Boys, Dogs and Chaos

Resolution

Every year on New Year’s Eve, I sit down with a pretty piece of paper and a smooth flowing pen and record my resolutions for the year.  Then, I promptly break them.  I may just be setting myself up for failure, though.  I think that the time to reflect upon resolutions should not be when the champagne bubbles (or in my case, sparkling cider) are still tickling your lips, but in the dreary days that follow.  In the dark hollows of late January and February, it is so easy to lose the optimism and energy that spawn those declarations of bettering oneself.  Do you really feel like hauling your tired ass to the gym, when it involves bundling up and slogging through the snow and slush?  Curling up in front of a fire place (or even a space heater) sounds oh so much more inviting.

 

When it’s bitterly cold, my butt wants to stay put, preferably with a bowl of something hot and a trashy magazine (mac and cheese and Us is a good combo – though one I hardly ever get to indulge in).  Now that we are in the dead of winter, I wonder how many resolutions have already been broken.  Even Target seems to have given up its aggressively optimistic flyers – last week’s balance balls, free weights and sports bras have given way to chips, cookies and soda in this week’s flyer.  Yes, as we head toward the biggest couch potato event of the year – the Super Bowl – even mega chains realize they shouldn’t bother pushing workout gear, since even the “desperate to keep that resolution” crowd has probably given up by this point of the deep freeze.

 

I’m not talking about those who already own equipment that they use everyday or those who actually make use of their gym membership, hardening their muscles and whittling their waists on a regular basis (I count some of you as my friends, but I don’t hold it against you).  I’m talking about those of us who swore that this year would be different and are already back to using the recumbent bike in our bedroom as an extra dresser (guilty!).  My resolution was to ride that bike more, ok – can’t really say more if I never rode it before.  My resolution was to start riding it. The bike is in my bedroom, with a place to rest a book, so I can read and exercise at the same time.  I don’t even have to step foot in the bitter wind.  I can read a book while I exercise, for god sakes.  Why can’t I keep that ridiculously easy resolution?  Well, life gets in the way.  Laundry, cleaning, packing lunches and making dinner (even if it’s in the microwave) just take up so much damn real estate in my life.  Add in running errands, breaking up fights and of course facebook and, well, there’s just no time for taking care of myself.  And yes, facebook is in there too – if I completely cut out facebook, I could certainly ride the bike for 15 minutes here and there. 

 

Does it make it any better that I use facebook for good, to help save homeless dogs and cats?  Maybe, but I’d be lying if I said that I never clicked on pictures or commented on a status here or there.  But, the biggest chunk of my time is spent posting dogs and cats to my rescue page and commenting on death row dogs’ pictures.  So, maybe I should just change my resolution to, “Save more animals this year.”  Perhaps that would be the best way to guarantee that one keeps resolutions – observe what you are doing, what’s important to you and make that your resolution – to simply keep doing it.  Is it reading to your child every night, or at least most nights?  Done!  Is it donating to charities?  Done again.  Or maybe cooking more often (ok, can’t claim that I do that, but I’m sure a lot of you out there do it already).  Another easy resolution.

 

One of my favorite tricks to make myself feel productive is to put tasks I’ve already accomplished on my to do list.  I know it’s cheating, but if I wrote a to do list the night before, making beds and throwing in a load of laundry would be on it - so why not put it on, so I can have the gratification of checking it off?  At least I know that at the end of the day, I won’t be looking at a list of everything I haven’t accomplished.  Silly, I know.  But, it’s the same thing with making a resolution to just do more of the good stuff you are doing – you’re practically guaranteed to succeed.

 

There are only three times that I recall actually keeping a resolution.  Those three resolutions were the same: “get pregnant.”  It was incredibly optimistic or perhaps incredibly misguided for me to think that just by writing, “get pregnant” on my resolution list, I would.  So many things could have upended my plan – infertility, health issues, economic issues – there are a myriad of reasons people can’t have the family they want, when they want it.  But, I was extraordinarily lucky and get pregnant each of those years I did.  And you know what, looking back at the end of the year, even though I had broken every other resolution to work out more, I felt like I had accomplished something great. 

 

So, make some February resolutions, instead of New Year’s resolutions.  Think about all of the good stuff you do now – even if it doesn’t include working out and eating more fruits and vegetables – and put that on a list with the promise to simply keep doing whatever it may be.  My list includes, “Reading to my son each night.  Telling my kids I love them every day, even if it seems like I'm constantly yelling at them.  Helping save homeless animals.  Contributing to charity.  Doing community service work.”  You get the idea.  What it doesn’t include, is riding that damn bike.  (Though, I do plan on starting to do it anyway, so hopefully it will make it onto next year’s February resolutions, because it will be part of my routine by then.  Hey, a girl can hope…)

 

 

I'm a Screamer

If my shameless attempt to a get a few extra clicks beyond my regular readers (you know I love you) worked and you are expecting a bit of erotica, sorry – this is a classic horror story of the spinning head and split pea soup variety.  OK, so I’m not quite as bad as Linda Blair, but I do act possessed far too much for my liking.  Enough that sometimes I scream at my kids so loudly, I hurt my own ears and feel like my head is exploding.  Far worse though than the burgeoning headache and sore throat that follow my losing it, is the shame, not to mention shame’s cousin – guilt. 

 The other day my fourth grader, J, was just dawdling – dawdling and causing my blood pressure to spike.  When I told him he needed to hurry it up, he responded, “Why are you so mad?  It’s just school, it’s not like you’re going to get arrested if I’m late!”

 The reason for my anger - his teacher asked me to get him to school early, but despite my best efforts, I can’t get him there more than two minutes before the door closes.    And, when he gets there just in the nick of time, his younger brother (whose teacher also wants him there early) gets there just in the nick of time, as well.  So, when J started playing with the dog, instead of getting his shoes on and then decided to put away a Wii game laying on the floor, my blood was boiling.  I thought, Really?  The moment we need to leave for school, he decides to clean up – not the gazillion times he was asked to before… and the demon voice reared its ugly head.  “GET YOUR JACKET ON NOOOOWWWW!!!” 

 J looked at me with such shock and sadness, it killed me.  “That just proves that you don’t love me,” he said quietly.  “You would be happier if I lived on the street.  I just know it.”   Now, of course I know he was playing me, but I do think he was upset and hurt.  I am always dumfounded when my kids say, “Why did you yell at me?  You could have just asked,” after I’ve asked nicely for something a dozen times to no avail.  I have to scream, because I am not heard when I speak softly.  Even simply yelling doesn’t do the trick – only a true scream gets their attention.  But, that doesn’t mean that it’s not psychologically damaging – to both of us. 

 On the ride to school after my tirade I watched J in the rearview mirror staring out the window.  I swallowed – my throat was sore from screaming so loudly – and asked if he was ok.  He didn’t answer.  When he got out, he gave me a kiss, but still looked haunted.  There was a line of cars in front dropping off and a few cars pulling up behind me.  The boys weren’t late, but they weren’t early either.  Did any of the other parents feel as stressed as I did? I wondered.  Or were they just happy to get their kids there before the door was locked.  Was my making J feel so bad worth it?  Did he truly believe that I would be happier without him?

 I knew that J would be seeing the school social worker that day (he sees her to help ease his anxiety), and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I panicked that he would tell her that I screamed at him and that he didn’t think I loved him.  When I shared this with my husband, Jeff, he looked at me like I had three heads.  “Do you really think she would worry about you?  You are always concerned about J.  You always talk to her – you always care.  Don’t you think she sees parents that truly don’t care?  Who truly don’t act like they love their children?  It’s completely ridiculous for you to worry.” 

 Intellectually, I knew it was ridiculous, but still I saw the hurt in his eyes and felt like the worst parent in the world.  The week before when I admitted to the social worker, an amazingly calm woman, that I sometimes used J’s participation in the gifted program as a bargaining chip to get him to do his homework, she counseled me to never do that and to simply tell him that I am proud of him.  My screaming, if he reported it, cast me in an even worse light.  What parent of a child with anxiety would make them feel as crappy as I made my bundle of nerves feel?  Didn’t I realize that the dawdling was because he was anxious to go to school and therefore was putting it off?  I hung my jacket and scarf on a hook, then sat down on the landing and pulled off one boot, then the other.  I felt weary and beaten down.  I hung my head as the tears just spilled over and rolled down my cheeks, leaving tiny wet blossoms on the knees of my jeans. 

I couldn’t figure out why that morning had gotten to me.  I yell at my kids on a pretty regular basis.  It’s a terrible habit and I hate it, but I hope that they understand that I only do it because, as I mentioned, I am often not heard.  But, that morning I literally felt so furious that the scream was almost menacing.  Jeff doesn’t yell at the kids often, but when he does, they sit up and listen.  His voice is, of course, much louder and deeper than mine and since he doesn’t do it as often, it’s not just white noise to them – they take notice.  Perhaps that was the difference for J – usually my yelling goes in one ear and out the other, because the boys are immune to it.  It holds no weight.  But, this time I screamed with every inch of my being and that shocked J.  It worked, of course – he put on his jacket and we left, but at what price?

I actually didn’t get to see J until almost 9:00 that night – I had a doctor’s appointment before he got home from school.  When I returned Jeff had already dropped J off at a play date.  Jeff picked him and his friend up before dinner and they headed directly to a birthday party.  By the time J returned at bedtime, he was tired out from rounds of Play Station at his buddy’s house and an evening of laser tag.  He hadn’t eaten dinner at the party, because he never does and between his exhaustion and hunger, he was cranky, but he did not mention the morning at all.  I decided not to bring it up, even though I desperately wanted to know if he got over it and how quickly.  Was he upset until recess or did the sadness evaporate by the time he sat down at his desk?  I suppose it really didn’t matter.  There was not a damn thing I could do to change that morning, except say, “Sorry,” which I already had.  What’s done is done.  A cliché, yes, but still it made me feel better.

 We had a whole weekend to not rush – ok, not true, we had to rush to basketball on Saturday and Hebrew school on Sunday.  Both times were agonizingly stressful, but I didn’t scream.  I also didn’t scream today when the clock was ticking and shoes and jackets weren’t on.  Of course, we got to school at 9:18 – three minutes after the door closed.  But, when I walked the boys into school to sign them in, the woman at the front desk waved me away with, “They’re fine.  They can just go to their classes.”  I could only hope that their teachers were fine with it too.  I suppose my children’s perpetual last minuteness and lateness are poetic justice –  payback, if you will.  Yes, that’s right – I was late far more often than I was early as a kid.  (Full disclosure – as an adult, I’m still late far more often than I am early, but that’s a whole other blog.)  So, for all those missed buses in the 70s and 80s, for all those mad dashes into school, I guess there’s only one thing to say, “Sorry, Mom!  Now I know how you felt.”

Make a Difference

Among the myriad decisions you and your child will make when planning a bar / bat mitzvah, there is only one that has the potential to change your child’s life forever: the mitzvah project.  A well chosen mitzvah project – one that takes your child’s passions into account – can ignite a life long love of philanthropy.  The glitz, the glam, the fun, the dancing – all those things evaporate into thin air, ephemeral pleasures.  But, the satisfaction that a child gains from actually making a difference in another person’s life can fuel an addiction to doing good.  

via mitzvahmom.typepad.com

This is from my other blog, Mitzvah Mom. It is a primer on planning a mitzvah project, but really it is appropriate for anyone who wants to ignite a love of philanthropy in his/her child.

Time Machine

I stumbled into a time machine recently – no, it wasn’t a magical hot tub, nor was it something out of HG Wells.  It wasn’t even a fourth dimension wormhole.  My time machine was a red folder, the color softened with age, the edges frayed.  It was stuffed with pages and pages of my past – short stories, novel excerpts, personal essays and tiny scraps of paper, scribbled notes from which I hoped fully formed work would spring.  The folder had been sitting in a tote bag in the cubby of my desk, ignored since my mother had handed it to me a few months earlier when cleaning out her basement.  I knew that once I started looking through it, I would be tempted to linger for hours, probing for treasure, so I set it aside and quite frankly forgot about it.

 

When I found it again, I decided to just take a quick glance – but, it sucked me in.  Page after page illustrated that I was (as my friend, Scott, put it after I sent him an excerpt of the novel I was writing in college) “a funny chick.”  In my last blog post, I wrote that I was lost in my twenties, but most of these pages (written between the ages of 21 years and 25 years) proved that I was anything but.  Finding them seemed like a gift – a chance to travel back in time and relive the passion, the dreams, the innocence and even the self knowledge that it would all end soon enough, that I was on the cusp of adulthood and I better enjoy my free youth while I could. 

 

This is an excerpt of that novel (sorry – can’t post the funny one, this is a family friendly blog!) – this scene takes place on the last night before graduation:

 “…As I float off, I let my mind wander through the last four years, a journey seen through the haze of impending sleep, but with the startling clarity of thoughts poised on the brink of a new beginning.

What have I learned?  What do I leave this whole experience with?  With Jake breathing softly next to me and the perfume of a May night swirling through the room, filling my sleepy senses, I realize that we make our own lighthouses, those small moments when you can see the whole world around you and you realize right then that you are exactly where you want to be.”

 

Yes, melodramatic – I was 22 years old, after all.  But although it was fiction, my protagonist, Sam, felt what I felt.  Lighthouses were a big theme – here’s another excerpt, same theme:

“As I sit here by myself, listening to the rain beat down on the roof, I realize that I’ve taken that leap across the shimmering water to the lighthouse in my mind.  I’ve reached it and I’ll reach it again.  As long as there are crisp cellophane wrapped roses to open and breath in, with sweet cards attached, as long as there are babies to hold, smelling of Desitin and baby lotion, as long as Jake loves me, whether from far away or close by, as long as I do what I want and love with my heart and soul, as long as I let the everyday occurrences warm me and the special moments surprise and enchant me, I’ll keep reaching that place.  Because we make our own lighthouses, those small moments when you can see the whole world around you and you realize right then, you are exactly where you want to be.” 

 

That boasts perhaps the longest run on sentence around, but you get the point.  I think this was an alternate ending – one I wrote a year or two after the first.  It surprised me, because I didn’t remember being that hopeful.  I remembered feeling adrift, missing my boyfriend and feeling caught between youth and adulthood, trying to decide if I should move out of my parents house or not.  It was so very odd revisiting this moment – yes, it’s fiction, but it was inspired by a moment in my life when I was 23 years old. 

 

Traveling back to the eighties, even if just in my mind, seemed particularly ironic (and bittersweet) just a few days later, when my father suffered a stroke and lost a chunk of his memory.  His brain spun back and planted him firmly in his life twenty five years earlier.  At one point, he got out of bed in the hospital, tubes and all, because he had to “get to work at the factory.”  That factory, of which he was the manager, closed in the 1980s.  But, that’s where he landed – and I started to think, if I had to relive any moment in my life, which would it be?  Yes, the stroke was horrible and scary and you never, ever want it to happen, but he didn’t seem unhappy at first, just confused, even though the rest of us were torn apart and devastated.  Thankfully, though his short term memory is still iffy, he is back in 2010 with us and will hopefully continue to improve.  But, I can’t help but wonder what sparked landing there?  Was that a happy time and in order to cope with the trauma, his brain let him relive it? 

 

Sometimes, I wish I could hop in a time machine and travel back to when my kids were babies – I know in my previous essay, I mentioned how completely crazy and stressed I was as a new mom, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that there were moments of great joy, as well.  Moments of pure bliss.  My boys didn’t talk back to me.  They loved me now matter what – I couldn’t screw up.  Now, “I hate you,” is a really close second to “I love you.”  I know it’s just part of growing up – asserting independence – and more often than not I get a heartfelt apology.   But, it still stings. 

 

Other times I think that if I could relive anything, it would be college – a moment in time when anything was possible and the future stretched out in front of me.  A time when my personality was untouched by work stress, then parenting, then just the daily grind of keeping a household up and running – I was a combination of badass and sweet (a description that I found in a creased and faded letter).  I don’t know if it’s possible to be that combination on the other side of forty, or even thirty, or if I’d even want to be.  It’s one thing to be a badass when you have no one relying on you, except perhaps a boyfriend, quite another when you have three children, two dogs and a husband.  If I ever do find a way to fit into a wormhole or if I stumble upon a magical hot tub, it’s very likely that I’d decide to just stay put.  As tempting as it is to imagine flying free, I think I’d be content with just visiting my past lives on the papers stuffed in that faded red folder.

The Dream

I had a dream the other night that I was talking to an ex-boyfriend.  I told him that I was lost in my twenties (the decade during which we dated), my thirties were a haze of sleep deprivation and anxiety and in my forties I had finally grown into myself.  I hadn't spoken to or even thought about this person in ages, yet he showed up in my dream - a symbol of my past.  Waking up, I had the oddest sensation of an epiphany.  Shaking the sleep off, I suddenly remembered the dream and wondered if my slumbering self was trying to tell me something.  Had I discovered a nugget of truth during my sleep?  Was I really more content at 42 years old, than I was at 25 years old? 

Turning forty had filled me with an awful foreboding – if my life were a movie, somber music would play and dark clouds would roll across the screen every time I thought about it.  But, even though two years past that milestone birthday I am not even close to where I thought I would be at this point (which you know, if you read an earlier post – The Dinosaur), maybe I am more content .  I was sure that I would be a published novelist, or at least have a regular column in a magazine by 40 years old.  I was sure I would be living in a big, neat house, perhaps with a cleaning woman to tidy up after the kids.  I am not quite at the coasting stage yet, though.  I am still at the establishing myself stage.  Whether that’s necessarily a bad thing – well, I haven’t quite figured that out.

Obviously, I would love to be a success at this point in my life, instead of still struggling, but maybe the struggle itself keeps you young – keeps you on your toes.  Plus, the older you are when you succeed, the sweeter it is.  My first writing teacher penned a message in my notebook at the end of the semester.  I memorized it almost before her pen left the paper, it resonated so: “To be a writer is a truly honorable thing.  You will be ostracized and rejected, but when success comes – and it will – it will be sweet.”  When I read that (over and over again), I felt sure that success was maybe ten years away, not over twenty and counting.  But, the message still stands all these years later – success, whenever it comes, will always be sweet.  But, what if it doesn’t – how do you reinvent yourself then? 

These questions that we ask ourselves are part of the beauty of growing older.  When you’re young, the questions don’t revolve around the big picture.  At least they didn’t for me.  In my teens, they revolved around school, friends, teenage love.  In my twenties, they revolved around college and then work, yes, but mostly the questions revolved around love still – my brain was consumed with my relationships.  I took writing classes, I worked as a journalist, but mostly I mourned the end of one relationship, obsessed over the beginning and progress of another, with a few relationships sprinkled in between.  I planned my wedding and got pregnant right before saying, "goodbye" to my twenties. Married at 28 years old, pregnant at 29 years old.

My thirties obsession was motherhood.  New motherhood, especially.  I had my first baby at 30 years old and pretty much spent the entire decade either pregnant, nursing or chasing a toddler.  My youngest child exited the toddler years the same year I exited my thirties.  At times I feel that decade is a blur of diapers, vomit and spit out peas.  And sometimes, I’ll see a young mother with a toddler and a baby and think, Did I appreciate it when I was there?  Did I stare at that rosebud mouth? Did I gaze in wonder at the impossibly long eyelashes fringing over porcelain skin?  I don’t really know the answer and it kills me.  Yes, I do remember moments of pure baby bliss, of simply realizing how lucky I was.  But, just as often I can only recall running on fumes, completely frazzled and sleep deprived.  I saw one such young mother at the pediatrician’s office yesterday.  Her daughters were about the same age difference as my two oldest boys.  I told her to enjoy her 2 ½ year old and 5 month old.  “Enjoy them before they talk back to you,” I advised her.  And this is where I believe becoming a parent in your late thirties or early forties trumps younger entry into the ranks of motherhood – just like success, it’s sweeter.  Waiting for anything makes one appreciate it more and with age, comes wisdom and the ability to truly feel blessed, rather than overwhelmed. 

Of course, ruminating over the past isn’t going to do anything to help me appreciate the present.  Soon enough, I’ll be looking at parents of twelve year olds and saying, “Appreciate them before they are driving, before they leave your home.”  I realized this morning that I am exactly the same distance from my last pregnancy as I am from my first child leaving for college – six years.  Quite frankly, I’m a bit scared of the teenage years.  My oldest son, D, and I were walking home from a street fair behind a group of teenagers – two boys and two girls.  Their conversation was peppered with “f*%k this” and “f*%#in’ that.”  One of the girls actually joked about being raped.  “Oh, I only liked to be raped on Tuesdays!” she squealed.  I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say “Do you even realize how horrible it is to be raped?  Do you even realize that your life is destroyed?”  Instead I whispered to D, “The dumbing down of our youth.  The Snookification of America.  It’s sad.”  Mercifully, though he is a voracious consumer of pop culture, he did not know who Snooki is.  He simply said, “Mom, can we walk around the corner, please?”  I asked if he was worried that they’d hear me talking about them.  He answered simply, “I just really don’t want to hear them talking anymore.  Who knows what they’ll say next.”  I was incredibly relieved.  I was horrified that he had to listen to them, but when I voiced my concern at that first f-bomb, he told me he’d heard worse. Yikes.

We took the long way home, glancing into houses lit up in the soft summer night.  D. tried to cup a firefly in his hands, jumping up to reach it – a glimpse of the small child he used to be.  I put my arm around his shoulder, which is the same height as my shoulder now, and told him that I know he will move into his teenage years as a thoughtful, articulate young man.  Did I breathe in everything about that moment – the balmy August night, the firefly dancing above us, just the two of us on a walk?  Of course I did.  Being on the other side of forty has taught me something, you know.  And, that is the nugget of truth my slumbering self was trying to tell me. 

I had a dream the other night that I was talking to an ex-boyfriend.  I told him that I was lost in my twenties (the decade during which we dated), my thirties were a haze of sleep deprivation and anxiety and in my forties I had finally grown into myself.  I hadn't spoken to or even thought about this person in ages, yet he showed up in my dream - a symbol of my past.  Waking up, I had the oddest sensation of an epiphany.  Shaking the sleep off, I suddenly remembered the dream and wondered if my slumbering self was trying to tell me something.  Had I discovered a nugget of truth during my sleep?  Was I really more content at 42 years old, than I was at 25 years old? 

Turning forty had filled me with an awful foreboding – if my life were a movie, somber music would play and dark clouds would roll across the screen every time I thought about it.  But, even though two years past that milestone birthday I am not even close to where I thought I would be at this point (which you know, if you read an earlier post – The Dinosaur), maybe I am more content .  I was sure that I would be a published novelist, or at least have a regular column in a magazine by 40 years old.  I was sure I would be living in a big, neat house, perhaps with a cleaning woman to tidy up after the kids.  I am not quite at the coasting stage yet, though.  I am still at the establishing myself stage.  Whether that’s necessarily a bad thing – well, I haven’t quite figured that out.

Obviously, I would love to be a success at this point in my life, instead of still struggling, but maybe the struggle itself keeps you young – keeps you on your toes.  Plus, the older you are when you succeed, the sweeter it is.  My first writing teacher penned a message in my notebook at the end of the semester.  I memorized it almost before her pen left the paper, it resonated so: “To be a writer is a truly honorable thing.  You will be ostracized and rejected, but when success comes – and it will – it will be sweet.”  When I read that (over and over again), I felt sure that success was maybe ten years away, not over twenty and counting.  But, the message still stands all these years later – success, whenever it comes, will always be sweet.  But, what if it doesn’t – how do you reinvent yourself then? 

These questions that we ask ourselves are part of the beauty of growing older.  When you’re young, the questions don’t revolve around the big picture.  At least they didn’t for me.  In my teens, they revolved around school, friends, teenage love.  In my twenties, they revolved around college and then work, yes, but mostly the questions revolved around love still – my brain was consumed with my relationships.  I took writing classes, I worked as a journalist, but mostly I mourned the end of one relationship, obsessed over the beginning and progress of another, with a few relationships sprinkled in between.  I planned my wedding and got pregnant right before saying, "goodbye" to my twenties. Married at 28 years old, pregnant at 29 years old.

My thirties obsession was motherhood.  New motherhood, especially.  I had my first baby at 30 years old and pretty much spent the entire decade either pregnant, nursing or chasing a toddler.  My youngest child exited the toddler years the same year I exited my thirties.  At times I feel that decade is a blur of diapers, vomit and spit out peas.  And sometimes, I’ll see a young mother with a toddler and a baby and think, Did I appreciate it when I was there?  Did I stare at that rosebud mouth? Did I gaze in wonder at the impossibly long eyelashes fringing over porcelain skin?  I don’t really know the answer and it kills me.  Yes, I do remember moments of pure baby bliss, of simply realizing how lucky I was.  But, just as often I can only recall running on fumes, completely frazzled and sleep deprived.  I saw one such young mother at the pediatrician’s office yesterday.  Her daughters were about the same age difference as my two oldest boys.  I told her to enjoy her 2 ½ year old and 5 month old.  “Enjoy them before they talk back to you,” I advised her.  And this is where I believe becoming a parent in your late thirties or early forties trumps younger entry into the ranks of motherhood – just like success, it’s sweeter.  Waiting for anything makes one appreciate it more and with age, comes wisdom and the ability to truly feel blessed, rather than overwhelmed. 

Of course, ruminating over the past isn’t going to do anything to help me appreciate the present.  Soon enough, I’ll be looking at parents of twelve year olds and saying, “Appreciate them before they are driving, before they leave your home.”  I realized this morning that I am exactly the same distance from my last pregnancy as I am from my first child leaving for college – six years.  Quite frankly, I’m a bit scared of the teenage years.  My oldest son, D, and I were walking home from a street fair behind a group of teenagers – two boys and two girls.  Their conversation was peppered with “f*%k this” and “f*%#in’ that.”  One of the girls actually joked about being raped.  “Oh, I only liked to be raped on Tuesdays!” she squealed.  I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say “Do you even realize how horrible it is to be raped?  Do you even realize that your life is destroyed?”  Instead I whispered to D, “The dumbing down of our youth.  The Snookification of America.  It’s sad.”  Mercifully, though he is a voracious consumer of pop culture, he did not know who Snooki is.  He simply said, “Mom, can we walk around the corner, please?”  I asked if he was worried that they’d hear me talking about them.  He answered simply, “I just really don’t want to hear them talking anymore.  Who knows what they’ll say next.”  I was incredibly relieved.  I was horrified that he had to listen to them, but when I voiced my concern at that first f-bomb, he told me he’d heard worse. Yikes.

We took the long way home, glancing into houses lit up in the soft summer night.  D. tried to cup a firefly in his hands, jumping up to reach it – a glimpse of the small child he used to be.  I put my arm around his shoulder, which is the same height as my shoulder now, and told him that I know he will move into his teenage years as a thoughtful, articulate young man.  Did I breathe in everything about that moment – the balmy August night, the firefly dancing above us, just the two of us on a walk?  Of course I did.  Being on the other side of forty has taught me something, you know.  And, that is the nugget of truth my slumbering self was trying to tell me. 

The Beginning

I've taken a short break from blogging to work on my novel in progress.  In honor of this, I've decided to post the first four paragraphs of the prologue...

Prologue

 

The paparazzi start trailing me the moment I pull out of my driveway at 532 Rockwell Circle.  My street sounds fancier than it is – mostly ranches and capes dot the landscape of postage stamp size lots, a slice of blue collar in this middle class Long Island town.  My street has never seen a line of paparazzi follow anyone and certainly they have never seen the paparazzi follow a worn out mom dragging her cranky son to Shop Rite for eggs and milk.  My neighbor glances up from watering her mums and stares at the spectacle, jaws slack, until muddy puddles form at her feet.

 

It is an achingly beautiful October day, the kind of day that reminds me why autumn is my favorite season – blue skies and no humidity, the tiniest bite of a chill in the air, mild enough though, that the sweatshirt jackets necessary this morning will be stuffed in backpacks by this afternoon.  I would love to take a detour, take my four year old son, Sam, to the playground.  I would love to catch him at the bottom of the slide, give him a push on the swings while he pretends to be on a space ship, valiantly pumping his little legs.  Only, I can’t.  I constantly glance in my rear view mirror.  Are they still there?  Where will these pictures end up? How much more can my family take?  Like the silver spheres of a pinball machine, these thoughts bounce around my brain.

 

In the parking lot I shield Sam from the cameras exploding like flashes of lightning around us as we try to make our way into Shop Rite.  He is gripping a handful of my shirt in each fist, his face pressed into my stomach.  His voice is muffled, as he wails, “Why are all these people around us, Mommy?  Why are they blocking us?”

 

“Please,” I beg the faces behind those massive lenses, “you’re scaring my son.  We just need to get food.”  One photographer steps back a few feet, letting us by.  Maybe he’s a parent; maybe he just feels bad for me.  Maybe, he’s realized that I’m just not that interesting...

 

 

Feel free to let me know what you think (on the blog or on facebook)!  All criticism welcome!

Beware This Touch

I hate the ipod touch – hate it with a passion.  Hatred of this intensity is generally reserved for cheating lovers, dirty politicians and rival sports teams, not palm-sized inanimate objects.  But, nothing raises my ire like that hand-held spawn of the devil.  It wrecks my mornings, makes homework time a nightmare and renders dinner table conversation non-existent.  Yes, I know it is in my control to not allow it at these times – but, it finds its way in, even after I have taken it away.  Both of my older boys, D and J, have one and I often threaten, as I snatch it out of their hands, to not return it until their respective 18^th birthdays.  I also know that I should just hide it, but D is merely a fraction of an inch shorter than I, there really isn’t anywhere I can hide it that he can’t reach.  And, even though J is more diminutive, he is a little monkey and climbs on counters and desks peering into spaces far above his head.  This of course sends my heart rate soaring and my blood pressure spiraling ever upward – one more reason to hate the ipod, since that is usually what he is searching for.

The only way I can truly control it, is execution style – a hammer to its sleek touch screen.  The touch screen isn’t so sleek on J’s ipod anymore – decorated as it is with fingerprint smears and scratches.  Every time I see it, I wonder about the logic in giving a child still in the single digits a $200 toy.  D’s is relatively pristine – sure, it has fingerprints, it is a touch screen after all, but he keeps it in a case.  When he’s not playing with it (which is far more often than J is not playing with it – D spends a good chunk of his free time shooting hoops), he stores it somewhere safe.  J can never find his, and when he does, it is often under the couch, getting even more scuffed up.  It’s really not J’s fault – it’s mine for expecting a nine-year-old to take care of something so delicate.  A child on the cusp of the teen years is much better suited to that job.

I am far from alone in bestowing such a responsibility on my child.  According to J, “Everyone in the third grade has an ipod touch.”  That’s hardly true, plenty of parents stand firm or simply can’t afford one.  Believe me, I couldn’t afford to buy him one either.  He saved up his money and hoarded gift cards he received for his birthday to purchase it.  I was truly on the fence in deciding whether or not to allow him to buy it, so of course I turned to the biggest body of parenting experts I know – my facebook friends.  The consensus seemed to be that the ipod was worth the extra money and allowed for a richer gaming experience than the DSi (though, of course there were dissenters).  They actually weren’t far apart price wise.  And, considering that the games for the ipod are often free and generally not more than $5, while DSi games run at least $15- $30 a pop (and come with plastic packaging), it seemed like a greener, more economical choice.  But, I think the DSi would have caused me less stress.  It’s meant to be a toy, not a tech gadget, and it snaps shut, protecting the screen.  But, J wanted the touch and nothing but the touch. 

I didn’t hate it at first – it seemed like a wonderful way to calm J down and even taught him a bit about responsibility.  If he didn’t feed his virtual fish, it would die.  I guess the animosity settled in when I realized that J was taking great care of his virtual pets and neglecting his real pets.  Time playing with our dogs gave way to time playing Tap Fish.  Feeding his fish and harvesting zombies on Tap Farm distracted him from the only real world pet responsibility he has – feeding his frogs, Lily and Swampy, every Monday and Thursday.  Oh they got fed on those days, but only because I nagged him. 

It has reminded me a bit, but only a bit, of the Tamigotchi.  Remember those?  How many hours did I spend making sure those stupid eggs hatched and the “pet” was given his snack, so my kids would be spared the agony of watching the little angel float up and off the screen?  Too many.  But really, the only thing the Tamogotchi and the ipod have in common is the time wasting factor.  The ipod touch is like the Tamigotchi’s older, more sophisticated, racy cousin – you know, the one who gets caught smoking in the school bathroom, and gets a back tat and a belly button ring before graduation. 

The ipod was supposed to be innocent fun, but unfortunately, it’s sometimes anything but.  I nearly had a coronary when I checked J’s history and saw that he had been viewing an f-bomb laced YouTube video – the Fred is Dead parody – among other things.  Internet access was supposed to be disabled on his ipod, and I still haven’t figured out how he got it back up and running.  Knowing the Internet, in all its sordid glory, was at his fingertips, left me feeling faint.  I’m sure there must be some way to install parental controls, but I haven’t figured it out yet.  I simply disabled Internet again and I make sure I am hovering over him at all times.

Instead of bringing people closer and making the world smaller, in the case of children the Internet creates a chasm in families – tech instead of talk - and thrusts our babies into uncharted waters, best navigated by a person at least old enough to legally down a beer while surfing.  So, the other day when J begged me for a netbook, because his friend has one, my answer was a firm, “no.”  I don’t care how many gift cards he amasses or how much cash he has stashed in his wallet.  Plus, if anyone in this family gets a netbook, it’s going to be me.

The Rush

Like an action hero racing to defuse a bomb before it detonates, I kept one eye on the clock as the moments ticked away – 12:48, 12:49.  I had two minutes to reach my destination.  I screeched to a halt in front of the building, cradling my precious delivery as I jumped out of the car.  I sped down the hall, dodging obstacles.  The fate of the world depended on my getting the delivery into the right hands by 12:50 PM.  Huffing and puffing from the exertion (this action hero forgot to take her inhaler); I made it with only seconds to spare.  “A. needs this right now,” I gasped.  The sour gate keeper looked me up and down disdainfully, as she silently took the Clifford book from me. 

 

She glared at me as she spoke into the phone, “Send A. down.  His mother just brought his library book.”  She may as well have said, “Send A. down.  His mother is here to sell him on the black market,” her tone was so disgusted.  I beat a hasty retreat to the hallway and waited for A. to come down.  I knew my lingering was frowned upon, but I just had to make sure he got the book on time and I wanted to see that smiling face.  I was handsomely rewarded for my efforts – I received a smile, a hug and a “Thanks, Mommy!”  Mission accomplished. 

 

OK, I didn’t screech to a halt in front of the building – it is a school, after all.  And, I did pause for a moment to turn on my hazard lights, lest anyone think that I was planning on leaving my car smack dab in front of the entrance.  The objects I was dodging were kindergarteners on their way back from recess, not bullets.  And, of course the fate of the world didn’t depend on my delivering a Clifford book to school, before my kindergartener went to library.  But, the happiness of a five year old did and let’s be honest – the self esteem of a mom did too.  A. told me before school that he needed his library book, because apparently he is way more organized at five, than I am at 42.  He actually remembers which day it is in the six day cycle and what special he is attending that day.  I am usually stumbling about, trying to get everyone dressed and out the door and can’t remember anything. 

 

In a panic, I realized that his library book was not in the basket by the front door (in which I corral backpacks, library books, musical instruments, etc. in an effort to combat my natural tendency to lose all things the day they are needed for school).  I sent A. to school and promised him that I would deliver the book before he had library.  I spent the morning out at my son, J’s, field day, completely forgetting my promise until half an hour before the book needed to be there.  I frantically looked under the couches – the most likely spot for a Clifford book to hide.  Not there, nor was it under A’s bed; between the couch cushions; under the kitchen table; in the storage ottoman; on the office desk; in the newspaper bin or any of the other gazillion places I checked. 

 

I sat down on the couch, head in my hands.  It was 12:44 – I had six minutes to get it to him and couldn’t find it anywhere.  Of course, he has forgotten his book before, and it was just fine – he brings it back the next day and goes without a book that week.  Losing books was nothing new either – I paid the public library for Tuck Everlasting, then found it a few weeks later sitting on the book shelf, camouflaged among all the other paperbacks – never even read.  But, for some reason this time I felt like not being able to find that damn library book just hammered home my inability to keep track of the avalanche of things my children bring into our home every day.  Trip permission slips, reading logs, you name it – when something is due back in school; I spend way too much time scrambling to find it.  Eyeing my den, I was overcome with frustration and a touch of despair.  I felt like a disorganized failure.  Why couldn’t I get my act together and just get everything cleaned up and organized?  I actually asked one of my kid’s therapists if one is a hoarder if all one hoards are school papers and toys.  Thankfully, the answer was “no.”  But, that didn’t make me feel that much better. 

 

My head still in my hands, I stared at the floor.  A corner of yellow caught my eye.  Turning, I noticed a large picture book.  I had glanced at it as I looked under the couch, but didn’t think to look under it.  It was big enough to cover a Clifford chapter book.  I slowly lifted one corner and sure enough, there it was – The Stormy Day Rescue.  I was filled with joy.  That’s the good thing about disorganization – when you finally find what you are looking for, it is exhilarating, even if your blood pressure is sky rocketing at that point.  I glanced at the clock – 12:46.  I had four minutes to get the book to school.  That’s the other thing about disorganization – it certainly keeps life interesting, the adrenaline pumping rush to get something where it needs to be at the very last minute.  Oh wait, that’s not interesting, that’s just really stressful.  I truly plan on getting more organized, before I’m forced into another white knuckle race to the school.  OK, fine – the chances of that happening are slim to none, but a girl can always hope…

A Bittersweet Place

“So, have you booked a place yet?”  I dread those words, yet I am hearing them with more and more frequency as sixth grade draws to a close for my son and seventh grade – replete with bar mitzvahs every weekend – looms on the horizon.  I know that each party will outshine the last, that nubile young dancers will entice both kids and adults onto the floor – a practice I find creepy at best.  (Sorry if that offends anyone – but, come on – lycra-clad, cleavage bearing young women dancing with barely pubescent boys?)  I know that flash will rule and the centerpieces will likely be breathtaking.   That is not me, nor is it my son – I think.  But, when he starts reveling at party after party, will he be disappointed in a more down to earth celebration?

 

A bar mitzvah on Long Island can easily run upwards of $40,000 to $50,000 – all that glitz doesn’t come cheap.  But, when I do the math in my head, I realize that if I shell out that kind of cash to host three bar mitzvahs – with a grand total likely well over $120,000 – I will blow my opportunity to move my family into a bigger home or perhaps to send my children to college without loans – that’s if I even manage to scrape together that serious a chunk of change.  If not, if I steal from Peter to pay Paul – running up credit card debt – well, I don’t think we’d ever escape from that kind of financial hole.  So, I’ve been doing the only thing I can – not thinking about it and hoping I win the lottery. 

 

When I asked D. what he wants, his response was actually, “No party.”  He wants to go to Israel.  This shocked me – I expected him to want the whole shebang.  Unfortunately, right now Israel is not an option, but perhaps some day – maybe when my youngest becomes a bar mitzvah.  I would imagine it is far easier to travel to Israel with three teenagers, than with a 13 year old, an 11 year old and a 7 year old.  My kids are restless on a drive from Long Island to Boston.  We practically have to bring an entire refrigerator in the car with us.  Traveling halfway around the world?  Not going to be ready for that in a year and a half. 

 

So, with Israel off the table, D. wants a “sports party.”  He would be happy as a pig in poop with a bar mitzvah in which sports was the only thing on the menu.  OK – food, yes – but, no dresses and monkey suits, no dance floor, no overactive MC.  So, that leaves me with the decision – do I rent a sports facility – maybe the Y – and have a party that D. and the kids love, but the grown ups could pass on?  Or do I go for the sedate luncheon – with a DJ, of course?  Good food, hopefully good conversation and lots to celebrate with friends and family.  Do I follow in my family’s tradition and go for the whole shebang?    Well, $40,000 for a party is out of the question, but I could cut out the photo booth and the air brush stand and the dancers and – I guess I’d have to cut a lot.  D. only wants a chocolate fountain – we can do that.  Not at the Y, though. 

 

This all seemed to come about so quickly.  I got his date almost two and a half years ago and it seemed so far away – almost four years.  Way too long to even think about it, but now it’s creeping up.  I still have a year and five months to plan.   I planned a wedding in a year; I think I can plan a bar mitzvah in that time.  Maybe my hesitancy has more to do with my inability to even digest the notion that I will have a teenager – a man according to Jewish law – in such a short time.  When did this happen?  How did this happen?  It truly seems like I was just pregnant for the first time – the most magical pregnancy of all three.  Everything seemed like a miracle – everything was a miracle.  I even felt movement for the first time on my thirtieth birthday – what a gift.  My mother told me, “Enjoy the first one – there’s nothing like it.”  Boy, she was right. 

 

You know, after I wrote the paragraph above, I got seriously choked up – tears spilling on to my cheeks.  And, I realized that this blog post is actually about something far different than I thought it was about.  I was musing about the craziness, the “Keeping Up With the Steins” aspect of planning a bar mitzvah and how I just want to avoid it, how I just want to stick my head under a pillow every time I think about catering halls and DJs and menus.  But, now I see that it’s really about my reluctance to face the fact that my first baby is growing up – that before I know it, he will be a man.  It dawned on me a few weeks ago that I am as close to having my first child leave the nest for college as I am to my last pregnancy.  I am halfway between the early stages of an empty nest and childbearing.  It is a bittersweet place to be.  I am proud of the young man D. is well on his way to becoming, but sometimes I yearn to go back to the small child he was. 

 

It seems like yesterday that I was planning D’s third birthday party – not thirteenth.  I pulled out all the stops – it was the first birthday party we hosted in our very own backyard – not the shared square of grass outside of our apartment.  I spent days painting three cardboard boxes blue, red and green, then painstakingly drawing on faces, transforming the boxes into Thomas, James and Percy.  I printed out railroad tickets and spread out a lavish brunch.  (At least lavish by three year old party standards – mini quiches and assorted pasta salads didn’t show up on most toddler party menus.)   If the last nine years went by that fast, how quickly will the next nine go? 

 

When I hug D. now, he is solid.  He is only a fraction shorter than I am and his shoes are far bigger than mine on the boot tray.  But, I hold onto the fact that I am still a pretty important person in his life, at least for now.  For Mother’s Day, he wrote me a song.  As he sang and strummed his guitar, my eyes filled with tears.  He crooned, “I love you, Mom.  I always will.  When my heart’s empty, you make it full.”  I can only hope he feels that way even when he’s grown into a man…

D's third birthday. Can't believe we'll be lighting candles on his bar mitzvah cake next year... 

Boys, Dogs and Chaos Has a New Fan Page - Please Click On The Link Below To Like :-)

Thank you to everyone who "liked" Boys, Dogs and Chaos! Unfortunately, I seemed to have lost my facebook admin page for the blog, so I can't see my fan list and I can't make comments or do any admin-type things. I set up a new facebook fan page - http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1448568257&ref=profile#!/pages/Boys-Dogs-and-Chaos/126859933991122 . Please click over to that and fan me again, if you haven't already! I sent invites to everyone on my friend list who had "liked" me, but there were several fans that were friends of friends - don't want to lose all of you!! Thanks!