Parenting Your Mini-Me

Having children can remind you of the "you" you used to be. This is not always a pleasant experience. While you might have the inside line to understanding you child, you are reminded daily what a huge pain you must have been as a kid.

Oh, my poor teachers. However did they put up with me?!

The Rationalist and The Intuitive both have characteristics from DH and me. The Rationalist truly is a mini-me of his father, so much so that it is hilarious to hear them argue with each other. It's like watching clones battle with each other. However, even though The Rationalist is a mini-me of his father, he has some of my traits also...traits which I share with his father. The poor child got a double-dose of certain personality traits from us, and not only just the good ones either.

The Intuitive isn't exactly my mini-me, but he thinks a lot like I do/did. I knew that I was going to have trouble with this one when at 4 years old I overheard him telling his older brother, who is a conscientious rule-follower, that they wouldn't get in trouble for what they were doing as long as I didn't know about it.

At 4 he had already gained the insight that it wasn't the breaking of the rule that was bad, it was the getting caught part that was trouble.

I still remember that and am keeping it on file for when he hits the teen years.

He got that from me. I was a skilled liar when I was young. I never lied to get things, or to make up outlandish stories about myself. I only ever lied to stay out of trouble.

Who broke the lamp? Oh, the dog was running behind the couch and got caught in the cord and pulled it off the table.

Who ate the strawberries that were going to be used for dessert? Gee. It must have been my little brother.

Why did you get a zero for your homework? I don't know. I turned it in on time.

Who called Japan? Japan, who's Japan? I don't know anyone named Japan!

The Intuitive's propensity for gaming the system with his intuitive grasp of how people work was simply me reaping what I had sown, I suppose.

Before the Christmas Break, both boys had to finish mandatory science projects which were very involved. They had to do multiple trials of their experiment, graph their results, write up their hypotheses, results and conclusions and assemble everything on a large tri-fold poster board. It was a lot of work for them and for me too because I had to supervise the process, showing them how to use the graphing website, how to use Word to type out their reports, how to adjust the font to fit on the paper, how to format the text....etc., etc.

I was very thankful when everything was done and turned in.

During that whole process, when I was talking to The Intuitive about his project and what he had left to work on he said to me,"I don't have to get a good grade....I only have to pass."

A Maternal Brain Aneurysm was only narrowly averted. After catching my breath, I asked, "What do you mean you only have to pass?"

"Well...I don't care if I get an A or not. As long as I pass, I'm OK."

I had to sit down for a moment. Who was this child who was happy with just passing?

Suddenly, I remembered my third grade year. Many C's and D's on my report card....because I didn't turn in a single stitch of homework...because I didn't want to. I remembered my junior year in high school when I got a D in Health class, one of the easiest classes in existence. Even though I had A's on all of the tests and quizzes, I had decided that I didn't feel like keeping a Health Journal through the semester. Too much work. Too annoying. Not big on my list of things to do.

I consciously chose not to do it and took the hit to my grade....which was quite substantial.....but I didn't care. I didn't need an A in Health class. I only needed to pass it.

Yikes!

The more I thought about it, the more I saw myself in The Intuitive's tendency to procrastinate, to become distracted, to get lost in reading, to amuse himself in his room for hours and his tendency to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself.

Many of those traits I have actively suppressed in myself, either out conscious choice, or because of being forced to by the demands of life. The Intuitive is helping me remember myself.

The Intuitive is very smart, but he also thinks differently and more intuitively and he can't always explain how he knows things, or understand what teachers want from him when they word things ambiguously. I used to think it was because he was a lefty and right-brained.

Now, I remember similar moments from my childhood. I remember infuriating my kindergarten teacher, a wrinkled woman as old as Methuselah who would grab children by the ear and pull them towards their mats when they were naughty. We were pretending to deliver Valentines under doorways while we sang some sort of Valentine's Day song. Each child would spot a door in the room and slip the valentine under it and come back to their place on the carpet before the song ended. WHen it was my turn, I went over to a table and chairs and stuck my card under there.

My teacher berated me, asking me what I was doing, why was I shoving the card under the table? I was confused. I thought we were pretending. I was pretending that there was a tiny house under the table and a mouse who lived inside it. I was putting the valentine under the mouse's door.

It made perfect sense to me. My teacher, on the other hand, thought I was incredibly stupid. I don't remember if she grabbed me by the ear, or not.

I remembered fourth grade when I was marked wrong on a comprehension test of a story that we read. The question I missed was--How do we know that the princess and prince lived happily every after? I answered that we knew they lived happily ever after because the story told us that they lived happily ever after.

My teacher probably thought I was quite dim when she marked the answer wrong.

As dumb as my answer seemed, I had actually thought it through very well. In my mind there was no way to know if people were going to live happily ever after simply because they had solved whatever current problem they were facing. There were always more problems right around the corner that they probably hadn't even thought of yet. I had no basis to say that they would live happily ever after. The only way I could say that they would live happily every after was because the narrator said that they would in the story. Anything else was pure speculation in my 10 year-old mind.

Even at 10, I was a slave to what the text actually said, rather than what it didn't. Reading my thoughts into the text seemed like a strange, unnatural thing to do.

As I parent my children I am often left wondering which methods would be most effective at reaching them. Now, realizing that some of the traits that pop up in The Intuitive are actually my traits, I am sympathetic, and also wondering what would have worked for me at that age.

I had very little active parenting when I was a child, so I muddled through on my own, mostly, and just assumed that when teachers and school didn't make sense, that it was because I was weird and there wasn't much I could do about it.

Would I have wanted a parent like me, actively pushing me to do my best? Should I let The Intuitive just pass every now and then in order to learn that it's up to him to set goals and priorities and to motivate himself?

I'm not sure.

Conversations I Can't Win

After whiny, complaining, outraged speeches directed at yours truly from The Rationalist concerning the unfairness of letting The Intuitive play Wii first.....I sent him to his room.

Me: "I told you that was enough. If you don't quit fussing about it you'll have to go to your room and complain about it there."

The Rationalist: "But I asked before we even went to church this morning. I-"

Me: "That's it!...Go to your room!"

After a few minutes in his room spent caterwauling, complaining and pouring out his grievances to himself and God, I guess...he came out.

The Rationalist, finally calm and composed: "Can I come out of my room, now?"

Me: "Only if you're done complaining, fussing and yelling about how life is so awful and unfair to you."

The Rationalist, in a deadpan voice with a sigh as he plopped himself down on the couch: "OK. But, you know...life is actually unfair sometimes."

Changing Insults

School age children can be childish, cruel, and thoughtless. It's a universal trait. So, it came as no surprise to me when The Rationalist related some of the "jokes" his friends at school were using. Typical 4th grade boy humor. Bathroom humor. Making fun of each other humor. Usually it's distasteful to me, but I don't really make a big deal about it. Kids will be kids.

Yesterday, as we were talking about school, he said that one of his friends was asking people if they were happy. If they said "Yes," his friend would laugh and say,"Haha! You must be gay! Happy means gay!" Another friend would tell someone to watch his upraised index finger, which he would slowly move from near his face to his crotch and then say the person was gay because they were looking there.

I asked The Rationalist what he thought his friends meant by their jokes. He said he wasn't sure; saying that maybe "gay" meant "dumb".

We haven't really covered heterosexuality with him, let alone homosexuality. I was pretty sure that he had no idea what "gay" meant....and he didn't. Needless to say he wanted to know what it did mean. He looked it up in the dictionary and asked what homosexual meant, giggling at the fact that sex was in the word, a word he knows usually provokes his parents into changing the channel when they hear it on TV and the kids are in the room.

I gave a simple response about boys "liking" boys instead of girls, but knew it wasn't a complete explanation.

I was disturbed by the whole thing, not just because of having to discuss it with The Rationalist, but because of the use of "You're gay!" as a bandied about insult.

A few weeks before I had heard one of the school's patrols bickering with another child and shouting "You're gay!" at him.

1. How did a term about a person's sexuality becomes a common insult for elementary school students? I know kids tease and say stupid things to each other....but how have things gone from "You're dumb!".....to "You're gay!"....not that calling someone dumb is acceptable.

2. It reminded me of this story about Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, an 11 year old child who killed himself after constantly being subjected to these kinds of taunts.

I wonder whether the very prominent conflict between gay rights activists and cultural conservatives is somehow trickling down into our children's lives. It seems as if the rhetoric is creeping into their consciousness and becoming a weapon, an insult, and an epithet.

If elementary students, 9 and 10 year olds, are using these words then I can only imagine what middle school and high school students are saying.

How did we get here?

I haven't decided if making my son cry makes me a good parent or a terrible one.

Judge for yourself:

"J--, I forgot to sign your school notebook last night. Bring it here along with your homework so I can sign them before we leave for school."

The Intuitive plops down his backpack. I leaf through his papers, sign everything and take a moment to check his homework.

"Honey....you've made a couple of mistakes on this math worksheet. I don't think you understood what you were supposed to do. Your math answers are right, but you were supposed to be looking for a specific answer."

"Don't tell me!"

"Don't tell you what?"

"Don't tell me the answers!"

"I'm not telling you the answers....I'm telling you that you made a few mistakes."

"That's cheating! You're making me a cheater!"

"What?"

"Everybody else will get them wrong and I'll have them all right...all because you made me cheat!"

"I'm not making you cheat."

"Yes you are! I'm not going to change them!"

"......um....YES...you are!"

The Intuitive proceeds to crying and wailing.

"Look....hon...I"m not trying to make you cheat. I'm not giving you the ans--"

"YES, YOU ARE!" he says with intensity.

"I'm going to go get ready to take you guys to school. You'd better be done with this and have it put it away before I come out of my room."

more wailing and crying.

So....have I raised a child who is so honest and independent that he refuses to accept any help?

Or...have I raised a child who is just as stubborn as his parents?

Or.....Am I just a terrible mother in general, causing her child to melt down over something completely insignificant.

I swear I can't tell the difference between those choices some days.

Parenting in the Bizzaro Universe

This morning I punished my son. He was angry, crying, and completely frustrated.

The punishment? I made him eat something he really wanted for breakfast.

Yes....giving him what he wanted made him furious.

It all started over a packet of Cinnamon Swirl Cream of Wheat. It was the last one in a house of two children; both who love Cinnamon Swirl Cream of Wheat. Let the conflict begin.

The Rationalist got to the box of cereal first, claiming the packet for himself. Intuitive Monkey proceeded to cry, wail, and bemoan the fact that he wanted it, and it wasn't fair for his brother to have it, and the world is a cruel, cold place that doesn't care about him...etc.

Their solution was that nobody should get the Cream of Wheat. The Rationalist, pressured by his brother's temper tantrum, was willing to forgo eating the cinnamon bowl of goodness. I appreciated his willingness to sacrifice, but was unwilling to let Monkey manipulate the situation. He has a bad habit of whining for what he wants, causing his brother to cave in and give him what he desires.

I declared their solution as unacceptable.

I was bumping up against the childhood version of "fairness" which is nothing more than a thinly veiled version of selfishness: You have something I don't, or can't, have...so that means you can't have it either. It's a principle based in miserly jealousy rather than being based in a desire to be equitable.

I took my stand and explained that someone has to eat the last packet. Instead of being angry that one of them doesn't have it, they should be willing to let the other person have something good.

Oh the howls that assailed my ears! This was too much for them to comprehend. The Rationalist admitted that he had teased Monkey about having the last packet. His guilt about his attitude when he snatched it out of the box was eating away at him.

"Just let Monkey have it!" he pleaded.

"No. You're right that you shouldn't have teased him about it. That was mean and you should apologize, but it isn't wrong for you to eat the last bowl of Cream of Wheat."

"But...but...that's not fair to him! I won't eat it! I won't! You can't make me!"

"You will eat it, or you won't have anything else for breakfast. If you feel bad about the way you treated your brother then I suggest that next time you should be kind in the way that you speak to him. Your punishment will be having to eat something, knowing you weren't very nice about having it."

He threw himself onto the couch and began to sob.....over Cream of Wheat guilt.

I made the Cream of Wheat; one Cinnamon Swirl for The Rationalist, one Maple and Brown Sugar for Monkey. They came to the table, The Rationalist wiping his tears away and swearing that he wouldn't eat it.

A minute later, Monkey leaned over and whispered to him,"It's OK to eat it, I don't want it now anyway."

Thud...thud...thud...that's the sound of me hitting my head against the wall.

Front Yard Astronomy

One of the supreme pleasures of parenting comes from watching your children grow into their own personalities and develop their separate identities. The first few years of their lives, it's all about Mom and Dad. They want you to play with them, read to them, sleep in their bed, share your food, have you answer every question they have in intricate detail. It never ends. The day stretches out before you in one long, endless request to be answered or physical need to be met.

Now that the boys are older, life has become so much more interesting. When The Rationalist isn't accomplishing his tasks in his normally efficient way, I peek into his room and catch him half-dressed, sprawled on the floor, reading a book. My heart swells. When I hear Intuitive Monkey banging around in the kitchen, I walk in to find him moving chairs and climbing on cabinets to get something he needs instead of just relying on someone else to do it for him. It makes me proud.

Today, while I was getting ready for work going back and forth from the living room to the bedroom, I heard the boys talking excitedly and noticed that they had gone outside in the front yard, an unusual thing for them at 6:30 in the morning.

"It's there! It's there!"..The Rationalist shouted.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"We saw Mars!"

"What do you mean?"

"Under the moon...the faint speck is Mars, just like that guy said it would be!"

"What guy?"

"The guy on TV...the one who sits in the stars. He said that on the 26th and 27th if you looked at the moon in the morning you would be able to see Mars just below it!"

They took me outside and sure enough, the bright moon was high in the sky with a single speck of light just below it.

I looked at the boys and just smiled. They had taken an interest in something that I hadn't even known about and had explored it all on their own, without looking to me to tell them about it or suggest that they look for it.

Thanks Star Gazer Guy!

Kids, School, and Parenting

Today I am going into Intuitive Monkey's kindergarten class to help tutor some of the kids that need a little extra help. His teacher was looking for volunteers, and I happened to have some time on Tuesday afternoons. I'm actually looking forward to it. I have always wanted to be more involved with the school, but until this year Monkey was always with me. The school wouldn't let me bring him with me for field trips or to help in the classroom. So, even though I stayed at home and didn't work, I could never chaperone The Rationalist's field trips in Kindergarten and 1st grade.

Besides that, The Rationalist's teachers have never seemed very welcoming. Schools always say they want more parental involvement, but what they really want is for parents to participate in the PTA and fundraising drives. They are less interested in actually communicating with parents about their child's education. I took five years to raise these kids and get them prepared for public school, only to hardly hear anything from these teachers. Every once in a while, I come a few minutes early and stick my head into their classrooms to touch base with them for 30 seconds as the kids are lining up to leave. I don't interrupt anything or stay long. They always act surprised to see a parent and a little annoyed that I dared to say,"Hi!"

It's really strange. They have sign up lists to help out in the classroom. I fill them out and they never call for anything. Once again, I think the administration has them put things like that out during Open Houses, but the teachers themselves don't want to be inconvenienced by having miscellaneous parents in their classes.

Another intriguing development on the school front involves The Rationalist's reading choices. Like me before him, he has developed a reading level far above what the average seven-year-old has. His school participates in a program called Accelerated Reading. Students check out books, read them, and take quizzes to test for comprehension. They are rewarded with parties, certificates, and so-on. The Rationalist is reading books that are rated at a higher level. They try and push students towards the upper limits of their reading abilities. Once they have scored 100% on a certain amount of tests in a certain reading level, they are moved up to the next level.

This has resulted in The Rationalist reading books that are written for an older audience of 4th graders and above. Yesterday, he brought home a Goosebumps book from R.L. Stine--The Haunted Mask. I was familiar with Goosebumps, in general, but I had never actually read one of the books before. I told him that I wasn't sure that I wanted him reading it, and that his father and I would have to read it first to see if we thought it was OK. He understood. We have had to have several conversations about TV, movies and books before, telling him that just because something is on TV or written in a book, doesn't mean it's good for us or appropriate for them at their current age.

This was especially true when I answered a phone call one night and told them they could watch TV in my bedroom while I was talking. I finished the conversation and walked in to find them watching Family Guy. It had just been put into syndication on a local channel and was being shown at 5:00pm. I had to explain that not all cartoons are for kids and that even I didn't watch that cartoon, and I was a grown-up.

But back to the point.....I am having to try and find the balance between encouraging a voracious reader, while at the same time making sure that he isn't prematurely exposed to things that he's not ready to handle. I don't think a seven-year-old is ready for Goosebumps. The story I read was a serious horror story. It wasn't a watered-down kid version that frightens but ultimately ends well, or is more of a parody.

Here's a picture from the TV version of the book he checked out.




That's Carly Beth in her haunted mask which takes over her body and won't initially come off, making her behave and act in scary ways to her friends, including an incident where she tries to choke her best friend, stopping herself at the last minute.

Uh...yeah. Goosebumps gets the kaibosh.

I seriously don't know what's up with that school library. First they let my five-year-old check out a book about Japanese zookeepers starving elephants to death, then my seven-year old is given books that will probably give him nightmares.

I should probably talk to the media center about age-appropriateness, but I was trying not to be the annoying mother who is pestering them constantly.

Buyer's Remorse

Intuitive Monkey loves Hot Wheels cars.

He and his brother must have at least a hundred of them in varying shapes and designs. They litter the floor of our house when playtime merges into "race mode". This game involves sitting at the end of the front hallway and shoving the cars through a gauntlet of their shoes which they have lined up as a barrier that only the toughest racers can get through. Once on the other side of the Shoe Mountains, the minuscule vehicles slam into the front door, making all kinds of racket and probably leaving hundreds of scratches that I turn a blind eye to because the kids are actually playing nicely and I wouldn't disturb that any more than I would disturb a lion munching on a dead zebra. Some have accrued major body damage, or lost the tiny plastic wheels held on by the cheap wire that threads through the body of the car. It's a dangerous game and the body count can be high.

Monkey decided that the twenty dollars in his piggy bank just had to be spent and begged us to take him to Target so he could add to his voluminous car collection. We agreed. Upon arrival, he spent thirty minutes inspecting each one closely, picking out five that he thought were super-cool and had the right stuff for his shoe-mountain-jumping, front-door-smashing game.

The Rationalist, ever the joiner, decided he would get five new cars too. We drove home and they immediately liberated the bright, shiny cars from their cardboard and plastic cages--the race was ON!

They played with them off and on throughout the night.

As I was putting Intuitive Monkey to bed, I had to scooch all the cars out of the middle of the floor so he wouldn't step on them during a middle-of-the-night bathroom trip. I tucked him into bed while he chatted about his cars. We said prayers, I tickled him and kissed him about a thousand quick pecks while he laughed and squirmed and eventually hid under the blankets, daring me to try and kiss him again. I said good night and closed the door.

Ambling to the computer, I sat down and started my incredibly well-written, insightful post about how to achieve World Peace. In mid-sentence of the peak of my post, Monkey came walking into the kitchen, all mournful looks and pouty lips.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"I want to take them back."

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"The purple one and the gold one....I want to take them back. I don't like them!" He burst into tears and a low wail.

I picked him up and sat him on my lap, his legs dangling over the side of the chair.

"Why?"

"I just don't like them anymore. Can I please take them back?" sniffing.

"Well, sweetie....you can't take them back now. We threw all the packaging away, but we could go back and you could pick out another one."

More crying and sobbing.

I tried my best to comfort him and tell him not to worry about it right now. He had to get some rest for school tomorrow. He eventually calmed down and dutifully marched back to his bed.

Only five and already regretting small choices. If only I could guarantee that picking the wrong Hot Wheels car would be the last heart-breaking regret that he would have.

The Finish Line

I tossed and turned in the still darkness. 5:30 am, in neon green, glowing in the dark. I closed my eyes and tried for thirty more minutes. 6:00 am. Time to get up.

Shuffling through a drawer in the dark, looking for a pair of shorts and T-shirt, I move quietly. Having found what I'm looking for, I tiptoe out and close the door to the bedroom, dressing in the living room.

The dog squints at me curiously and then lays her head back down on her bed with a snort. It's too early, even for her.

I begin assembling the breakfast I've planned and start the coffee brewing, disturbing the quiet with the gurgling coffee maker. Rinse the blueberries. Combine the pancake mix. Heat the pan. Ponder the importance of the day all the while.

Little feet trip through the house to bathroom. The night light glimmers on a boy who used to be an infant. His tall, slender stature is evidence of the time that has since passed. Countless, diapers changed, fevers nursed, half-eaten meals and hundreds of story books measured and weighed in the growth of a boy...who used to be an infant.

He trips back into his room, closing the door behind him. It's not 6:30 am, yet.

6:30am arrives, heralded by the excited chirping of two boys dressing themselves, making their beds, and leaping from their rooms to the kitchen.

"I knew she was making pancakes!"

"Not just pancakes....blueberry pancakes!"

DH comes out of the bedroom and hugs me, while the boys pile on for good measure.

We eat breakfast, make lunches, chat about what the day will be like, and enjoy the brief morning.

At 7:30 am, we head out to finish the last leg of a seven-year race. We round the bend and reach the finish line. The first day of school for Intuitive Monkey, our youngest.

Letting Loose The Apron Strings

Marianne Richmond, a contributing editor at BlogHer, just recently posted on the phenomenon of parents researching their college freshman's prospective roommates on Facebook. Displeased with the roommates profile, the helicopter parents are actually contacting the schools, asking for reassignments. For Real.

I shouldn't be too surprised. My husband has worked in the college system for many years and described students coming in with their parents to register and sign up for classes. The parents do all the talking while the student, the one who will actually be attending these classes, just sits silently in a chair. Craziness.

I have a hard time relating. When I turned 18, I packed up my car--bought and paid for with my own money--with all my possessions and traveled hundreds of miles away from anyone I knew, to a college which I had chosen, applied to, and visited on my own. The hands-off, neglectful parenting I had received paid off. It had, at least, taught me to do things for myself.

While I am not sending my kids off to college yet, I have reached an important milestone with them. They will both be in school in less than 10 days.(10 days which can't come fast enough! I've run out of things to keep them busy this summer!)

Part of me is sad that their early childhood has ended, but part of me rejoices in seeing them grow and change, becoming more independent. It has changed our relationship from being simply parent and child, to being people who can relate to each other. I love to hear their opinions about things. I love to see them try things for themselves. I love handing off new responsibilities to them.

We started small. Brushing their own teeth. Wiping their own behinds. Putting their own clothes away. Making their own beds. Bathing themselves.(this is a new one...and can I just say, YAY!) Getting their own snack. Buckling their own seatbelts.

Each time they learn to do something for themselves, they need me less. That gives me a small pang, but it is soon replaced with pride and satisfaction that I am doing my job--because that's the goal of good parenting; to work yourself out of a job that you love.

Hover no more!

Grace For The Failings

Parenting.

No matter how many fun, carefree moments you have with your children, the time you lost your temper and screamed like a crazy person is the one that lingers like the scent of rotting meat. Gazing back at you, eyes full of sadness, the child you so desperately love can crush you with a single look. After the anger and frustration pass, you'll play checkers with them, read them a book, apologize and tell them you love them, but you won't forget the failure--the inadequacy and impatience that bested you.

_____________________________________________________


Rushing in and out of the laundromat, thanks to a broken washing machine, my little boys chirped and cackled excitedly, going from washer to washer transfixed by the spinning clothes. Their curious queries about the mechanics, the timer, the compartments for soap had the earnest interest that only a child could have about a washing machine. We washed, dried and folded every towel, sheet, and blanket we owned, loading up the Corolla with the crisp mountain scent of freshly laundered linens.

Later in the day we headed to Wal-mart. The Rationalist was grumpy and argumentative, oozing sourness like so many lemonheads. I snapped at him several times while maneuvering the cart with the rhythmic wheel that pulled to the left. "Will you stop with the rudeness?!" I said. "I have had enough of your grumpiness!" I said. "That's it...No talking for five minutes from you!" I said. I was the official crazy-mom-in-Wal-Mart. There always has to be at least one and my time had come.

Arriving home in irritation, I unloaded the groceries and sent the boys to play while I threw together a hasty dinner. I gritted my teeth and made myself ignore the bickering between the them as they played checkers with a set that was missing a piece, leading to all sorts of recriminations about who really lost the essential item.

Dinner seemed to settle The Rationalist's spirits. He talked about his Jimmy Neutron computer game in between bites of roast beef and grapes. He pondered the list of school items we needed to get for his second grade class. He was pleasant. So was I.

After dinner, we combined a cake mix and licked the beaters, making plans for icing it later. The boys ran around the room, kicking the air like Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris. The tension left me. They bathed themselves, a new accomplishment, and came out ready to ice and eat the finished cake. They set to work, feverishly and meticulously frosting the individual pieces I had set before them, gobbling up each morsel when they were done.

"Mom, I don't feel good," said The Rationalist. "I feel like I'm going to throw up!"

The Rationalist hates throwing up.

He began to tremble and whimper. We went into the bathroom, seated ourselves before the toilet, and waited for the inevitable to happen.

"I'm scared," he said.

"It's OK, honey. You'll feel better afterward. "

"Will you pray for me?" he asked.

Of course I would...and did. At least three times he asked me to pray for him, the last time specifically that he wouldn't throw up. I complied each time, hoping that God was listening to these bathroom prayers for not throwing up.

After fifteen minutes, we moved to the couch in the living room, trash basket handy just in case. Intuitive Monkey had been sent to bed earlier when it had become apparent that I might be up all night with The Rationalist. The Rationalist and I lay on the couch in the dim lighting of the TV. I rubbed his back and he rested. Another fifteen minutes passed.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Better...I think I'm OK now. I guess I'll go to bed."

I tucked him in, telling him to get me if he needed me, and closed the door.

Thank you, God.....for listening to no-throwing-up prayers for a seven year old boy.

Thanks too....that you cover over my failings as a parent, allowing my child to trust me to pray for him, forgetting the frustration I aimed his way earlier.

87 Days

This was the first morning, in a long time, that I haven't had to be up by 6:30 am, groggy-eyed, stumbling around in the kitchen, looking for something to scrape together for breakfast for two boys who must have circadian rhythms that shoot adrenaline through their systems at the first glimmer of dawn. Instead, I slept 'til 7:00. Half an hour makes all the difference.

School is out for summer. Those words strike fear in many stay-at-home moms. Long hours that must be filled, hopefully without the necessity of letting them deteriorate 60% of their brains by watching endless hours of TV. It can seem a little daunting.

Despite the treacherous terrain of two small boys + lots of free time, I'm looking forward to his summer. Intuitive Monkey starts Kindergarten in August, and I will officially have accomplished my goal of being home at least until they were school age. This is the home stretch and I want enjoy every moment of it. Trips to the beaches, bike-riding, a few camping trips, and visiting relatives with a pool--that's what most of this summer will be.

87 days to spend with children who are becoming people that I actually like to do things with.

It'll be gone before I know it.

Me, Mom Detective

I got the call at 7:00 am. Two members of the local gang had been spotted. I quickly got in the patrol car and drove to the location, a seedy club on the wrong side of town called, The Bedroom.

It was obvious there was a tough crowd here.

Entering slowly, I saw the two perps with their beady little eyes shining. They bristled as I walked in, shifting nervously and exchanging worried looks. They were dressed only in their gang colors, bright blue and red Superman underwear.

"So, I got a call that there was some trouble in the neighborhood, " I said.

"No way, man. People, just trying to harass us. We're just hanging out, " the first perp said with outrage.

"What about you?" I said as I looked over perp number two.

"Well...He hurt me....by accident though!"

"Really? What happened?...a gangfight....a dispute over territory...was he disrespecting you?" I asked.

"Well, you see....I was over on his bed and..."

"Wait, did you just say you were on his bed during morning curfew hours?"

"Uh...yeah."

"I see. That's breaking law 342.1 of section B. Please....continue."

"OK. So, I was over there and we were wrestling...."

I interrupted him,"Oh so you were breaking law 56.99 of section A58 too...huh?"

"Um...yeah. Anyway, he made me bump my head on the dresser!"

Perp one spoke excitedly,"But he tried to grab me like this!!" He put his hands around his neck and squeezed. "He almost chokeded me!"

I gave perp two my sternest glare, "Is that right? Did you try and hurt him on purpose?"

He fidgeted nervously.

"Well...you see...it wasn't necessarily on purpose. I mean, my hands were there and all, but it was kind of like an accident."

"Oh, really? How exactly do you choke someone on accident?" I asked pointedly.

He hemmed and hawed for a minute.

"Like I said, it wasn't necessarily on accident....I mean....on purpose."

"Yeah, yeah. I think I've heard enough. You're going downtown. You've got one call. You better make it a good one!"

I loaded the suspect into the patrol car and booked him later in the day.

Solitary confinement, loss of electronic privileges.

Kid-Free Weekend!

A weird and wondrous thing happened this weekend. A tear in the fabric of space/time opened beneath my husband and me. We were whisked away to another dimension that was strangely peaceful, well-ordered, and mood-altering. Disoriented by our fantastic voyage, it took a few minutes to realize what had happened. The kids were gone.

Oh yes, the glories of a good mother-in-law.

Having shuffled my two bundles of chaotic and unending energy up to the grandparents' house and then racing away like mad before grandma realized the folly of her choice to have them for the weekend, I enjoyed the long, calm, hour-and-a-half drive home. I cranked up the radio loud, knowing I wouldn't be interrupted every two minutes with questions about where the cattle go when it rains and what the billboard meant when it read Adult Superstore and why the clouds followed us as we drove? I wasn't responsible for anybody but me. I felt young again.

Upon arriving home, I met my husband at the door and we began laying plans for our 2 day vacation from responsibility. We gleefully rubbed our hands together filled with self-satisfaction at our happy circumstances. It was freeing.

We went out to dinner; we slept late; we played board games in candlelight while drinking sauvignon blanc--not too much. We laughed at each other's dumb jokes and spent 2 days without getting annoyed at, or irritated with, each other. I remembered that we used to have fun every day. Once. A long time ago. Just as a couple. In the BK era. (before kids)

Thanks, MIL, for the break. It was a great time for us. How 'bout we send them up next weekend too?