Hardness

Parenting is hard.

My kid, the one to whom the word 'hard' is not usually applied, is having a hard time. She is 16. 16 is hard. What she's going through are her own things, and none of them are tragic, and none of them are horrendous, and none of them anything close to the sort of shit that too many other 16-year-olds (or 26-year-olds, or 56-year-olds) deal with daily. If I told you--if I thought it was appropriate to tell you--you'd scoff at me. Some of you already have. But for her, it's hard. She's having a hard time.

And that. That kills me. Which is why parenting is hard. Uniquely hard, even. Because I can't fix it. I want to. I can't. Not just shouldn't (which, yeah, shouldn't, because this person is getting closer and closer to ready-to-launch), but can't. I can't fix it, but everything in me wants to believe I can help. Or that I can try to help.

Did I mention parenting is hard? Because here's what makes it even harder. That trying to help part. That makes it even harder. Because I can feel it, the ways in which my trying isn't helping, and maybe is even hurting. I can feel myself flailing. I can see the boundaries, the places where I should stop. And then I don't. I want to, I want to say, "I trust you. You don't need to tell me anything or do anything or say anything." I want to say, "This really isn't such a big deal. It's OK." And I do. But then I think about some article or another, about a tragic ending for some child or another in which a parent inevitably says, "I never thought it would be my kid," and says, "If only I had gotten more involved," and suddenly there I am, asking a question that implies she DOES have to do or say something, or lay down a law that implies it really IS a big deal, or generally imply that I don't approve…of her choices, of her. I end a hug with a lecture. I go back into a room where I'm probably not wanted. I can't shut the fuck up, no matter how much I tell myself to do so.

I approve. I adore her. I just want to help. I don't want to destroy the incredible person she is, but I also don't want to be quoted in a newspaper article or on my blog here saying, "If only I had gotten more involved." I don't want to have to live with having ignored some kind of warning sign. I also don't want to have to live with having crushed my kid's sense of self or her joy or her passion.

And all this from 'just a hard time,' and not from tragic or horrendous or the shit that too many other 16-year-olds deal with daily.

Parenting is hard. I'm not sure I'm up to it. Actually, today, I'm sure I'm not.

For Em, On Her Bat Mitzvah

In our synagogue, after the Bat or Bar Mitzvah does their Torah and/or Haftarah reading, they give what is known as a d'var torah--a teaching, a speech. Afterwards, our rabbi calls the parents up to say a few words about their child. Here's what I had to say about my child, who had just done me so proud I could barely breathe, much less speak. Thank goodness I'd written it all out, down to the last comma.

Mazel tov, baby. That was wonderful.

It should have been easy for me to figure out what I want to say to you. After all, I've been writing about you since before you were born. Except, recently, I started trying to collect some of those blog posts and emails, thinking I could condense a little and this speech would be done. I started in the present and worked back, and when I got to 50,000 words in 2007 …

The problem is – and it's a good problem – you have so much passion for life and everything in it there's not really one theme I can focus on. I could talk about the things we have in common. You are, like me, a voracious reader, and I love that we've shared so many books together, starting with The Wizard of Oz when you were just-turned 5, through Anne of Green Gables and The Princess Bride and, most recently, Anne Frank.

You are also a great writer, already. A lousy speller, but a great writer, because you have that elusive thing called VOICE. Yours rings clear in everything you put on paper. (Recycled paper, of course.)

And we all know you're focused on and concerned about the world around you; you made it your mitzvah project. But this is a long-time passion. One of those blog posts was about when you were 9 or so and convinced daddy to change the bulbs in your room into CFLs. When it was done, you ran up and hugged him and said, "I'm so happy now! I'm saving the world one lightbulb at a time!" You even wrote a letter to Governer Schwarzenegger asking him to ban incandescent lightbulbs … and then got INCENSED when he didn't write you right back.

You have, like me, always loved learning. Pretty much every teacher who's ever had you talks about your "enthusiasm," even for those subjects you might not excel at. And, like me, you're super cranky in the mornings. Poor daddy.

But what surprises – and delights – me are the ways in which you are NOT like me.

Watching you out on a soccer field is a revelation. It's not just your incredible skills; it's your competitive spirit. It's how PROUD you are to wear the bruises you get, because you play HARD. I know to stay WAY AWAY from you when your team loses, and especially if you made some kind of small error, because you care so much. And I pity the girl who tries to get between you and that ball. Those hips and shoulders of yours are lethal weapons!

And then there's theater. You fell into that world two years ago, when Uncle Marc and Uncle Glen produced Daddy's play. I suppose it was inevitable; it's in your genes. But while I've always stayed back, an observer, you got right in there, right away, doing all sorts of backstage jobs. You've built sets, for crying out loud; you've literally built mountains! If that's not a metaphor for who you are, I don’t know what is.

And, of course, you can read Hebrew – you can read TORAH. Wow. You have no idea how proud that makes me.

You know, I've often talked about how we joined this synagogue because of you. We came here in September of 2005 for an open house, and you were invited in to Hannah's second-grade classroom to observe while Daddy and I went on a tour and had a mimosa. (Which is when WE knew this was the place for US. But I digress.) I remember you sitting down next to a little girl named Cat; it was her first day here. You walked out of that classroom a little while later, beaming, and said, "I want to go here every time." Done.

Now, mimosas aside, I had every intention of being a drop-off mom, waving to you as you went off to Hebrew school, and maybe coming to services on High Holy Days. Somehow or another, it didn't quite work out that way. Your enthusiasm for being a Jew was too big to allow me to sit on the sidelines. And so, your journey into Judaism has also become mine. I couldn't have had a better guide.

One thing I noticed when I was collecting all those blog posts and emails was that I talk often, constantly even, about how mature you are. How thoughtful, especially in the sense of thinking deeply about things. How much you love your brother, even when you guys torture each other, and how protective you are of him. (Anyone who hasn't heard the story of the time you got on all fours over him and GROWLED at strangers approaching you in a park should stop me later and ask…) And, of course, I talk about how passionate and enthusiastic you are. The line I've written over and over? "When I grow up, I want to be just like Em."

Here's where I should break into "our" song and belt out "You are beautiful…no matter what they say…" but I'll spare us all. Still, it's true. You are beautiful, breathtaking, inside and out. And I DO want to grow up to be just like you.

The Power of the Pathetic Email

It was all my fault; I'd totally screwed up.

There are details, there are ins and outs, there are explanations and excuses. But the truth is, I'd told Em a year ago that I'd sign her up to be an independent Girl Scout--a Juliette--so that she could be a Program Aide at a one-week "twilight camp" she's been going to since she was in Kindergarten. And I never filled out the form. Another mom tried to save me a month or two ago, and the second I hit the teensiest roadblock, I dropped the ball again.

It really was my fault.

Yesterday afternoon, Em called to tell me that she was going to a friend's house so wouldn't be home when I got there; she sounded sort of off, so I asked what the matter was.

"Oh," she said, reluctantly, "it just looks like I won't be able to do Twilight Camp, since signups are tomorrow."

Immediately, tears sprang to my eyes. Shit.

I told her how sorry I was; told her I was at fault; apologized up and down. She kept saying, "It's OK. It's OK." But I could hear the tears in her voice.

"Are you crying?" I asked at one point.

"No," she said. "I just have a stuffy nose."

It was right then that my heart broke apart, because, you guys, she was totally lying. Lying to spare my feelings.

I tried calling the Girl Scout office when we got off the phone, but no dice. So when I got home--when we had a few minutes to ourselves--I pulled Em aside.

"I'm not going to be able to do this without crying," I said, already starting. "But stick with me."

First I told her that what she'd done on the phone that afternoon was a remarkably generous thing, and I couldn't be prouder of her. That started her tears.

Then I told her that it was really important to me that she understand that I took responsibility for what had happened. "I screwed up," I said, and yes, I use that kind of language with my kids, sue me. "I didn't do it on purpose, but it was my responsibility. I have a million balls in the air, and I knew one or more of them would drop, but I didn't want it to be your ball...I hate that it was your ball."

"But I don't blame you," she said.

I stopped her then, told her I needed her to understand that it was OK to be disappointed with me, because whether I'd wanted to or not, I'd disappointed her. By now we were both sobbing.

"It's OK to be upset with me," I said. "It's OK to love me and be upset with me. And now that I've said that, it's also OK for you to then forgive me."

"I forgive you. I'm not mad at you. Really, I'm not."

And we stood there in the middle of the kitchen, a scene out of a freaking prime-time melodrama, hugging and crying and crying and hugging, rocking back and forth.

But I couldn't let it go. We were fine, but damn. That kid just doesn't deserve to be the casualty of my screw up.

Which is when I decided that that was what I needed to tell the Girl Scouts. After a sleepless night, this morning I looked up the email address I needed, and essentially threw myself on the mercy of the court.

The email I sent read, in part:

Hi, L:

I'm trying to reach whoever is in charge of the Twilight Camp Summer program, the one through LocalScoutHouse, to throw myself on their mercy...

Here's my sob story (and my daughter's): Last year, her then-Juniors troop disbanded after bridging to Cadets. Because Em was going to be spending this year training for her bat mitzvah (which requires lots of lessons in addition to practice), I suggested she take a year off from scouting. She was against it for only one reason: Every single year, since her Daisies year, she has attended Twilight Camp, and ADORES it. Last year, she was a Program Aide, and it was seriously one of her favorite weeks EVER. She didn't want to stop scouting this year, despite lack of time, simply because she wanted to be a Program Aide at Twilight Camp.

I promised to sign her up as a Juliette so that she could do that, but for a number of reasons (mostly my confusion over the forms), I just never got around to it. And now her friends are talking about how Twilight Camp signups are today, and she came to me last night absolutely in tears, so disappointed. She's not mad at me, just sad.

And all because I screwed up.

Any chance you can help me? I made one simple promise, and I messed it up...Any chance I can get her signed up to be a Program Aide?...I don't mind paying the GS membership fee or any other fees necessary. I just need to undo my own mistake so my kid doesn't pay for it.

When Baroy called this morning to tell me someone from Girl Scouts had called, had sent him some paperwork, and that all we had to do was show up at signups this evening with a check and it would all be OK, I was actually shocked. It had been a Hail Mary pass, fueled by Jewish guilt. I never thought it would work.

"You're kidding," I said.

"Nope," he said. "They basically said it was the most pathetic email they'd ever gotten, and so they decided to take pity on you."

When Em called this afternoon to squeal in excitement (and, as an aside, don't you wish I worked for you? I swear that I actually do occasionally do my job...), I said, "Well, those were a lot of wasted tears."

"Not really," she said. "It was good. It was a bonding moment."

And it was. And now that it's turned out OK, it's one that I'll actually treasure. Me and my girl. Bonded. Over my screwup.

Sweet Pride

We have a little girl, C, staying with us overnight tonight; she's a friend of N's from religious school whose mom's been quite ill and just got out of the hospital today. Things have been pretty chaotic for this kid, who is not yet 8 years old. They've been pretty chaotic for her family, too. So I offered to have her over, make it a sleepover, and take her to religious school in the morning, in the hopes that it would make things easier for her parents, who I like a whole lot. They were thrilled with the idea.

Em and her friend J wanted to have a sleepover, too, and I asked them to do it here, in order to help me out with C. (J, it should be noted, is one of Em's best friends, lives down the block, and has slept here--and Em there--approximately 60 million times. It's relevant. Hang on.) And thank god they said yes, because C really needed that Big Girl attention tonight. With all the shuttling around and running to and from hospitals and fears about her mom...well, you can imagine.

Everything went incredibly smoothly until bedtime. (Everything almost always goes incredibly smoothly until bedtime. Bedtime always screws things up.) Although C normally goes to bed at 8, my kids stay up later; N's normal bedtime is 9:30, and tonight they didn't get all settled down in Em's room (N on Em's bed; Em, J, and C on the floor) until 10. N fell asleep immediately, but C just couldn't get comfortable. She needed water; she needed a different blanket. She needed to sleep on the bed with N; she needed to sleep at the other end of the bed; she needed to sleep in N's bed in the other room by herself; she needed Em to come sleep with her in there. It went on and on.

Finally, I found an arrangement that I thought would work (though it involved waking N and having him sleep alone in his room, which provoked torrents of tears from him and not a whole lot of sympathy from me in the moment, though in retrospect I feel badly for him, cast out of the Room o' Girls and Fun). But C, who now had Em's bed to herself, with Em and J on the floor to keep her company, was still restless and jabbering and asking for things. I was in N's room trying to calm him down, so I couldn't come to their rescue right away.

Suddenly, from my spot laying down with N on his bed, I hear J say, "You know, C, one of the first times I slept over here, I couldn't fall asleep either. I was really scared or sad about something, and I wanted to go home. But it was really late, like it is now, and TC didn't want to wake up my parents..."

I remember that night. It was at least five years ago, but I remember it. I listen as she goes on.

"Em was asleep, so TC sat next to me and whispered to me. She said that whenever Em was having a hard time falling asleep, she would give her a sort of 'task' to do, like making a list of her favorite colors, or deciding who she would invite to her birthday party if it was next week. And it would take her mind off of not being able to sleep, and the next thing Em knew, she'd be asleep."

I remember that, too. N is one of the World's Greatest Sleepers, so it's not something I've had to do in years and years, but I remember doing it with Em, and yes, once or twice with J. Apparently, so does J.

"So she gave me a task that night. She told me to make up the best ice-cream sundae in the world--decide what flavors of ice-cream it would have, what toppings, that kind of thing. And it totally worked."

I was grinning now. I definitely don't remember the specifics; J might be making that up, for all I know. But I like it; it's a good task.

"So now I'm going to give you a task," J continued. "I want you to decide, if you owned a carnival, what kinds of rides would it have, and what would they look like?"

C was quiet for less than a minute. "Can I do the ice-cream?" she asked finally. "I like ice-cream a lot."

"Sure," said J. I could pretty much hear her smiling.

I wish I could tell you that it worked, and that C was asleep within minutes. Not so much. But when I went into the room to try one last tactic (turned out, "I think I'll just call your dad and tell him I'm going to bring you home since you can't sleep," said in a very kind, very sympathetic voice was what did the trick; she didn't really want to go home...she just wanted to stay up and have people fuss over her...and once the jig was up, she was out like a light within five minutes) I stopped and gave J a hug. "I heard you talking to C. I can't believe you remember that," I said.

"Oh, sure," she replied. "I've used it on myself lots of times since that night."

I've had lots of cruddy parenting moments in my life, and I'll have lots more, I'm sure. But to have had even that little creative impact on a kid not my own...and to see her already passing it on to the not-quite-next generation?

I love it. I totally love it.

From the Sidelines

Em went down, hard, twice during Saturday's soccer game, the last of the regular season. The first time was during a physical run next to another girl, during which she took some combination of a shoulder and an elbow to the solar plexus, and fell, doubled over, forehead on the ground.

I waited--days, I'm sure--for the ref to blow the whistle to stop the play so someone could go see if she was alright. Nothing. And so, from the sidelines, I started yelling to the line judge. "She's hurt! Get him to blow the whistle!" I said, as I started onto the field.

Baroy grabbed my arm. "You can't go out there," he said.

"But she's hurt!" I repeated. And I shook him off, ready to go, when FINALLY I heard a whistle blow and, simultaneously, saw Em's head come up. Her coach went out onto the field, got her up, had her stretch, made her giggle. The game resumed.

When the quarter ended, Em came trotting over to me. "MOM!" she said. "You weren't going to come on the FIELD, were you?"

"You were HURT," I protested. "You were doubled over. What was I supposed to do? Wait for you to start vomiting up blood while the rest of the girls trampled over you?"

Baroy snorted. Em rolled her eyes a little. "I was OK," she said. "I was mostly worried about what YOU were gonna do!"

-------

I feel like I'm doing a lot of my parenting from the sidelines lately, waiting for the ref to blow the whistle, unable to get onto the field to help. It may have been the literal case for a few seconds on Saturday, but it's the perfect metaphor for N at school these days. There are meetings and discussions, and people talk a lot about what they are going to do, but they don't actually DO any of it.

The whistle hasn't blown yet. My kid is in a heap on the field, and the play is continuing around him. Am I going to have to wait for him to vomit up blood and get trampled by the rest of the players?

Why isn't anyone blowing the damned whistle?

-------

Em went down for the second time later in the game, after scoring a goal with her left foot. She was off balance, that not being her 'regular' kicking foot. (She'd seen the goalie out of position, knew it was her only shot, and took it.) Right after she kicked, a defender from the other team slammed into her, and she went down, skidding, burning patches of skin off of her knee, her shin, her elbow, and her belly.

You could see tears in her eyes as she got up. But the first thing she did was to check the goal, to be sure she'd put the ball where she'd intended it to go. Then she looked over toward the sidelines, toward me, and grinned, pumping her fist.

The whistle blew. Score.

Why I Had Children

My 12-year-old daughter just walked into my office, carrying a cup of coffee. That she made for me. Herself. Without me needing to lift a single finger.

Nuff said.

[Edited to add: It was decaf, and she also made one for herself. Which makes this even more awesome...because I can count on it happening again, and often, since I don't have to wait for her to want to 'do something nice' for me. Her already-burgeoning love of coffee is going to make my life so so so much better.]

Twelve Years Ago Tonight

Twelve years ago tonight, we had a barbeque, just me, Baroy, and my brother-in-law. Steve drove me nuts, watching my every move.

"Was that a contraction?" he'd ask every time any one of my facial muscles twitched.

It was my due date, but I wasn't there yet. I just knew it.

"No," I said, time and time again. Or, "Just a small Braxton-Hicks."

At some point, though, there was a sea change. I knew that if I told Steve, we'd never get him to go home, and I needed him to go home. I needed to get some sleep. It was almost time.

Instead, I told him that the Braxton-Hicks contractions were coming pretty regularly, and would he do me a favor and time them for me? By the time they were coming every ten minutes or so, I told him that, yeah, he should probably keep the next day clear, just in case. I also told him he needed to go home. Now.

In fact, it was pretty much right now--11:15 on August the 24th--as I'm typing these words tonight. Once we'd finally shoved Steve out the door with orders to get some sleep and keep his phone by his bed, Baroy and I got into bed ourselves, gearing up for a rest that wasn't to be. Within a couple of hours, it would be August 25, 1997, and I'd be up and on the couch, contractions coming every five to seven minutes, beginning the work of becoming a mother for the very first time.

But today--or, rather, 12 years ago today--it was not quite time yet. And that was good, because I wasn't ready. Almost, but not quite. And then, suddenly, without knowing it, I was.

Happy 12th birthday, Em. I love you. And I love what you made of me.

(A photo of a photo of me and Baroy at a picnic, one week earlier...
I loved my belly.)

Dinorama (Now with Updates!)

If I tried to explain to you just how much trouble this little dinorama project (Get it? A diorama about dinosaurs? Dinorama?) turned out to be--not in the making, mind you, but in the final hour--I would probably get teary and cranky and angry, and I'd end up going on for way too long and I'd miss picking N up at his OT appointment, which would be extremely ironic, considering how the reason for my teariness and crankiness and anger would be the same reasons he's at the OT appointment in the first place.

In short, let's just say there was an oral report portion of this project, to be read in front of the class today.

In short, let's just say that someone whose name begins with N apparently was unwilling to do that portion of the report.

In short, let's also say that N's parents are, um, somewhat in disagreement with how to handle this whole issue.

I've decided that I, like my son, have special needs. My special need is that I need a special needs guru to tell me what to do in situations like this. But if I can't have that, I need a blunt object with which to bludgeon my husband until he agrees with my way of thinking about how to deal with these issues. (Kidding! Kidding! I swear!) [Edited to add: I can't figure out how to strikethrough, so that will have to suffice as a way to indicate that maybe, just maybe, I was overreacting a little, and maybe, just maybe, Baroy was on board with me and I just was too edgy to listen well enough to realize it. Maybe. Just maybe.]

I am tired, though. And this day is way too far from over.

[Edited to add, again: So there was a discussion about how to handle this with N's OT yesterday afternoon, in which I came out looking like I actually knew what I was talking about, thanks to some Twitter-coaching from some very smart ladies. And so, last night we videotaped N reading his report; we told him that it was so that he can see how good he is at reading aloud, and maybe it won't seem so scary to him. But, also, it's so that if the rest of our plan fails, we can always just send a DVD to school that the teacher can play for the class...a way to make sure he fulfills the assignment without totally freaking him out.

The rest of the plan involves having him read his report to his teacher during some "alone time" during recess or lunch, and then--and he agreed to this with his OT--reading one or two sentences of his report, while sitting at his desk if necessary rather than standing up in front of the class, which everyone agrees can be scary.

I emailed this plan to his teacher last night, and she's on board; not only that, but her reply made it clear that she not only 'gets' him, she really and truly cares about him:

N was so calm about the report; there were no discussions or early negotiations like we had with the poetry in December so I didn't even think to talk to him before hand about reading his report to the class. When I did call on him he calmly said he didn't think he wanted to and that was that. It was the end of the day and I told him we would talk tomorrow. So in the morning I will have him read it to me and we'll work through OT's recommendations. If they don't work, then send in the DVD. But it was nice to not have it consume him all day long the way the poetry practices did.

I love that woman.]

Step Away

Sometimes I do a good job at this parenting thing. Sometimes I suck. And sometimes, I take a 'good' moment and turn it into a suck moment simply by not being able to keep my mouth shut.

Take this morning, for instance. Let me set the scene: The kids are on spring break this week. Last week, I had a conversation with Em's teacher over some unfinished homework due to Passover seder observance, which I promised she would finish over break. He noted that he wasn't concerned about her missing one or two homework assignments; instead, he would prefer her to take home her in-class math workbook and 'catch up' on the stuff she hasn't finished in class.

"She works slowly," he said. "And she's distractable. And that means her workbook's a bit of a mess. If you guys could take care of that over break, that would more than make up for missing homework."

And so, when she came home from school on Friday, we had a talk about the workbook. I told her that it was her responsibility to 'clean it up' by doing missing assignments and fixing things she'd done wrong. I told her that she would probably be happier if she would do a little bit every day, so that it wouldn't end up eating up a whole day of her break near the end. But, I stressed, it was up to her. She's a sixth grader, and she's going to middle school next year, and she needs to be responsible for her own work. If she didn't do what she needed to do, she'd suffer the consequences.

She nodded gravely...then went off to one sleepover after another after another.

So, this morning, with her latest sleepover friend by her side, I asked her if she'd even cracked open the book yet. "No," she answered cheerily, "but I'm definitely going to do some of it today."

Don't say anything, I warned myself. She needs to learn responsibility on her own.

I couldn't do it.

"I just want to make something clear," I said. "I mentioned that if you didn't do your work in time you'd suffer the consequences. I should probably tell you what those are. If, by the end of break, you have not done what you needed to do, you will be full-out grounded for a whole week. Understand?"

She nodded. "I said I'm going to do some of it today," she said. "And I will. It'll get done in time."

Still, I couldn't leave well enough alone. When she called me an hour ago to tell me about something completely unrelated, I asked her if she'd done any math. "Not yet," she said, and I could tell she was gritting her teeth.

Again, my inner voice warned, Shut up. There are six days left in her break. Who cares if she leaves it for a couple more days? And besides, she can't learn if you don't let her succeed or fail on her own.

And again, my inner idiot refused to listen to my inner voice. "Well, if you don't find the time to pick up that book for at least ten or fifteen minutes today, no more sleepovers this week. I mean it."

Sigh. Even I was annoyed with me after that one. Big time parenting fail.

When will I learn? When will I stop expecting my kid to see the OBVIOUS wisdom of my words and fall IMMEDIATELY into line and do EVERYTHING exactly the way I would want her to do it? Am I the only one who finds it this hard to lay down the law...and then step away from it?

And on that disgusted note, some completely unrelated photos of my Jewish children on an Easter egg hunt. (N is the boy in the red shorts; Em's the blonde in the tie-dye.)

Transgressions

Let's just say that there was a transgression on the part of my 11-year-old daughter. Let's say it was a minor transgression, as transgressions go, but that there were some untruths told in the performance of said transgression. And if there's one thing I do NOT take well, it is being lied to.

[Also, for the record, let's just say that I am well aware that this was neither the first nor the last time such a thing will occur. I also imagine it's not the last time I'll hear myself saying, "But, no. But, seriously. WHAT were you THINKING?" Because, what with puberty being more than just a theoretical "one day" around here, the thought processes of my darling daughter are more and more frequently making little logical sense. How any of this is evolutionarily advantageous, I'll never know. But I digress.]

Anyway, let's just say there were phone calls between myself and Baroy, and a punishment handed down while I was still in the office, hours before I was to get home. And let's just say that Em then spent those hours in her room, because she was afraid that showing her face to her father would only make things worse. I never said she wasn't a SMART child.

She's also a very--and often unintentionally--funny child. During that time in her room, Em wrote a note to the two of us. An apology note. An apology note with lines like this ("I am upset that I couldn't go to girl scouts and that I can't have a sleepover with anyone, but I guess I just have to take it like a man") and like this ("I just want to say sorry one more time and I love you. I know that might sound like I'm trying to suck up to you, but I'm not").

Damn it's hard to come down like a ton of bricks on child who makes you laugh that hard.

Her punishment, as her note made somewhat clear, involved being grounded. She lost a field trip with her Girl Scout troop to an animal shelter, and she lost an already-planned sleepover with a friend. And she also lost any other social events for the weekend. Which seems like it would be a clear-cut sort of thing, right? And it is.

Except when it came to last night at temple. Because last night was a special shabbat service--a dinner held annually in memory of one of the key members of the congregation in days not-so-long gone by. The kids had been practicing for weeks to help lead the service; Em is one of the oldest and most vocal children in the religious school--one of the leaders in a school which has a TOTAL of fewer than 25 kids--and her not being there would have made the evening less successful.

All of which inclined me to bring her. After all, when you ground a kid, you don't keep them home from school, right?

But there was the other side...the fact that there is nothing so exciting and fun and looked-forward-to by Em as a social event at the synagogue. How exactly do you say "You're grounded young lady...except for tomorrow night, when you'll get to go hang out with all your friends for four hours in the evening and laugh and play and run around"?

There are worse things, I suppose, than having a synagogue be a place your kids look forward to going, a place they consider to be a treat. And so, after talking it over with Baroy, I took her. I told her that she needed to take time during the silent amidah to look inside herself and think about the choices she had made. And then I told her that while we were going to stay the whole time--I could have taken her home after services and/or after dinner, but *I* didn't lie to me, so I don't think *I* should have to be punished by not being able to have an evning *I* was also looking forward to a great deal--she wasn't allowed to have any fun.

It only took her a milisecond to realize I was joking...and then to make sure, every time she passed me all evening, to slow down, push out her lower lip, and say, "I'm having a very bad time, Mommy. OK?"

Frankly, what with all the planned events that were cancelled, with having to turn down every friends who's called since to ask whether she could come out and play, and with the what-must-have-seemed-interminable lecturing she got from both Baroy and myself that first night, the point is already made. Whether she gets it--whether her increasingly hormone-soaked brain is capable of getting it--remains to be seen.

Parenting. Feh.

Duck

"We worked him pretty hard today," his therapist told me when I went to pick him up from his second social-skills group session.

Working hard, for N, meant that they had played "Duck, Duck, Goose," and the prospect of being in a circle of peers, of having them touch his head--and, worse, of not knowing if they would say 'duck' or 'goose' and thus not being able to prepare--was apparently more than he could handle.

He had, the therapist said, initially refused to play at all, until she got him to agree to be the 'example' of how the game is played. That way, he knew she was going to pick him. Negotiations almost broke down, she said, when he wanted to leave the circle after he'd done his part as the example. No, she told him, you need to be part of the group. Then he said he didn't want anyone touching his head. No, she told him, that's part of being in the group. But how about if I promise nobody will pick you? That way, you know that when they touch your head, they're only going to say 'duck' and not 'goose' and you don't have to worry.

She told me all this very seriously, with pride at the way he'd been able to get past at least some of his fears to be at least a nominal part of the group. But here's where I reveal myself to be a horrible person. Because, while she was telling me all this? I have to admit that I maybe rolled my eyes a little. Only internally, I swear. But they definitely rolled. They did that because sometimes I am not the world's best special-needs parent. Maybe even most times. And, at those times, having to consider with due gravity a game of "Duck, Duck, Goose," and to think of it as hard, serious work is more than I am capable of.

The fact that he threw three huge tantrums in a row beginning almost immediately upon arriving home...the fact that I ended up putting him into bed an hour early while he shrieked at the top of his lungs, begging me to let him watch TV instead...the fact that he needed to lie on top of me for 15 minutes before he could catch his breath...Well, that should have clued me in that 'work' means different things to different people.

I'm ashamed to say that, caught up in the fever-pitched hysteria that was my son that night, I couldn't see that particular forest for the tantrumming trees.

*******
"N's having a difficult time today," the director of the religious school told me last night, when I went to pick him and Em up at the end of the day. "He's been needing me to hold him a lot; he's been coming over and putting his head on my knee, and asking me to rub his forehead and his hair. I totally don't mind, but I thought you should know."

I nodded. "It's not that surprising," I confided to her, without even hesitating. "He's started this new OT program, and they told me yesterday that they worked him pretty hard. I think he'll probably just need a little 'extra' for a day or two after his sessions, until he starts to get acclimated."

I'm ashamed to say that it was only then, as the words came out of my mouth, that I realized what I'd missed the night before. Because I am an idiot.

*******
On an oddly related note: Earlier today, Kristen sent out a Twitter link to a post from a teenager who has Asperger's Syndrome. It describes, I imagine, exactly what N was going through on Monday. Except he can't yet explain what that feels like to me, and so I don't always get just how hard stuff like that can be, and just how hard he's working--yes, working--to get past it.

If I hadn't finally gotten it yesterday, this would have been the lightbulb moment for me.

But I get it. I get it now.

Mother of the Year...For Reals

What you think to yourself when your son announces how urgently he has to pee, despite the fact that you reminded him to go 37 times before getting into the car: Fraggamaggafriggamurgh. And also, would it be really wrong to strangle him just for a few seconds? Yeah, I guess it would.

What you say out loud when your son announced how urgently he has to pee, despite the fact that you reminded him to go 37 times before getting into the car: I reminded you to go 37 times before getting into the car. [Big sigh.] Let me know when you can't hold it any more.

What you do when he tells you, four seconds later, that he can't hold it any more: Pull over to the side of the rush-hour-trafficky freeway, sigh very deeply several times in a row, roll down your window, take the top off your travel coffee mug, pour out the leftover coffee, and silently hand the mug to your son.

What your son does when you do this: Stare at you blankly.

What your daughter does when you do this: Stare at you in absolute horror.

What you do when they stare at you: Tell your son in a very grim voice to get it over with already. Tell your daughter that it's one of the benefits of being a boy, and that if she needs to go, she's shit out of luck. And yes, you use those very words.

What you do when your son finishes peeing in your travel coffee mug: Put the cap back on the top, put the mug in the cup holder, rejoin the barely moving traffic.

What you hear from the seat behind you: Your son, sighing deeply, and saying, "Oh, that is SO much better." Your daughter, in a high squeaky voice, repeating over and over again, "Ew. Ew. Ew."

What you do when you finally pull into the driveway of your home: Turn around to both children and say, "Throughout the rest of your lives, whenever you are pissed at me and thinking that I don't love you, that I don't care about you, that I am selfish or mean or whatever...I want you to think back to this very moment, the moment I ALLOWED YOU TO PEE IN MY COFFEE MUG, and take it all back."

What they do in response: Giggle. And then nod. And then get out of the car as fast as they possibly can, running into the house screaming, "Dad, guess what Mom did...!"

What you do with the travel coffee mug: Consider burning it. Then, take it into the house, pour its contents into the toilet, turn on the hot water in the kitchen sink, pour a capful of bleach into the mug, and leave it there with the near-boiling water running into it for 15 minutes. The next three times you run a load through the dishwasher, the mug will be in there. And from then on, every time you make your morning coffee, think about how you deserve a reward. No. A fucking MEDAL, you deserve.

Maybe It's Me

That's the treehouse Baroy built for N (and Em), which he had mostly completed, but totally finished last night after we got back from New York. I would never have expected N to be willing to climb up there--it's HIGH--but he did, and he loved it. That's him reading to Baroy. If that isn't the sweetest thing ever, I don't know what is.

There's been this niggling feeling at the back of my brain for a while now...a feeling that maybe the only real 'problem' that N has is me.

No, this is not me looking for sympathy and cries of, "Oh, no! You're a wonderful mother." That's not what I mean. I know I'm a wonderful mother--as wonderful as I, an inherently flawed human being, am capable of being. Which half the time means I truly suck at this. But no more than the next person.

What I mean is that I wonder if I just kept my mouth completely shut--didn't talk to his teachers at the beginning of the school year, didn't ask for assessments, didn't constantly 'explain' his quirks to other people the minute they appear (or even before they do), didn't even spend a ridiculous amount of bandwidth talking about this issue and that issue right here on this blog--how many people would notice anything being truly amiss. If I didn't tell people there was something wrong, give them something to look for...would they even notice?

I started thinking about this a lot more near the end of the school year, after having a conversation with the mother of a boy who N had really become friendly with--so friendly that he was actually playing at recess, rather than sitting on the bench all by himself every single day. I said something to her about much I appreciated what Joey was doing for N, and she said, "And vice versa, of course." And I just automatically poo-poo'ed her, saying something along the lines of, "Well, yes, but with N's issues, it's been hard for him to..." and trailed off as I noticed her looking at me like I was speaking another language. Because, of course, I was talking about her son as if he were some kind of occupational therapist who had identified N's social deficits and was instituting a carefully considered plan to integrate him into classroom activities...when all he really is is a kid who likes to play Indiana Jones with N after lunch. Period. He doesn't know N has issues. As far as he's concerned, N doesn't HAVE any issues. (Well, actually, that's not entirely true. Their teacher told me he asked once or twice about why N always needs her to tell him what he's doing is OK, and why N won't read out loud and things like that. But that only muddies my point, so let's pretend that's not the case, OK?)

There have been a couple of other incidents as well. Friends who have treated him differently after I talked to them about my concerns, when otherwise they might have never considered him as 'different' or needing more than they're capable of giving. That sort of thing. But it all really became worrisome to me during this recent visit to New York.

We had a wonderful time, I need to say right here, because both my mother and sister read this, and I don't want either of them thinking we didn't. Or that I was unhappy about way things turned out during our week there. Everything was perfect. So perfect that it made me think.

See, the overriding comment about N last week was this: "He's so much better than I thought he'd be." And, of course, the only reason anyone would think he'd be "not better" is because of what I say and what I imply and how much I talk about this and that and the other thing. But maybe that's not true. Maybe I need to let everyone figure out who N is and what's going on with him on their own, in their own way. Maybe I need to shut up and not speak until spoken to.

Maybe I need to let N learn how to just be N, without me interpreting who he is for the world around him.

Yeah. Like that's ever going to happen.

-------
A complete aside: As I type this, Baroy took N to the golf course for his first lesson of the summer session. We weren't sure if he would get the same coach he had last session, an older African-American man named Al who is just wonderful for N, and who takes absolutely NO CRAP from any of the 7- to 14-year-olds in this class. We were hoping for him, because N learned so much from him last session and because he takes N very seriously as a golfer.

Anyway, I just got a series of three text messages from Baroy.

The first: "N got Al again. Al asked me if N had grown."

The second: "Actually, what he said was, 'He don't look so short anymore.'"

The third: "Gotta love Al."

I totally love Al. Al rocks. And, better yet, Al just made me smile. I needed that smile.

Everyone Loses

Speaking of supposed-tos...Tonight Em and I are supposed to go see the opening night of Baroy's show. N was supposed to go sleep over at his best friend's house; he hasn't seen WeeyumWise in two months, and they are pining for one another.

Last night, N felt warm to me. Took his temp; right around 100. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.

There are circumstances under which I might have pretended that never happened. After all, he woke up this morning with a temperature so low he might actually be dead. He's fine. I know he's fine.

But here's the thing: On Monday, we got a call from the Urgent Care where we'd taken Em on Saturday, because she'd been running a low-grade fever for three days and was complaining of a sore throat. And although the doctor there had sworn to me that Em did NOT have strep throat--that he was so sure of it he wasn't even going to do a rapid strep test, but would just take a culture 'to be safe'--guess what she had?

Which does not mean that N has strep. In fact, he's more likely to have whatever's been dogging me since Wednesday. I, too, had a low-grade fever and a slightly sore throat, so I hoofed it over to Urgent Care immediately, only to find out that I do NOT have strep. In fact, the doctor--whom I will never see again because I despised him and he pissed with off with every word he uttered--laughed at me and pointed out that in order to have strep you actually have to have a red throat, and mine was not even a little red.

But still. Not only is it POSSIBLE that he has strep, but Weeyum's mom has always been one to insist on canceling plans when either boy is even slightly ill. So I just couldn't drop my well-right-now-but-feverish-within-the-last-24-hours kid at her house.

Assuming he's fever-free, however, I will take him with me to the theater. Because I'm not going to miss this on the basis of a one-time so-low-it-would-be-OK-to-send-him-to-school fever. Even if I end up spending most of the play out in the lobby; I'll at least be able to be there for Baroy.

But damn. We've all been looking forward to this for months; Baroy to having his wife and daughter in the audience on opening night, Em and I to being there, N to seeing Weeyum. Plus, I just know--in that 'best laid plans' way--that N will end up spiking a fever at around 3:00 this afternoon, and that will be that; I'll have to stay home, and I'll resent the hell out of it.

I know there are worse things that can happen to a person, but it pisses me off irrationally. All I wanted was one fucking night to be there for my husband, one night to not have to be in the back of the room or on the outside looking in. I planned it all out, I juggled all the balls, I made it all work. But no.

I'm just pissed, is what I'm saying. Just totally pissed. At no one.

N in Love

Friday it hit 110 here--HERE, where we live, where we have only one air conditioner in our "living space," and that's in our living room. Baroy was at rehearsal. Em was sick--feverish, sore throated, lethargic, teary--so she, N, and I were basically confined to the living room for over 12 straight hours.

It sucked. I can't even begin to say how much it sucked.

So when Baroy suggested, this morning, that we pack up the kids and take them down to the theater where the play is being held, where they were finishing up the set and doing a "dry tech" (whatever the hell that means...something about figuring out the lights and sound cues without the actors there) and could use some extra hands, I jumped at the idea. (Well, first I took Em to the Suprise!-We-No-Longer-Take-Your-Insurance-So-That'll-Be-$50-
Upfront-And-We'll-Bill-You-For-The-Rest Urgent Care to make sure she doesn't have strep. Which she most likely doesn't. So yay on that. And THEN I jumped at the idea.) Because, after all, the theater is VERY VERY air conditioned, and today promised to be a carbon copy of Friday. Oh, and also I wanted to be supportive of this first-ever production of my husband's play. (But, shhh. Mostly it was the AC. Did I mention 110 degrees?)

It was my first time meeting the assistant director--a very nice, pretty woman who has 3.5-year-old twins. I liked her immediately. So did N. In fact, he liked her so much that he proposed to her. It went, she told me when I asked if the news was indeed true, something like this:

N: Do you have a husband?
Woman: No. But I have a wife.
N: But no husband?
W: Nope. Just a wife.
N: So when I grow up, I will be your husband. Do you have children?
W: Yup. Two of them.
N: So when I grow up, I will be your husband, and we'll have more children. Maybe like eight children.
W: Where will we live?
N: Duh. At my mom's house, of course!

Taking this as an acceptance of his proposal, N came running out to tell me.

"Mommy! I know what Brown Shirt's name is now!" (Remember, he has always had problems with names. The fact that he was able to call her by her name within just a few hours of meeting her is significant; usually, it takes days, if not months or years.) "It's W! And she has a boy and a girl. And guess what! When I get big, I'm going to marry her and we're going to have 10 or 11 kids all together!"

When Glen (our friend and the play's director) overheard all of this, he laughed and said to W, "Don't you think you're a little old for him?"

"HEY!" W replied, putting her hands on her hips. But before she could say anything more, a very serious N came to her rescue: "She's not old! She's pretty! Very pretty." (After a pause he added, looking over at me somewhat anxiously, "You're not old either, Mommy. And you're pretty. But not very pretty." Uh, thanks, son. I think.)

Now, there may be those of you who believe that a 7-year-old boy's crush on a 30-something-year-old lesbian is a bit of a reach, perhaps even a long shot. But I think the smart money's on N. After all, none of you saw the look in her eye when he gave her a kiss on the cheek as we left this evening. None of you saw her clutch her heart as he walked away. But I did. And when I looked back and said, "We may need to add an extra bathroom before you move in," all she could do was nod and say, "Or maybe two. Just in case, what with the 10 or 11 kids and all."

On My Own

Baroy has a play--a play he wrote--opening in a week-and-a-half down in Anaheim. (There is an entire post that could go here about how I was about to post a link to the show, and then realized that somehow, while posting links to my Time article doesn't set off my Stalker Alert System, posting information that not only gives Baroy's name, but the times and dates of where he will be really and truly does. Which actually makes sense, since Stalker Girl knows my name...it's not like I'm giving her extra information if she were somehow to find this place. But to give not just Baroy's name, but his whereabouts...I know it's been years since she's been any sort of 'real' threat, and yet I'm just not well enough for that. Still, if you live anywhere near Anaheim and would like the info, just drop me an email at ihavethings at gmail dot com, and I'll be MORE than happy to pimp his show to you!)

Anyway. As I was saying, he has this show opening. And it is a wonderful thing, because he is in all his glory right now. He's feeling useful and worthy, and those are feelings his life doesn't often engender in him.

But it means that he's away from home a lot. For the past month, they've been rehearsing three or four times a week, and he wants to be there at every single rehearsal. He's been helping the theater's owners (friends of ours) build the set, so he goes down during the daytime sometimes, too. And this week and next, they're rehearsing five or six nights out of seven...and they start early and end late.

Keep in mind that this is a man who, even when he's working, works from home. It's WEIRD not having him here. All of our schedules and all of our routines are based on the idea that he's the go-to guy, that I never have to worry that I have to be home at a certain time, because he's there to pick up my slack if needed.

So I was sort of dreading these weeks, figuring that I was going to be completely and totally overwhelmed by having to actually be solely responsible for my children. (Shudder. The horror!)

Instead, I've been completely and totally overwhelmed by coming to realize how much of a slacker I've become these past couple of years, just by knowing that Baroy has my back.

In other words, this is a piece of cake. When I *know* that I'm the one who has to pick up the kids, cook dinner, clean up afterwards, supervise all activities and homework, tidy up around the house, and get both of them to bed at night, I do it. I do it easily. Not only have I been doing it, I've been going above and beyond, deep cleaning here and there as I go, taking time out to play with N when I normally would kvetch about how I have work to do, spending time cuddling and chatting with Em. And I've even been able to find ample 'me' time, though rather than long walks during the afterschool hours, I've instead relocated to the backyard garden where I can still be available when needed. That doesn't really bother me at all. I love gardening. (Em commented to me last night, when I came inside from weeding, that whenever I work in my garden I come back in a much better mood. She's right. Gardening is definitely one of my most potent antidepressants.)

And yet, when Baroy is home and he asks me to help him out with one of what I perceive to be HIS tasks (he cleans up after dinner, he is in charge of certain activities, he tidies up around the house, he gets one of the kids to bed while I do the other), well...I'm just surprised I've never injured an ocular muscle, what with all the eye-rolling I do in response. How can I be expected to do EVERYthing around here! I'm only one person! It's not faaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrr!

Whoops.

I know this would be no fun to do over the long term. I'm not Superwoman, and Doing It All would get really old, really quickly. I love having Baroy here to help out. But I'm truly surprised by how a circumstance that I thought would show up all my parenting weaknesses has instead showed up my resilience. I can do this. I really can.

Just don't tell Baroy. Because I'm planning on getting him to pay me back for my HUGE SACRIFICE for months to come, once the play closes.

It's Almost That Time

Hot on the heels of my discussion with Em about how it's OK not to be 'into' boys right now, came--today--a declaration of affection from one of the boys in her grade. She waited until we got home, looked at me with eyes brimming with tears, and told me she needed to talk to me. I'm not sure either of us will ever really understand why it was that she cried through this discussion, but she did. She didn't think she'd be in trouble; she didn't think I was going to tell her she's too young to date. (She is...but she wasn't asking me if it was OK to go out on a date, so that wasn't the issue.) I think it was mostly a mixture of shock and happiness and discomfort and fear. They weren't sad tears; they were "I'm so uncomfortable and unsure of myself that I just don't know what to do with my emotions" tears.

We had a long talk about how she can or should handle this, and I kept stressing to her how vulnerable this boy had made himself by expressing his feelings to her without being sure of her feelings. We talked about the importance of honesty and of thinking about the other person's feelings and not being unnecessarily mean, even if you're doing something that may be hurtful. We talked about how it's OK to have mixed feelings...or even to change your mind about something you said you felt just a week ago. We giggled a bit, too, as I shared some of my own experiences, though even as we giggled more tears slipped down her cheeks.

I have to say, though: In all the scenarios I expected when I thought about this day--the day she officially enters the world of boys, even if it turns out to be only long enough to say, "I'm not ready for this yet"--I never visualized tears. Having seen them, they make sense. I understand them. But I wasn't ready for them.

Still, none of this is what I meant when I titled this post. Yes, it may be almost that boy-girl-drama time, and yes, it may be very much that puberty time. But what I meant was that it's almost that time where I really can't blog about these things any more...or if I do, I need to do it in the most general way possible. What I really wanted to do here was to talk about this boy, and why I think it's so wonderful that he's the one to have approached her. What I really wanted to do here was to tell you about what he said to her, because it's all so heart-rendingly sweet. What I really wanted to do here was tell you what she said to me, and show you inside her very large, very good, very young heart so that you could love her the way I do.

But I don't have that right. At some point, her story will become hers to tell, and not mine. Except, of course, I have a strong feeling that "will become" actually has become, at least regarding this topic on this day. It is that time. I feel like I still have the right to ask you all what kind of curfew to set for her first date (not for a few years yet!) and kvell to you about how beautiful she looks when she goes off to prom (not for even more years!). And when she says something especially cute or especially insightful that doesn't require privacy-breaking background, I'll still share it. I can talk about how I feel about all of this...but not about how she feels, or what she's doing in her own private world.

My daughter has her own private world. Holy shit.

I don't know what it was about this, about today, that made me realize I couldn't write the post I was already composing in my head as she left the room after our talk. I think maybe it was the tears. I think the tears told me just how serious this all is to her, and how my putting it all out there on the internet would break the trust she's putting in me by letting me in and taking me on this journey with her, step by step.

All of which sounds ridiculously solemn, considering I'm talking about a couple of 10-or-maybe-11-year-olds. Trust me: It's not that I think the romantic intrigues of preteens is OhSoSerious. But Em does. It's OhSoSerious to her. It's headline news to her. And for me to make light of it here would be a disservice.

And so I'm sharing with you my part of this story--the part where she came to me, where we talked, where she cried, and what that means to me as a parent, how I need to handle it, how unsure I am that I'm handling it right.

The rest is up to her. I think she's ready for it.

Teach Your Children Well

I was pulling weeds, and Em was sitting on the garden wall, watching, when she asked, "Mom, do you remember if you liked boys when you were my age?"

I stopped and thought about it. "I don't think so," I said. "I know I started liking boys by sixth grade, which is next year for you, but I was older than you...I was 12 within the first few months of sixth grade, and you will only have just turned 11 when you start sixth."

She digested, then said, "Sometimes my friends ask me which boy I like, but I really don't like any of them."

"That's FINE," I replied.

"Oh, I know," she said. "But C says I'm weird because I don't have a crush on anyone."

I start to do my usual "Well, C is talking out of her ass" speech (which doesn't actually include the word ass, but you get my drift), when she stops me. "She's just kidding, Mom."

"I know. But I'll tell you something, Em. Sometimes, when someone tells you something over and over, even if they're just kidding, you start to believe it. And I just want you to follow your own heart; I don't want you believing that there's anything wrong with you at all, even if your friends are telling you there is."

"Oh, trust me Mom," she said, waving dismissively. "I won't. I've been taught better than to ever believe anything like that."

Yes, I'm still grinning from that one this morning.

Mother of the Year

It's pouring today, here in It-Never-Rains-in-Southern-California-land. (Insert rant here about how it was over 100 degrees five days ago, and is today not going to get out of the mid 60s. Insert sarcastic comment here about how I'm coming down with a cold and feel like crap and gee, I wonder where THAT came from?)

This morning, Em's grade left for a much-anticipated field trip to see a Civil War re-enactment. And, much more importantly, to buy pies, if the information that Emily gave me about the trip is an indication. "We'll be leaving at 7:30 and we'll be back around 4. They supposedly have great pies there. They're $15 a pie. I think he said they have cherry, and apple, and blueberry, and Boston creme, and..."

As she left this morning, I wondered idly, "Gee. Rain and threatened thundershowers, and 60-some fifth-graders in an open field. Is that a good idea? And shouldn't she be wearing something more than just a hooded sweatshirt?" And then I waved as she and Baroy got into the car to drive to school, went to make a cup of tea, and promptly forgot all about the fact that I was sending my child off to be electrocuted. (In my defense...I did send her with an umbrella. It's broken, and she's likely to spear some poor kid in the eye with one of the errant spikes, but it's an umbrella.)

It wasn't until about 15 minutes ago, when one of her friends' moms emailed me to say, "So WHERE did they go again?" that I realized that not only did I send my underdressed, poorly equipped kid off to be electrocuted in a field somewhere...I don't even know WHERE that field is.

I sat there, still fairly unconcerned, for about five minutes. And then the niggling started. I could have just called the school and asked for the name of the place, but that would be admitting to people who recognize my voice (yes, I call and/or am in the faces of people in the school often enough that all I have to do is say hi and they say, "Oh, hi TC! What can we do for you TODAY?") that I am exactly the kind of mother I apparently am. So that wasn't happening.

Thank god for Google, is all I can say. "Civil War reenactment California" got me a list of places that have these things. (Who knew California had any kind of stake at all in the Civil War?) But then I started thinking...WAS it a Civil War reenactment? Or was it a Revolutionary War reenactment? And will that make a difference in the chances of my child getting struck by lightning?

In any case, I did eventually figure out which place it was, or at least I think I did. (Something in the deep recesses of my brain went 'ping' when I was looking at the list, and I recalled Em saying something about 'wonder whether it's raining in Oak Glen, too?") And I'd feel good about that, if it weren't for the weather alert on the home page.

But, hey. I can't be the WORST mother ever. Because the other parent? Had to wait to get the possibly-incorrect information from me. So, at worst, I'm the SECOND worst mother ever.

Go me.

Glue

I realized this morning that I've reached one of those shifting points with Em...one of those changes in your relationship you don't even think about until after the shift has happened.

We went to Michael's yesterday to pick up a bunch of different needed craft supplies: some clay for a model she has to make for her state report, some colonial figurines for a model she has to make for her group colonial report, and some hot-glue sticks to replace the ones she and her friends used up when I loaned them my glue gun to put together said model.

We grabbed the clay, we grabbed the figurines, and then I picked up a bag of glue sticks. Talking to myself, I said, "I'm pretty sure these are the ones. I think our glue gun takes the larger ones. Mumblemumblemumble."

"Mom?" Em interrupted my mumbling. "Actually, I think it takes these smaller ones." And she picked up another bag of sticks.

"Really?" I was about to dismiss her out of hand--it's my glue gun after all--but then something stopped me. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Well, worst that can happen is I'll have to return them," I said. And bought the smaller glue sticks. Which totally fit the glue gun.

Could there be anything duller than that exchange? I wouldn't have thought so, until I put the glue sticks away this morning, and heard it in my mind again, and suddenly realized that even six months earlier, I would have simply assumed I was right and she was wrong, and gone with my own instincts. And had to return to the store today to exchange the sticks for the right ones.

I am absolutely not saying that, at the age of 10, she's smarter than me. That's not the shift; not yet, at least. But she is definitely at a point now where, when she tells me something or gives her opinion, I take it seriously. Because it's no longer a given that I know better simply by virtue of being The Mom or The Adult. She's smart, and she's perceptive, and she hasn't had two children suck the very marrow out of her brain. (Yes, I know brains don't have marrow. Haven't you people ever heard of a metaphor before? Sheesh.)

They're just glue sticks. But they somehow taught me a lesson.