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Bigger kids. Bigger problems. Can’t wait.
In the meantime, maybe I’ll dye my hair blue; with Stacey’s permission, of course.
STACEY WILK SAID WHAT?…I Told You So
Tag Archives: motherhood
RED’S WRAP SAID WHAT?…On The Birthday of My Oldest Child
Jan’s insightful and beautiful philosophy about motherhood leaves me torn.
My head tells me to raise independent children who grow up to “love other people more than me,” but my selfish heart tugs in the other direction. I struggle with the “letting go” part of parenthood. I cry at milestones and do too much for Bubbe and Skootch every day in between.
Come to think of it, such ambivalence probably explains why I still make my 10 year-old’s bed and wipe my 6 year-old’s backside.
Aah, the conundrum that is a mother’s love. Happy Valentine’s Day!
I was never one of those moms who grieved their kids growing up. I thought it was great.
I didn’t want them to be babies forever. Or to be toddling around the house indefinitely. I didn’t want to stand on the sidelines of wet soccer fields with a cold cup of coffee watching confused kids kick the ball to each other on Saturday mornings that seemed to last for months. I liked being the mother of little kids but only because of its impermanence.
I love that my kids are grown up. And I say that without the least bit of angst.
Oh, I look back and I remember them as little kids. How I carried them everywhere, how I stroked their cheeks to calm them, laid on the couch with their little selves asleep on my chest, sang to them songs I made up and that no one else…
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Let Him Be Late
Late is something I am not.
Not to meetings or meet ups. Count on me to help the host kick off her party or the coach unlock the gym door. In the words of my grandmother, “Five minutes early is on time.”
Then I gave birth to Bubbe who arrived one week late and after two hours of pushing. A little guy who stopped to collect pebbles from the sidewalk, admire makeshift rivers on a rainy day, and construct block towers when he was supposed to be eating breakfast, Bubbe’s dawdling challenged my timely tendencies.
The slow approach appeared to stem from his developmental delays. As a toddler and preschooler, Bubbe worked regularly with speech, occupational and physical therapists. He and I did much schlepping to services during the early years.
To ensure my son got what he needed when he needed it, I planned our schedule around his clock. I laid out clothes, organized the diaper bag, and packed snacks hours in advance. I set timers, offered reminders, and built in daily dawdle time. There were days when Bubbe played along, but those were rare. “Hurry up” became a staple in my vocabulary and carrying his boneless body out the door and onto the next appointment became my primary source of exercise.
After a decade of exposure to my anxious nudging and keen management skills coupled with his hard work and a little maturity, I expected Bubbe to come to value my vision of time. No such luck.
This tortoise syndrome became a wider concern at the end of third grade when it led to academic road blocks. His teachers investigated. Turns out, Bubbe’s brain doesn’t send signals as fast as mine and most peers. To process, organize and focus thoughts and movements takes hard work and energy. Dawdling is part of his DNA.
Armed with the information, I intended to shift my parenting approach. But the thought of giving my child space to figure out his day at the risk of him being tardy rattled me to the core.
It doesn’t matter how Bubbe’s brain is wired. I thought. He has to learn how to move faster; use time wisely.
I held the reins.
Bubbe’s fourth grade year commenced with him hearing my voice on auto replay each morning. “Get dressed. Eat breakfast. Find your backpack. Don’t keep your friends waiting. C’mon let’s go.”
Too big to fling him over my shoulder; prods graduated to threats, coaxing converted to yelling. I was met with eye rolls, I don’t cares and whatevers. Our home transformed into a battleground, leaving Bubbe and I frazzled and fried before the day began.
Then I went back to work.
My responsibilities multiplied overnight. I no longer had space in my brain to try and change his. I was forced to accept Bubbe was older and in charge of his actions. I was also forced to accept that he no longer needed me in the same way. I resolved to “do” my tween differently.
Step one: let him be late for school.
One morning soon after, I awoke Bubbe as per the usual routine and announced, “We are leaving at 7:45. You have until then to get up and do your thing.”
At 7:40 he was still in bed. “Your brother and I are leaving in five minutes. Just lock up on your way out. The school bell rings at 8:15am. See you there.”
The neighbors knocked on the door. Skootch and I left Bubbe behind.
As we walked the three blocks, I looked back but there was no sign of him. I dropped off his brother and headed across the school grounds toward the front gate.
Still no Bubbe.
I turned the corner toward home. There he was, strolling up the sidewalk; dressed appropriately, jacket on and with backpack in tow. For the first morning in weeks, Bubbe was smiling.
I smiled back.
As we passed each other, my son leaned in and nuzzled his brow into my chest. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. Enjoy the day.” We went our respective ways.
And no one was late.
An Open Letter to the Real Deal
Dear E,
I didn’t think dropping Bubbe off at your son’s 10th birthday sleepover would leave me verklempt.
After the gaggle of celebratory tweens scurried off to play Nerf Gun combat, you encouraged me to stay for our customary cocktail and chit chat. Happy to oblige and assist in the effort, I carried the wasabi peas and pita chips to the back patio table to find a chilled prosecco flanked by the birthday root beer waiting patiently for our arrival.
It was then I spied the set of chaise lounges nestled in the corner.
I took one look at those chairs and flashbacked to my Bubbe, your son, and their rolls of baby deliciousness that used to sit there side by side munching Goldfish. I thought about our boys being born 10 days apart. I thought about how this past summer marked their 10th year of friendship. Too embarrassed to share the sentiment, I fanned my tears with a chip and blamed the reaction on the peas.
I regained composure and got on with the festivities. We poured the bubbly and toasted to our sons’ double digit birthdays. But in my stir of emotion, I forgot to toast something equally as important; our 10 years of friendship.
We had our first date at The Newcomers Club Mommy and Me. I showed up as a nonmember. You came late. The other attendees likely took note.
A frumpy, post partum version of myself watched from the sofa as you and your bouncing boy, each decked in blue worked the room; two blonde rays of sunshine to whom the mommies were instantly drawn.
When the crowd weaned, you parked on the rug near my feet and a sleeping Bubbe.
Any hormonal blah and sleep deprivation you may have been feeling was eclipsed by a genuine excitement to be out of the house and in the presence of empathetic adults. Your warm introduction disintegrated my walls and quelled new mommy insecurities.
I thought, E is positive, easy, and kind and I hoped we would be friends.
The Newcomers eventually dispersed but fortunately we did not. Your friendship has remained constant even when separation seemed probable.
When our boys reached the point we had to shelve play dates because they butted heads, we made sure not to suspend our own.
When I had my second child, you came to the hospital with sea salt brownies for me and open arms for Skootch even though our mom of an only child dynamic had changed.
When we moved in the dead of winter, you trekked to visit our new place before I unpacked a box despite the added drive.
When, six years ago, you started a business while simultaneously chasing your dream job, you took the time to encourage and help me pursue my passion even after you landed it and went back to work full time.
It only takes a glance at my Wonder Woman Lego key chain, Believe Giving Key necklace, or 40th birthday golden clutch you knew I always wanted to remind me of your thoughtfulness, generosity, integrity, determination, creativity, and faithfulness. The qualities you possess that I so admire; the ones you have instilled in your son.
An unexpected and welcomed by product of becoming Bubbe’s mom was finding you. And so, on our aluminum anniversary I raise my glass.
Thank you for being the real deal.
Love,
Red
Birthdays & Back to School
Today Red said what? turns two. Mamalode is helping me celebrate the blog’s birthday by featuring this Back to School version of “A Mother’s Mantra.”
http://mamalode.com/story/detail/a-mothers-mantra
Thank you for your continued support and encouragement. If you didn’t take the time to read my essays, this blog couldn’t exist.
Do I have a new piece prepared for September? Yes. It’s waiting in the wings…
A Mother’s Mantra
I stand behind the ironing board affixing labels to socks
and watch
you weave Stampy Cat from yellow bands
The knot in my throat
grows
An adventure looms
For each of us
Soon to camp
One month away
Your first time
Reminders simmer
Stay in groups. Be modest. Don’t let anyone take advantage.
Use your voice
Use soap
Use a tissue
Never spoken
Instead,
A mother’s mantra
“I love you. I’m proud. Have fun.”
We drive the twisted parkway
Duffle in trunk
You stare beyond the glass
Wondering
Raindrops camouflage my tears
Focus. Don’t dawdle. Clean up.
Take a risk
Trim those nails
Try the baked ziti
“I love you. I’m proud. Have fun.”
I stuff sheets into a top bunk
You flip cards with new mates
throw a glance
and disappear with the pack
It’s almost time
Brush your teeth. Wear glasses. Spray for bugs.
Be organized
Be flexible
Be you
“I love you. I’m proud. Have fun.”
A kiss good-bye
Stay a boy forever
One more squeeze
Experience it all
“I love you. I’m proud. Have fun.”
Dear Mom…Please stop calling me Buddy
Dear Mom,
Please stop calling me Buddy. I don’t like it.
At first, I was afraid to say anything because you’ve used the nickname since I was little. Now I’m 9 ½ and Buddy sounds weird. It’s embarrassing.
I was also worried I would hurt your feelings. You always seem so excited to call me Buddy. I can tell it means a lot to you. I think you think calling me Buddy automatically brings us closer together.
It really doesn’t.
I know you love me when you sing to me in the morning, sneak a hug and a kiss on the corner before school, helped me wash the toenail out of my eye after it shot up off the clipper, taught me how to follow my basketball shot, pay me allowance, cook me perfect pasta, and stay for a cuddle talk at tuck in.
Like you always say, “Actions speak louder than words.”
Another thing; why do you call me Buddy when you’re mad? Buddies are supposed to make each other happy, but every time you say
“Shut the Wii U off now, Buddy.”
“It’s late, Buddy. Go back to bed.”
“Buddy come on, you left the student planner in your desk, again?”
with a growl or snake-eyed glare, I only feel scared and to be honest, a little angry myself. The whole thing doesn’t make sense.
Know what else? I like my name. I like when you say my name. I remember the story of how I got it. You decided in eighth grade that if you ever had a son you would name him after your grandfather. And you did. So why don’t you use it? You wouldn’t like it very much if I called you Red instead of Mom. That’s not respectful.
The definition of Buddy is “a close friend.” For real. I Googled it.
Mom, I have friends. I wasn’t a natural at making friends, but you showed me how to introduce myself, share, and speak up. And when I felt shy about joining classmates in the block center or had a hard time sitting at a crowded snack table in preschool, you got me a helper teacher. Now I’m good.
William from the baby playgroup, the kids in my class, the boys I have snowball fights with on the walk home from school, and the guys from my team; these are my buddies.
The ladies you meet for lunch and a chit chat, Daddy on date night, and that funny guy who fist pumps and belly dances in an elf hat at CrossFit; those are your buddies.
Maybe when I’m in college or living in my own apartment we will be close friends.
Right now, I need you to be my mom.
So please stop saying Buddy. I know it’s different and might be a tough habit to break, but you can handle it.
I Love You,
Your son
I never got into the habit of calling my children Buddy. Bubbe, Big Guy, Skootch, Kiddo, and Bubbeleh yes; but never Buddy. If I had, I hope that one of them would write me this letter.
Red Said What? 