floor with the laptop. 

Teens:  After dinner, you don't see them again until the next day.  Unless you are obnoxious like me and turn off the internet at 10 p.m and hang out near the switch with said laptop to let them know, you have lots of practice with Whakamole.

So I'm back....why today?  Because Dad got tickets for said three teens to go to a baseball game and it's the second to last day of school, so the house with only toddlers, is oddly much more manageable.  

Though once school lets out, this blog may have to post only monthly.  :)

The Scars of Parenthood

Some of the scars of raising children are easy to spot, like stretch marks and scuffed walls and jeans that don't fit anymore...ever.  

Others come with time, as you discover that these people you've loved since the day you knew they were coming, at some point, as alarmingly interesting as you find them, no longer find you sufficient.

Sometimes they're angry that you can't fill that void.  Sometimes, they're sad.  Mostly, they're as bewildered as can be that you don't fit anymore, because like those jeans, it's not the weight, it's the way things have stretched and rearranged, that make the fit no longer possible. 

It's not the end of the world, but it feels that way.  It feels scary to feel like nothing fits and to see the whole world yawning open to swallow you whole.  It's scary to see people who you can't imagine young telling you that this stage isn't permanent and they aren't either. The lack of permanence is frightening.  The idea of permanence, equally so.  Everything seems equally a trap. 

That awkward stage of adolescence is like a fresh knife wounding, revisiting every scar, nicking here and there. The welder stares at you, surprised that you bleed and irritated that it is possible.  Other times, I've encountered a great ice wall, between the teen's heart and your own.   You stare every day for cracks, for a poke of green, a flare of color, a crocus in the midst of the hard cold.   You hope and you hope and you hope.  You pray and you pray and you pray and you try to govern your own heart and thoughts, sometimes you fail. 

It is in those moments, that permafrost seems to grow and I feel like a complete moron, wondering if anything ever done mattered or was marked or noted.  Any pride felt in raising people up to now gets crushed.  I remind myself, "You are to be the air, not the object, to give them the capacity to breathe and encounter all else. You are baseline, invisible, expected, for granted, present."

But it's not easy and I'm not always good at it. In fact, I frequently stink.  They are not obligated to do the same and they are still learning that love, adult love, love of family, of art, of beauty, of God, of others, is not an arbitrary or passing fancy, it is a permanent choice that must be made daily, and requires of us, all of ourselves, even when it is less easy. 

Frequently, they say things that suck all of the oxygen out of the heart.  It is in those moments, those hard blasted moments of being a mom that I know, this is how God loves us; as we love them. Despite our prickly nature, our irritated selves, our capacity to ignore gifts, ignore time, ignore beauty, and stand wounded and demanding that we have the right to reexamine our wounds over and over again and watch them bleed. 

God isn't really interested in all of that, He just wants to bandage our injuries, make them better and send us off smiling, to engage the world.   He just wants to love us.  So he sends his Holy Spirit to thaw us, whether we wish it or not, through humor, through music, through time and heals whatever we allow and hopes that one day, we'll turn back, our hearts breaking with joy, happy to be here, happy to see us, happy to be in our presence once more, fitting as we never did before, because we've grown out of our selves more, and thus have room for others. 

A Few

"Hey Mom? Can I have a few friends over to play video games?"
"Sure. That sounds like fun."

So today when I was getting ready to go to the store, I asked casually how many were coming for the evening's festivities.  "Around 12."  I recovered from the initial shock of numbers to ask the follow up question.  "How many did you invite?"   "20." 

"20?" I stared at my child with incredulity.  "I said a few.  You asked to invite a few. How many is a few?"  I shook my head.  "For the record," I held up my hand.  "Less than one hand worth of fingers is a few."  But then I went out to get the pizza and chips for the designated number.

Alone in the car, I had time to think.  How could we get to 12? Why didn't I ask?  Shouldn't I be happy he has 12 who want to come? Maybe living in a family of 12 has radically skewed the perception of many, some and a few for all my kids and I should make this clear now, or maybe I'm still new to this having older kids bit of parenting and so I don't speak teen. I called my brother who teaches sophomores and juniors at a private high school in Houston.

"How many is a few to teen boys?"  I asked.
"12-15" he answered.  He laughed. 

So I picked up the pizzas, added a few more sodas and a few bags of chips.  When I got home, I told him, "Tomorrow, I have a few chores for you." 

Transitions

This morning, my oldest daughter started high school.  We took a picture and I looked at her, so brimming with confidence, enthusiasm, eagerness. I hope her face is the same when she comes home today.

She's been my right arm this summer, babysitting as needed, running into the store with a 20 for milk, bread and diapers, writing out the "To Do" list and occasionally putting in notes like, "It's summer secretary appreciation day, take Bonnie to Borders."  or "Milk Shakes."  I'm an easy boss and these hints always work.

As she enters into an unknown world I have to pause and hope that the next four years won't be as painful as I recall, and yet at the same time, I know that long pounding helped form strength.  I also know because I've watched my son mature from hard knocks more than hard assignments; and while I would have spared him much of the grief he has endured, I also know those experiences made him who he is today. 

I used to teach adolescents in high school and loved that odd mixture of immaturity, inexperience, fledgling adulthood type thinking.  So seeing my daughter flit between reading and drawing Manga comics and writing a critique of "Rebecca" made sense to me; as did her bright yellow pikachu lunch box and somber navy back pack.  She was trying both worlds out because as a 14 year old, you can. Watching a teen mature over the years is a bit like watching the tide come in on the beach as you build a castle.  The first time the waves reach your feet, it catches you by surprise.  But it's not unpleasant and so you get used to it.  Then suddenly, it surges well past your construction and while you knew this was coming, it still seems to have come too quickly.

She left this morning a note on the table for me with my list of things to do and she even remembered two things I'd forgotten.  I felt the saltwater run just past my ankle. So this afternoon, we're going out for milk shakes.

My Fault

I am officially responsible for everything wrong in this world.  I know I've tried to explain that I wasn't born yet, that I have no knowledge of such things, that I have no power, but after years of being bombarded, I've come to understand that all my rational explanations were just a dodge, a cop out, a stubborn unwillingness to face my own culpability.  It's me.

The outrageous pollen count?  My fault. I have offspring and their favorite activity is to make wishes.  So the general population of dandelions has increased exponentially this spring. 

The gigantic blizzard this past winter?  Again, my bad.  I actually was praying for a big snow because I didn't like how jumbled our shedule was for the coming week and wanted a guilt free way to get out of all our obligations. 

The crisis of Obesity? I watch the food network religiously, ergo I boost their ratings, enabling them to show still more television shows about yummy rich food, tempting those who would otherwise be svelt people to overindulge.


The untimely demise of James Brown?  I had front row seats to his next concert that summer. 

The oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico? I went down to Texas a few weeks ago and stuck my toe in the water and filled a bottle to bring back to Maryland.  Clearly, I upset the ocean equilibrium with my violative acts. 

The hole in the Ozone? A preemptive act by the Earth in response to knowing that one day I would drive not one but two SUV's and have a large family.


The Budget Deficit? I voted Republican in every Presidential election and I bet, if I'd been born in earlier decades, I still would have simply voted for Republicans more. So who else could one possibly blame?


The recession? When I first started trying to grow money via the stock market, I put away in an Asian fund. For ten years. For ten years, it lost money until I finally swapped out. The Asian stock market subsequently pulled a major turn around. No I'm not telling you what I've currently got our money in but we bought a big house in 2007 and....


So, now you know when you skin your knee or burn your dinner or have an overdue library book or extra expensive bill from the Utilities company (and not because someone left the hose on overnight) who to blame.  It's Me.

Why? How do I know?

Simple.  I'm the parent of multiple adolescents and I ruin everything.

A Mom's Best gift does not a Writer Make

Yesterday, we had to take two children to two different schools at two different starting times for two crucial standardized tests.  We also were scheduled for a 2:30 mass for First Communion and my daughter had a 10 o'clock hair appointment.   The night before, I'd asked, "Do you have your pencils?  Your I.D?  Your calculator?" and my mom had stressed checking where the test was, as my brother once upon a time had been scheduled at a test site 20 miles away.  Still, this was new territory, and our crash test son has now paved the way for his siblings. 

After my husband departed with the two test takers, I received a phone call.  It was 8 in the morning.  "Does our son need any papers to get into the S.A.T?" his father asked.

Our oldest had gone into the building while his sister noted countless other children with more organized or seasoned parents marching into the school holding pieces of paper.  One girl had come out very upset, saying they wouldn't allow her to take the test.  My husband and I both knew our son had no such sheet and I hadn't even thought of it.

I clicked on the website thinking, "Why didn't you check this last night Sherry?  Why didn't you look?" and then, "Why didn't my son look?" and then, "Why didn't I ask my son to look?"  and filed it under, "Next time."

Yes, it said he needed his admissions ticket and that if I logged in, I could  print it up.  If I could get over to the high school in 17 minutes...if I could just find the sheet.  But I couldn't log in. I knew my son's user name. I was uncertain of the password so I tried my emails but alas, I'd deleted 27,000 old emails on the theory I did not need them; so I tried to log onto my son's email. He'd changed the password.  Knowing he did comic heros as a rule, I began typing.  I hoped it wouldn't be an obscure member of the Avengers. After ten minutes of searching, I discovered I'd been logging into the S.A.T. with his name in lower case, and it needed to be upper case and I'd known the password all along. Dragging the laptop to the printer, I loaded with paper and of course had to deal with two paper jams before the necessary document was in my hot nervous stressed out hands

Our son had already turned off his phone so we had no way of contacting him and his dad had left to take our daughter to her site and so it was all on me.  Fortunately, my parents are visiting so they could babysit or this insane errand would be completely untenable.  Now, it was barely managable if I bent the rules of space and time.  I'd go in my t-shirt and pj pants.  It was 8:15.  Test started at 8:30.  I just might make it. 

12 passenger vans are not built for speed.  But I prayed and lo, I hit every green light.  There was no traffic, I watched the clock mercilessly tick down the minutes until test time.  My son called.  His voice oddly not stressed, he asked why we'd left five phoned messages between his sister, his father and me when he was getting ready to take the S.A.T.   "You need your admission ticket." I explained.  He said, "I'm already in the room.  I was just getting ready to turn off my phone, I'd had it on silence."  I was a block from the school. 

Getting to the parking lot, I wondered, "What now?" If I went home, some administrator would demand to see my son's papers.  I knocked on the door and a gracious but weary security woman radioed to the staff running the gig.  They didn't need it.    Stand down red alert.  So now I drove home in the anti-climatic unhero of a stressful morning with no reward for the sacrifice or meaning.

"It might make a good blog entry." my mom quipped as she finished up breakfast for the littles.

True.  But now I'm personally praying for Writer's block.