The "Oy!" of boys

I have three sons, two in their mid-20's and one a young teenager. That amounts to drama cubed. Heart-stopping episodes and head-scratching times three. I also have a daughter, but she is a drama of a different flavor; the sort of drama that as a fellow female I can easily relate. But the boys? Oy!

My sons have provided me with over a dozen frantic trips to hospital emergency rooms. I receive very little information about any significant females in their lives, nor even basic information on their whereabouts in the world at times. They smell funny. Ergo, their bedrooms smell funny, foreign. Their feet grew/grow at ridiculously fast paces. They eat too much, too quickly, and leave the empty boxes, wrappers, and containers in the cupboard or in the refrigerator, or lounging on end tables, or perched on window sills, which is infuriating on several levels. One of which being they will complain about there not being any more cookies, chips, cereal, or soda, et.al, yet heaven forbid they actually open their mouths to inform me of this until they are once again ravenous.

"Mom!" Kenny used to whine. "There's no food!"

I would walk into the kitchen to find him standing in front of the pantry, doors flung open. Pantry, full of food.

"What are you talking about?! Look at all of that!"

"I need good food. Food I can eat," he'd claim.

"And what would that be, pray tell?" I would ask, exasperated. "Give me details and when I go to the store next I will buy it."

"You know," he'd reply, grinning and walking away from the kitchen, "Good stuff."

This annoying and confusing scenario is currently being played out with Jack, the one boy remaining in my nest. He will become indignant that I haven't returned from the grocery store with his beloved Gushers, or pretzels or chocolate milk, yet when I checked inventory before leaving, said items were still present and accounted for. Why I am surprised that food vanishes in a whirl after raising two sons before him is a bafflement, but clearly I am constantly astonished anew.

The breaking and tearing and slicing of body parts on boys has been more drama than I believe I can handle and yet, each time it happens, I somehow manage to survive, right alongside of them. Kenny has broken his tibia twice, his wrist once, and several fingers were broken and smushed once when Blake - accidentally, on-purpose - slammed a door on Kenny's hand when they were ages eight and six, respectively.

Thirteen-year-old Jack's more dramatic injuries have included a significant, nine-stitch worthy, accidental gash to the upper forehead from a golf club-wielding Jess six years ago, the top of his middle finger being inadvertently sliced off by a heavy door two years ago (and luckily being sewn back on in the E.R. after yours truly found it smiling up from the pavement), and, most recently, he received 27 stitches to his cheek after a freak accident in his cabin at camp in Wyoming last month.

I sit or stand by them as they lie on the table in the hospital, gripping their hand as they are stitched or cast or prodded, blinking back tears as they try and do the same. I try not to vomit or faint. I smile though my heart is aching. There is no chapter on how to do this in any of those "What to Expect When..." tomes.

There has been no manual to prepare me for a son going into combat, or for one who wanders aimlessly through and around the United States, or Canada or Mexico; when Kenny is traveling outside of the U.S. he does not have a cell phone with international call capability. I am at the mercy of him perhaps gaining some internet access and posting a status that he is, blessedly, still alive.

Blake, by virtue of his profession in the military, will not communicate with me for weeks and on occasion for a couple of months, and I always feel that this is drama I could well do without.

"Boys will be boys," the adage goes, but it is not specific as to what the boy will do or say to bear out the expression. Parents of boys learn pretty early on though, I think, that boys actually do not always say, share or emote in a similar manner to girls, to daughters. Sons may tend to be a bit more spontaneous, reckless, fearless.

That said, sons are just like daughters, however, in their ability to at once break - and fully fill up - your heart. Neither the male or the female of offspring corners the market on that.

It's all about the climb

As I write this from Wyoming, my younger two children are at a camp which allows them to challenge themselves and take risks. And they are literally climbing mountains. The climb is but a metaphor, really. To me, it has been an important part of my parenting to encourage them to venture outside their comfort zone, to put one foot in front of the other as they look uphill, even as it has me catching my breath with apprehension; we both grow.

My parents instilled in my brother and me a sense of adventure. My father used to exclaim to us that we should reach for, grasp, the brass ring on the merry-go-round of life. He even framed one and presented it to our mother on one of their wedding anniversaries. She was his brass ring. The risk that paid off.

Neither my parents, nor I, advocated/advocate the sort of precarious behavior that can lead to a child's self-harm or destruction. I have cheered them on to try something untried. If they fail, then they fail. If they discover that they don't like doing things that make them uncomfortable, well, then they have learned something about themselves. There's a lot behind the axiom, "You don't know unless you try."

In my experience, it has been vital to my children and me to let go when letting go presents itself. I may be gripped with fear or trepidation about something they want to attempt, but what if I persist in denying them and the thing hoped for and never tasted becomes a deep regret; a resentment?

I wonder what Blake would be like if I had not signed his enlistment papers for the Marines? If I somehow had the power to have prevented Kenny two years ago from embarking on his vagabond lifestyle? Would they be the capable, interesting, brave and courageous young men they are today? Young men with tales and strength born of risk, of facing fears neither one knew they even harbored?

It's not always about reaching the summit; it's often about how one gets there. Half-measures avail us nothing. We poise at the turning point. And then... we leap.

My daughter Jess articulates my point the best:

"Ain't about how fast I get there, ain't about what's waiting on the other side, it's the climb." ~Miley Cyrus

I have always been inspired by Miley Cyrus. However, her newest hit single, "The Climb", made me reflect on my life even more. Cyrus talks about how even though you're going to come across obstacles in life, you can overcome them if you believe. In just a matter of days, this song will constantly be playing in my head. This is because I will literally be climbing mountains in the backcountry of Wyoming. I realize that it will be tough, but as long as I keep pushing on I will eventually reach my goal and end up on top.

The program that I will be taking part in is known as TVR Expeditions, which is affiliated with Teton Valley Ranch Camp, north of Jackson Hole. I have been going to the camp for the past five years, last summer being my final as a camper, but now they offer this special program featuring an eleven day backpack, and then, finally, summiting the Grand Teton, which involves intense rock climbing.

Figuratively speaking, the climb will prepare me for what I will be experiencing in the coming school year. After about a year and a half of attending boarding school, I will be returning to New Canaan High School. I left because I couldn't handle things, but now I have the confidence to rise above them. Academically, I have not been doing so well. Junior year is the most important, in my opinion, so I will have to trust that I will succeed as long as I keep my faith. There will be ups and downs during the transition to living at home again, like not taking the freedom I will be obtaining for granted.

When I make it to the top of the Grand this summer, I will be sure to remember the feeling, and take it with me when I go back home. As Cyrus states: "There's always gonna be another mountain, I'm always gonna wanna make it move. Always gonna be an uphill battle, sometimes I'm gonna have to lose."

We all slip sometimes, but I will never fall.

Facebook and the family

A few weeks before Jack turned 13, he asked me if he could have a Facebook page.

"No, you're too young," I answered.

"But Jess has a page! Blake and Kenny have a page! You have a page!" he cried. "Jeez, even Daddy has a page," he finished with a flourish of sarcasm. "You can have a page at 13 now," he told me, rattling off the names of several friends who had already turned the magical 13 and had entered into the realm of Facebook.

"Well, you have to 'friend' me. That's the only way I'll let you do it," I bargained, while promising never to embarrass him by posting on his page.

And so, when his birthday dawned, we set it up. We are now a family of Facebookers.

For the uninitiated, Facebook is a free-access social networking website, originally aimed at college-aged persons. Today, users can join networks by city, organization, workplace, school, region, etc. There are nearly 200 million people on Facebook and certainly not all are ages 18 to 24 (although they do account for over 19 million of the users). The fastest growing demographic is women over age 55 (!), and 17 million users are between 35 and 55+. That would account for a lot of us; "us" being parents.

I initially went on Facebook to spy on my daughter. Except she wouldn't "friend" me. She exclaimed that it was embarrassing and lame that I had set-up an account. Under orders, she will show me her page from time to time, and I have been able to check out a lot of her pictures whenever she "tags" one of her older brothers in a photo (I discovered that by clicking on the snapshot, it magically took me into her photo section!). But basically my daughter stalking attempts back-fired. However, her brothers are far less secretive, and I can track Kenny's whereabouts as he roams the country, and check on whether or not Blake is truly unable to have Internet access while at sea or elsewhere.

At first all was calm for me, though as I say, I was discouraged that I couldn't easily enter the realm of Jessie's high school shenanigans. Soon, however, I inexplicably found myself back in high school instead when former classmates began "friend" requesting me right and left! And then they began posting photos of me on my page - along with themselves of course - with those hideous early to mid-1970's hair, clothes... yikes! People have come out of the freaking woodwork, including those I vaguely remembered, and those who were (are) several years younger than me, of whom I have zippo memory.

Facebook users can post a status, which is a word, a sentence, and more, of what they happen to be doing at that moment or that day, etc., a la Twitter (if you want an explanation of that, ask your kid). While our childrens statuses are along the lines of:" School; eeww. Tennis after!" and "Phone broken," many older users put up a status that is more relevant to their age or being a parent: "My son turns 12 today!," or "'Supercalifragilstic!' - Off to Mary Poppins," "Who remembers the 1970 song, 'It's a Rainy Night in Georgia?'" and "Happy Spring! Can the runny noses and sniffles now go away, please?"

My words of caution for Facebook usage are simple. A) Monitor whom your child is "friending." Is it really someone they know, or might it actually be a creepy older person with ill-intentions? B) Make sure the information that they post about themselves does not include their address, or even their telephone number (see the possibilities of A), and C) Caution them in regard to the nature of the posts on their own Wall and on others, especially the content of any videos and photographs. One never knows whose parent or which faculty member has access to those pages/posts, nor how their peers will perceive what has been, essentially, published.

Word to the parent Facebooker: Choose your profile photo wisely. And even though your kid might choose to reveal their birth year, you don't necessarily have to. Or - per your profile visage - want to.

When divorce comes calling

I got divorced from my first husband 22 years ago this month. My two oldest sons - products of that short-lived and mostly unfortunate union - seem to have gotten through the two decades-long aftermath pretty unscathed. But then again, this is just my opinion; I imagine having to forever explain "my parents are divorced" must carry with it some baggage.

Not to sound trite, but divorce happens; we've all seen the statistics. Sometimes all the best efforts to avoid a dissolution of a marriage aren't fruitful. And then there are vague attempts made at staying married, and, of course, steps to prevent it not even ventured: adultery, domestic abuse or abandonment may yield no forgiveness whatsoever. It goes without saying that the adults involved are cut to the core, especially when there are children as a result of the marriage. Those children are unequivocally the collateral damage of a failed relationship.

Kenny and Blake were too young - ages two and three-and-a-half, respectively - to have had the all-too-common child reaction that perhaps the decision to divorce was somehow their fault. Blake claims to have had memories of us together (not always happy), and Kenny - none. I always maintained the feeling that I wouldn't have to get into the reasons behind the split, that their father would make it clear as to why by his actions (chronically unemployed, among a few other things), and that notion did, in fact, come to fruition. As they got older, I did explain a cause or two, leaving myself in the equation; it takes two to tango after all.

Reassuring your child that a separation or divorce was none of their doing and that their relationship with both parents should remain intact is important. As much honesty as possible or, rather, as appropriate, is also key. Trying to hide the conflict may drive the child away, convinced that their parents lie and aren't to be trusted. Yet again, don't give them details that are better kept between adults, especially when the children are young.

One common by-product in separation is that of the angry or resentful parent (or parents) unwittingly taking that anger out on or through the children. To use the vernacular: "That ain't cool." Yet were my ex-husband and I 100-percent successful on that score? Sadly and uncomfortably: No. And I have heard the same, and observed it as well, from more than a dozen divorcing or divorced people over the years. The goal, nonetheless, is to keep one's frustrations between yourself and your ex. Another suggestion among the professionals (i.e. lawyers, mediators, those in the mental health field) is to help your children through the difficult task of family change with a therapist, or via support groups targeted at children of divorce. Schools may offer such groups through the guidance department - Blake and Kenny attended several of those discussion gatherings at their elementary school - and your local youth services department is another source of information. Although its been over 20 years since I divorced, it still stings somewhat; the stigma of it. Nobody enters into marriage imagining that it will collapse. My older two obviously have a different last name than myself and, of course, their two half-siblings, and I am still a tad ill-at-ease while explaining the dissimilar names to new friends. Oh - I won't even get into how I had to explain to my younger two why I was married before, and who that guy was that Blake and Kenny would spend every-other-weekend with, and why. Sure, some anecdotes are comical, but mostly it was uncomfortable for me. That and handling their pre-school and elementary-school thinking that since I divorced once, I could easily act that out again with their father. Suffice it to say that explaining a broken marriage to children is a tricky business. Sometimes, such as in my case, kids may simply be too young to truly notice a significant change in their family unit. As a friend of mine, Erin, shared with me, her now teenagers were but one and three years old when she divorced: "They didn't know any different; they don't know any different." Whether a divorce comes after five, 15, or 25 years of marriage, the end of a marriage is still uncharted territory. It is a life-altering event to be sure, but it needn't be eyed as a "life-ending" one. On the contrary, both parent and child can view - or grow to view it - as a positive solution to a chronic problem.
"Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible."

Did you ever think you'd say...? Part 2

Yes, there are many things we never imagined ourselves saying or doing. And then there are words that come out of our mouths which seem to make sense to us (unlike "poopie" which was discussed last column). Until they are examined at close range. We parents - we adults, regardless of our parenting status - can utter the darndest things.

When Blake was home this past Christmas, we ran into some old family friends who had not seen him for at least 10 years. They exclaimed, as we all are wont to do: "Wow! Look at you! You got so big and grown-up!" Later on Blake commented, "Why do older people always say that?! Of course I grew up... did they actually think I'd stay a kid forever?" And his observation made me ponder, yes, why do we say those kinds of things?

All adults are guilty of crying out, "Oh, Sam! I can't believe how tall you are!" We may not have seen someones child in years or maybe just months. And it seems a natural observation to make, for in our mind's eye they are frozen at toddlerhood, or maybe third grade, or perhaps as an awkward adolescent. Now imagine them spouting back: "I'm tall Mrs. Evans because you're just getting shorter with age." What?! It could happen.

Kids usually don't know quite how to respond to our preoccupation with their bodily maturation. They will smile politely, with maybe a hint of a blush. Just as we did when we were younger. As the adult, we mistake that slight pinkening of the cheeks as modesty or even pride. But if you think back to when you were the recipient of those verdicts of appearance, the hot cheeks may have been more accurately a result of the snippy comeback we were saying to ourselves. Like, "Geez lady, no duh!"

Can you imagine a kid making some of the following analysis of us: "Holy crap, Mrs. Evans! You've gotten so many wrinkles since I saw you last; you're really getting older;" "Look at that belly pouch Mr. Evans. Guess that's what your 40's will do;" or "I can't believe you're 50! How did that happen?"

And turnabout is fair play in other ways. We love to squeeze a chubby baby's cheeks or legs. So what if a 12 -year-old we hadn't seen since infancy grabbed onto our triceps and cooed, "Look at those chubby arms. They're so cute!"

Then there are the comments we make, innocently, that teens - probably girls in particular - take the wrong way. On the occasion of my daughter Jessie's 14th birthday I cried, "You're getting so big!"

"Big?!" she wailed. "Are you saying that I've gotten fat?"

"No! No! It's just an expression," I stammered. "You know... it just means you're not a little girl anymore... not my baby." And I can't win with these observations, because when I mentioned last week that it looked as though she was getting skinnier, she spat back the whole so-you-think-I-was-fat-before thing. "That's not what I was implying," I began and then just shrugged and stopped while I was ahead. Well, not ahead, but inserting foot into mouth more didn't seem appetizing.

It just seems impossible not to chirp to a 13-year-old boy that you didn't recognize him because he's turning into a young man. I was in good company with those sort of remarks during a recent baseball evaluation, when several of us moms lamented aloud that little boy's faces were morphing into men's before our very eyes.

"Is that Justin?;" "That can't be Chris, he's not that tall!;" and "Who is that? No! How can that be Ryan?"

Their faces begin to fill out, becoming more chiseled, less adorable and decidedly handsome. Suddenly, we parents have gone from patting a boy on top of his head, to patting his shoulder, to finally a light punch in the arm because the head and shoulders are head and shoulders above us. The objects of our gushing, prodding and disbelief chuckle inside while slowly backing away from the crazy old people.

Yes, of course, time marches on. Children grow up, grow older; while adults just do the growing older part.

I leave you with two quotes:

"It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn't." ~Barbara Kingsolver

"There are only two things a child will share willingly - communicable disease and his mother's age." ~ Dr. Benjamin Spock

Did You Ever Think You'd Say...?

For no reason in particular, I have been looking back at my 25 years of being a parent and I cannot believe the words and phrases that have jumped from my lips over the years in this job. I have also acted in ways and performed duties that I never, ever pictured myself doing pre-motherhood.

I mean ask yourself: When you were a free-wheeling single person, hip or edgy, did you ever think you would one day say "poopie?" As in, "Honey, did you make a poopie in your pants?" or "Don't touch the poopie!" Back when you used the F-bomb as a noun, adjective, verb and adverb at will, could you have guessed you would be using the "P" word as a noun, adjective, verb or adverb dozens of times a day? For years?! But there you are, or were. And if you are well beyond needing to employ that word in your daily vocabulary, don't get complacent about that fact. Because one day you will be a grandparent when your former poopie-provider begets one of their own, and you will need to pitch in when the child's nether regions explode.

When you were first married, perhaps mulling over the idea of becoming a parent, did you ever watch seemingly intelligent adults carrying their infants around on their hips and asking them - usually in a high-pitched voice - the following kinds of questions: "Should we buy this bread?" or "Mommy wants a coffee... do you think mommy should get a coffee?" or "Daddy wants to go to the car wash now. What do you think? What do you think?" And when you observed this, did you wonder why these parents were asking a bald, toothless, drooling tiny person their opinion? Did they really think the baby was going to pipe up with an answer, like, "No, no bread. You really need to cut back on the carbs, mom." You may have smugly promised yourself not to ever engage in that kind of insane banter. And then inexplicably found yourself having a million such conversations with your own infant and toddler: "Mommy's going to check her email now... do you want to watch? Do you? Do you?" The kid's a captive audience, and it's an excellent way to not appear like a crazy person talking to yourself; people look and see that you are actually speaking to a baby, so on a very odd level it's acceptable. Even if the questions and statements directed at said baby are well beyond that small being's comprehension. For the life of me, I never pictured myself as one of those parents who would be sniffing their teenage son or daughter from stem to stern. Like a hunting dog. "Come here," I say when my kid gets home from a night out. I start with the hair sniff, then work south demanding they open their mouth so I can take a whiff, trying to determine if there is alcohol or smoke - nicotine-tinged or sweet - on their breath. I breathe deep of their clothes for the same odors. I look ridiculous and trust me, my kids agree. But you have to do it, am I right? The same way -- going back to the beginning of this column - you have to actually pick your child up, or kneel at their tush - and thrust your nose onto the hind-end of their pants to smell if there has been an "accident." Same sort of theory when they're teens. If a mess is there, you have to clean it up. Unknowingly wearing vomit on your shoulder; standing in the chilly spring rain to watch your nine-year-old play baseball; hiding tiny teeth in your sock drawer; blotting chocolate off your child's face with your own saliva; going from rocking out to the Allman Brothers to the Jonas Brothers, or eating out of a jar of pureed bananas to show a wee one how it's done... these are just some of the things we may never expect we will do before becoming a parent. Yet, we do and we are. And just as we never pictured ourselves uttering what we do, touching things we normally would have no business touching, we also may not have counted on being able to love another human being with depth that we bestow upon our child. It almost makes up for those years of smelling things we hoped never to have smelled. Almost.

"Courage is fear that has said its prayers."
Encourage your child to be brave, to be passionate about goals; to hope for a dream.