Chin Up: A Change is Coming!

It's been three days since Villanova's big win in the NCAA Basketball Championship. I watched most of the games this season and while I still can't figure out what qualifies as a foul and when it earns a foul shot or just possession, I'm really starting to enjoy the sport. Especially when they're nail biters, which seems to be the rule rather than the exception. Although to be fair, I bite my nails a lot, regardless of the situation.

I bring up the basketball game for two reasons:

1. It provided me with a day off (and another one tomorrow!) and the opportunity to write a well-overdue blog post.
2. Ian told us before the Oklahoma game that he would enroll at Villanova if they won the championship. 

Should I hold him to it?

Some of you are aware that a wrinkle/wrench has been thrown into what was going to be a fairly easy decision where college is concerned. Along with Villanova, Ian was accepted into William & Mary's Joint Degree Programme (that's how they spell it in the U.K.) with the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. St. Andrews is situated on the coast, with beaches and a popular golf course (an understatement for anyone who knows golf). People also have cool accents and there are lots of pubs. And MacPherson is Scottish. The school is pretty damn good, too, and he'd earn a BA, International Honors, from both universities. And did I mention that this programme only enrolls about 20 students per year? 

His acceptance letter included a handwritten note from the director: "Your passion for economics and travel make you a natural for our programme. Join us." 

Well, damn. Didn't see that coming. Seriously. Ian didn't either. It's like when he made the Silvertones as a freshman. "Wait, what? Are you sure?" 

This is one of those situations where the advice you receive completely depends on the individual. Those who have put kids through college and incurred student loans say "Villanova." Those like my sister who believe "the best" opportunity is always worth paying for say "Scotland." We're saying, let's go talk to the folks at W & M, crunch the numbers, make a pro/con list, and then decide on Villanova. Obviously the kid can't go wrong either way, and this is a hell of a nice "problem" to have. It's just that I'd really like a shore house some day. 

I didn't start this post with the goal of bragging about my son's opportunities. My objective was to brag about what an awesome young man he's become.

Some of you have known me long enough (we really only have to go back a few short years) to remember when I was forever frustrated by this kid. Smart. Yes. Hard working. No. Funny. Yes. Willing to share that personality in performance, writing, or on late night talk shows? No. Ambitious? No. Easy-going? Yes. Passionate about FIFA? Yes. Passionate about anything else? No.

I went crazy with his attitude, which was best summed up in his own words: "If it's not fun, why should I do it?" Dude, you're talking to a woman who feels guilty if she's having fun instead of working. If I hadn't given birth to him, I'd wonder if he's adopted. 

Recognizing that many most parents, at one time or another (or daily) want to wring their teenager's neck for their crappy attitude, I will say this: It will pass. The kid who commits to nothing but video games will find his or her passion. And it just might involve developing video games, which I happen to know makes for a pretty good living. May I recommend Villanova's Computer Engineering program?

I know Rob and I are lucky. We've watched Ian's transformation take place. He still loves FIFA, but he's also passionate about economics and societal issues. He recommends to me books he's read and enjoyed for school. He and Rob watch "Meet the Press" together (yes, it's for a class, but it's a class he really enjoys even though he wouldn't label it "fun."). He's working harder than ever and challenging himself academically when most seniors have written off the last few months of their high school education. His sense of humor continues to light up a room, and he's still willing to play Bananagrams when begged asked. Our teenage son seems to like us, and the feeling is mutual.

Now before you accuse me of patting myself on the back for having a great kid, let me say that Rob and I really had nothing to do with it. It just happened. Or more likely, his girlfriend Brooke is primarily responsible for his maturing. After all, it still takes five requests from Mom before Ian does what's requested, whereas Brooke sees immediate results.

This leads me to just one suggestion: If your teen's evolution is taking longer than you'd like, consider finding a nice boy or girl to help move things along. If he or she has big brown eyes, that's a bonus.

Good luck!

But, they're only suggestions

It's crunch time. In a mere five days, applications will be due for two of the three colleges my son Ian is applying to: University of Chicago (early action) and Villanova (for consideration for the Honors College). If it were up to me these applications would have been submitted a month ago, but Ian is not me. And I've been trying hard to keep that in mind, not only where college admissions are concerned, but also with regard to his collegiate life.

One of the things I have struggled with during his high school years is allowing my son to be himself. Personality-wise, he's good to go (except for his excessive computer time and tendency to procrastinate), but I confess that I have been disappointed more than once in the decisions he's made. Not with regard to classes, behavior, friends or that special someone (a shout out to B.Q.), but rather his choice of extracurriculars. That's not quite accurate. It's not the activities he's been involved with that bother me, it's the ones he hasn't taken part in that bum me out.

Ian should have appeared in every play and musical for the past three years. He should have competed in the oral interpretation category in speech and debate--I personally found him the perfect material. He could have pursued fencing or martial arts, both of which he showed promise in when he was younger. And I'm sure there are a myriad of other activities that I would have wanted him to take part in if I'd known about them.

You may think this is about me. That I want to relive my youth through my son. Well, not's entirely true. He did show great potential in these activities, particularly where acting and speech competitions were concerned. It's not like I pushed, prodded, nagged at encouraged him to take on the school newspaper or yearbook. I didn't recommend more than once or twice robotics or other appropriately geeky science-related clubs that I knew he wasn't interested in, despite being eminently qualified for. Honestly, I had the best intentions. And, if Ian loves his mother, he might just prove it by auditioning for the musical this year. One last opportunity for him to make the right decision.

Until college, when I'm he's given a fresh start.

I have recently experienced Ian sightings at Villanova. I'll be walking across campus and envision bumping into him. Or seeing him in the cafeteria. That's not so bad. I probably won't embarrass him much if/when that happens. What's more problematic is that I've started to take note of opportunities that I don't want him to miss if he comes here. I hear one of the many acapella groups perform and think, "He's got to try out; he'd be great!" I learn of a student-run homeless shelter in the city, and I can't wait for him to get involved. I know of a certain professor who is conducting research on a topic that will interest Ian and I tell the professor that my son would love to work with him/her. The Global Leadership Fellows Program? Where do I sign him does he sign up? My The excitement is palpable!

I'm in trouble here.

And this post may have just squashed the possibility of Ian attending Villanova.

I have his best interests at heart. But he knows his interests and he's becoming an adult and he will need to make all of these decisions for himself.

Perhaps if I just refer to them as suggestions?

P.S. Did I mention there's Irish dance? And an ethics bowl team?

College-Prep Chronicles, Volume 3

"I don't think it hit me--until the last one left home--that my job was basically over."

"It never occurred to me that they'd all move away."

"Boys definitely don't stick around." 

Three separate conversations. Three opportunities for me to stop in my tracks and wonder, "Could this actually be more difficult than I imagined?"

You know my story. I disliked motherhood for at least the first ten five years of my kids' lives. Nothing against them personally, I just didn't enjoy all the responsibility and the self-sacrifice. Frankly, it was really hard. Despite everyone telling me to enjoy it, that it goes "so fast," the time seemed to crawl by in those early years. As they grew up and things became easier, i.e., they didn't need so much from me, I became less unhappy. I wouldn't say I was singing from the rooftop or doing arts and crafts or making dinner, or anything crazy like that, but at least I wasn't regularly planning my getaway. Oddly enough, it wasn't until my children became tweens and teens that I actually decided this whole motherhood thing might not have been a mistake after all.

Given how eager I was for them to go off to college during the toddler years, I must confess that I never saw this coming. This sense of foreboding that's sometimes accompanied by a dull ache when I think about what waits just around the corner. I suppose if there's a downside to have pretty great teenagers, it's that it's harder to imagine letting them go.

For the first time in my life I'm having sentimental mommy moments:

The highlight of my trip to Italy was watching Ian from a distance and finding immense joy in seeing him smile and laugh. 

Pictures before the junior prom choked me up when I considered how grown up and lovely they all are. And dear God, how is it possible that next year it will be the senior prom?

I recognize that breakfast with Ian after church, before he goes to work, is precious time. And when we're together he looks at his phone less often than his father does, which makes me think the time is somewhat special to him, too.

When he makes me laugh or smile, even when he makes me crazy, I realize that our home won't be the same without him.

And it's not just Ian that I'm getting a bit emotional about these days. Although Abby is still four years away from college, I am acutely aware of what a huge void she will leave behind. For one thing, she's actually a visible presence, whereas Ian only leaves his room or the basement for food or to head out the front door for another destination. When Abby leaves home, who's going to run the household, knowing where everything is, where everyone needs to be and when, and how to do everything? Who will bake for me?

For the past year, Rob and I have been talking about our impending move, "as soon as the kids are gone." It sounded good to me, starting over, just the two of us. But now I wonder if I'm not employing the old "ditch the boyfriend/girlfriend" trick. You know, the one where you break up with him/her so he/she can't break up with you first? In other words, if Rob and I announce our decision to move on, the kids can't hurt us when it's their turn to leave. Oh, the mind games I play.

Hopefully, I'm making much ado about nothing. Perhaps I'll love having a quiet and considerably cleaner home. Perhaps I'll be so busy with my own activities I won't notice their absence (there is that theater degree in my future). Perhaps they'll call everyday just to chat so it won't feel like they're gone. Perhaps they'll both go to Villanova and I'll meet them regularly for lunch (HA!).

Perhaps I should stop worrying and wondering about the "what ifs" and try to enjoy the time I have left with them.

Random Musings: Pre-Italy Edition

It's been awhile since I posted my random musings. Here's one for you: Why do women in public bathrooms (don't know if this applies to men) never choose a stall next to one that's occupied if there are others available? And speaking of bathrooms, the only upside to there being fewer women in engineering is that there's never a line for the ladies' room in my building.

I leave on Friday afternoon for a 10-day singing tour with the Strath Haven High School Silvertones (ST). I'm not singing; I'm chaperoning. I wish they'd let me sing. I'm still wondering if I'd make the group.

Yes, I chaperoned two years ago. First, someone has to do it; I'm taking one for the team. Second, my 16-year-old son is fine with me joining him/them. That alone means I have to go. How many teenagers are willing to have their parents go anywhere with them? And it's not just because he considers me a walking ATM. In fact, now that he's a working man I told him he has to provide his own spending money. Of course, this means I won't actually spend any time with him on this trip. But that's okay, too. I'm in it for the tours. As I've gotten older I've developed a strange passion for history. I actually get giddy when I learn something is hundreds or thousands of years old. It's the same reaction most women would have if they were told George Clooney was around the corner.

Did I tell you I've subscribed to National Geographic? I love it. I feel smart reading it. And if I don't feel like reading, I can always look at the pictures. The irony in my subscribing to National Geographic is that my grandfather ordered me subscriptions every year for my birthday when I was a kid and I didn't read a single issue. Threw them all away. Not too many kids are good candidates for that magazine. That's why they now offer the kids' edition. Still, I feel guilty.

Another reason to go to Italy? The wine. Did you know that prior to the previous trip I had never had a whole glass of red wine? And since returning I haven't had any either. There's something about red wine in Italy. It tastes better there. Kind of like mashed potatoes at my mom's house.

I also love Italian meats. This year I won't make the mistake of trying to bring them home in my suitcase. Or, I won't claim them on my official forms at the airport. I'm such a freakin' rule follower. Last time they took all my meat. The only thing I'd brought from Italy for my husband. I cried. Meat's expensive.

To prove to my son that going on this trip is not all about him, I have every intention of chaperoning again in 2017, when he'll be in (yikes!) college. This means I need Cornelia's son Alex, and/or Theresa's son AJ to make the group next year. Not for their own satisfaction, but for my own selfish travel purposes. It would be weird to chaperone if I didn't actually know any of the kids in the group. And I'm fully expecting Cornelia and/or Theresa to accompany me. Girls' week in Italy. Woo hoo!

This year I have a bit of anxiety about the trip for a couple reasons. One, there have been recurrent issues with paying for it. It went something like this:

1. I sent an electronic check through my online bank. 
2. Check was apparently lost in the maze of school district offices.
3. Check was found and sent to ST director.
4. ST director misplaced check. 
5. ST director calls me; I stop check; incur $25 charge from my bank.
6. Write new check; hand delivered to director.
7. Receive text from director weeks later noting that my check did not clear.
8. I go ape shit, insisting that I'm loaded with money; no way check bounced.
9. Turns out mystery person in school district tried to deposit rediscovered original check.
10. It's declined; school district charged fee.
11. New check was cashed, but school district account shows negative balance. 
12. Not my problem.

This might be a sign that I should not go on this trip. If I don't make it home alive, let's just say "I knew it."

Second concern: Roommate situation. For months leading up to the trip it looked like I was going to be the only female chaperone. A status I was quite happy with. I prefer to be the lone woman. It makes me feel powerful. But no, the director had to go and encourage others to join me. I don't really know the other ST moms, but there was only one I really didn't want to come with us. No particular reason other than that she's one of those moms who make us normal moms look bad. In other words, she's super attractive in a rock-n-roll kind of way. Great hair. Cool clothes. Way more hip than yours truly. So hip she probably knows the 2015 word for "hip." Then there's also the fact that her email and blog name are "I am Bossy." Personally, I'm more passive aggressive. 

Did I mention that her blog has tons of readers and gets bunches of comments? If you truly care about me you'll share a comment on this post, just to make me feel better about myself.

A third concern: My flat iron. At the time of the previous trip I had not yet discovered the magic of the flat iron. Of course my hair was short so I didn't need one. Now I need one, but I'm afraid if I use it I'll blow a fuse at the hotel, cutting  power to the whole place. Everything I read says you need a voltage adapter, and even then, hair dryers and the like are risky to use because of their voltage. Do I risk it or accept bad hair for 10 days? Keep in mind that my roommate has great hair. Long, blond, curly. If I come home with a k.d. lang cut, don't be surprised.

Finally, I've decided "Uptown Funk" is this decade's version of "Celebrate Good Times" by Kool & the Gang. I love Uptown Funk, but really hate Celebrate. Maybe I started out loving Celebrate, but they played it to death. Maybe I will one day hate Uptown Funk. 

College-Prep Chronicles, Volume 2: The Mom Meltdown

Ian’s transformation occurred just a week or two before his junior year began.  He noted that school was going to be hard, stressful and overwhelming, and he appeared to be bracing himself for the challenges to come. I’ve faced many moments in life with this approach:  Tell yourself something is going to be absolutely awful so that there’s a chance it will be better than you expect.

It’s been super surprising terrific to see Ian approaching his year with a great deal of focus and hard work. Honestly, I’m not exaggerating when I say that he’s more than doubled the amount of time he’s spending on school work each night. It’s as if he just sailed through the past 10 years with little to no effort, and someone (other than his parents, of course) told him this is the year to get your act together. Whatever it was that spurred him on, I’m happy to see the change.

Unfortunately, I’m unhappy at how unprepared I am for Ian’s junior year. I thought I knew what I was doing, and lo and behold I’m actually falling behind. Last week’s back-to-school night threw me into a tizzy.

Let’s talk about back-to-school night, shall we? I’m starting to think it causes post-traumatic stress flashbacks. In my case, to the mid-to-late 80s. The insecurities, fears, concerns and need to compete are the same, only I weigh 20 pounds more and have to color my hair every 6 months weeks to cover the gray. Here are just a few examples of my neuroses what I’ve gone through each year at this time:

• When Ian was a freshman, I felt overwhelmed and insignificant among the other parents who all seemed so much more grown up than me to know what was going on. As I’ve gotten older Ian has advanced, I've become more comfortable, and now I like to look down upon the lowly freshmen parents and laugh at their angst.
• I worry about my hair, my breakouts and my clothing. Am I out of style? Are my jeans too tight? Do I have enough cover-up on that zit? Do I look younger or older than the other moms?
• I bemoan the fact that I can no longer take part in the extracurriculars, or even some of the interesting classes our kids get to take these days. I wonder “Would I make the Silvertones?” “Would I get a solo?” “What about the school musical? Would I have a speaking part?” “Would I make it past the first round in the speech & debate competition?” “Could I get into a great college?” And it occurs to me that if I had had the opportunity to take AP Psychology in high school, that creepy college professor could never have hit on me because I wouldn't have taken his class.  

Getting into college is what’s really stressing me out these days. I had a plan: PSATs in October. See how I do. I mean see how Ian does. If he needs a prep course, we’ll sign him up. If not, awesome. Okay, it’s not much of a plan. Not only am I missing a few steps, but I’m behind the other kids. I mean the other parents. And it turns out there are tests I Ian should take that I’ve never even heard of.  A subject-specific SAT?? Well, yes, Kim, if you had taken any college tours (“I can’t believe you haven’t taken any tours yet”) you’d know that some of them require the subject SAT. No, that’s not instead of the standard SAT, it’s in addition. And don’t forget about the AP tests. Most honors students enter their first year of college with 15 credits under their belt, thanks to AP courses. Oh, and you should really take the AP Spanish course this spring since you have Spanish 4 now. If you wait until next year, with our block scheduling, it will be that much harder to remember everything you learned.

This is why my finger nails look like a dog’s chew toy.

So other kids’ parents have taken them to visit colleges by now. Some already have taken the SAT and the subject SAT and the ACT and the prep courses. Some are talking to admissions counselors to make sure Susie and Bobby are on track for acceptance to their preferred Ivy. How is it I've fallen so far behind??? What if Ian doesn't get into Yale or Princeton and he has to go Swarthmore or Haverford instead? What if he has to actually use mom’s benefits and go to Villanova? What will I tell my friends if Ian doesn't live up to their my expectations his potential? The peer pressure is overwhelming. 

What’s most important is that Ian doesn't disappoint me get a sense of my hysteria. That he remains calm, cool and collected with his nose to the grindstone, taking one day at a time as I've been wisely advising him to do.

He can leave the advanced freaking out to me.

So, this is how it's going to be

The summer of 2014 will be remembered as the season in which I lost my children. I think in my very last post, just two short weeks ago, I said something about really liking my kids, and as a result missing them when they're gone, which was the case for the first half of the summer. Well, Ian returned home on Saturday night and I spent a week on a mission trip with Abby, and I can now say that I don't like them nearly as much. Okay, that was a little harsh. Perhaps I should put it this way -- they both turned into teenagers this summer. Just putting that in writing makes my skin crawl.

Perhaps you think I'm lucky that Ian didn't hit this evil stage until now, but maybe in some ways that makes it harder to accept. I really thought that if my 16-year-old was still fairly likable that I was in the clear, that I'd made it past go and could collect $200. I had been patting myself on the back for being such an exceptional parent, having raised a kid who never rolled his eyes or gave me major attitude. Oh, how very foolish I've been.

When picking him up at the airport, after being gone for two weeks, my son's reaction to seeing me was "Hey." And no, it wasn't an upbeat, happy, let-me-give-you-a-hug "Hey!" In his first 24-hours at home I spent maybe three hours with him (he ran off to a friend's house), and in that short amount of time he gave me "the look" and the attitude to go with it. He actually had the cojones to attempt to "decline" a volunteer assignment for the following day that benefited an organization of which he's a member. He seriously thought that by stating, "I don't want to," he would get out of doing the job at hand. I don't know what kinds of kids he spent the past two weeks with, but I'm holding them responsible for this metamorphosis.

And then there's my daughter. Abby also deserted me, physically and emotionally, for most of July. The good news is that I know she felt some degree of guilt because of it. Case in point: Last week, Abby and I worked on Habitat for Humanity houses that were just a few hundred yards apart. During a lull in my work, I walked down to check on my girl (who, by the way, won the tool belt award for hardest worker on the first day of our trip). While visiting, I expressed concern for her safety with regard to something she was doing. She scolded me, in essence telling me to return to my own job site. I realized she was right and so I sulked and with my tail between my legs made my way back. Feeling melancholy over the distinct lack of interaction I'd had with Abby since the trip began, I sat myself down in a quiet place outside and contemplated the increasing gulf between me and my children. And I ate some Swedish Fish. And while I was wallowing in self pity and trying to get the candy out of my teeth, Abby came up to me and expressed concern for my well-being. She asked whether she'd done something wrong and apologized for upsetting me. I got teary-eyed telling her everything was fine and sent her on her way. Guilt is an invaluable tool.

Three days after returning home, Ian is ignoring my repeated requests to put away his clothing, groans when asked to do most any household chore, and feigns illness when he doesn't want to do something. In other words, things have somewhat returned to normal. At least he has stopped rolling his eyes and seems to like me a bit more. Of course, that could be because he again relies on me for food and lodging.

Abby, too, seems to have rediscovered me. When she was away on Monday, she texted to say goodnight and tell me she loves me. It was like the good ole days.

Today, Ian woke early to tell me he was heading to the shore with Noah for the day, asking if that was okay at the same time that Noah's dad was pulling into the driveway to pick him up. Sure, it's okay. Thanks for asking. Maybe 10 minutes notice next time instead of five? I believe that, starting tomorrow, Ian and Abby will both be home, together, for the rest of the summer. Which makes me think it's an excellent time for Rob and me to get out town.

My New Reality: A Preview

It's been a strange summer thus far and it's going to remain strange right up until the first of August. It began in June with Ian heading off to a church youth group retreat in the Poconos the Monday after school let out. He returned home on a Friday afternoon and declined to join his family at the Phillies game and fireworks that evening. The next morning, Rob took Ian and his friend Keaton to the airport at 4:15 a.m. for a flight to Atlanta, where Keaton's parents would pick the boys up and take them to Lake Burton, Georgia. Their stay in Georgia lasted 10 days. On the day they returned, we dropped Abby and her friend Maddie off at Immaculata University for soccer camp. They spent four days there. Three days later Abby left for the Poconos for the middle schoolers' week-long church youth group retreat. That same day Rob and I flew to Minneapolis for the All Star Game. We left Ian home alone, paying one of Rob's coworkers to spend the nights with him.

Rob and I returned from Minnesota last Wednesday afternoon; Abby got home on Thursday. On Saturday, Rob and Ian headed out on their road trip to Oxford, Ohio where Ian is spending two weeks in Miami University's Summer Scholars program.

At the parent meeting for Abby's soccer camp, the leaders told us this would be a good first step toward college for the girls. They were responsible for getting themselves where they needed to be, when they needed to be there. They had to remember their gear and their water, and be sure to change their socks and clothes frequently enough that they didn't develop any strange rashes. They ate in the dining hall and slept in the dormitory and if they had lost their keys it would have cost us them $75. Naturally, Abby and Maddie were just fine. Those two could run the camp.

Ian's two week experience at Miami will be an even greater pre-college test. The question is, who will perform better, him or me?

While I usually welcome the opportunity to have a few days away from my children, I have to confess that this June-July anomaly has me a bit freaked out. Let's face it, these exoduses away from home are just harbingers of things to come. And those things to come will be here before I know it. And quite frankly, I'm not sure I'm ready. Me. The one who started counting down the days till they left for college when they were three. Me. The one who thought this motherhood thing might have been a poor (and irreversible) job choice. Me. The one with the 10-year plan that includes no one except me and Rob on a beach somewhere. How has this happened? How is it that I actually have a small ache in my heart?

I think what happened is that I've grown to really like my kids. Loving your children is pretty much a given, but liking them? Not always. As they've gotten older, we actually have meaningful conversations (as long as Ian's not sitting in front of a screen of some sort), and I find I truly enjoy their company. Ian's bright, quick wit never fails to amuse and impress, and Abby's observations, intelligence and competitive spirit provide a challenge.

I'm amazed at the way they've both changed in the past year or so; Ian, in particular. Last summer he couldn't wait to come home from two camp experiences right here at Villanova, 15 minutes from home. He was miserable. This year he's nine hours away for two weeks, spending his days with complete strangers. And he loves it. He's made friends, enjoys his classes (The Business of Sports), and finds the whole experience "great." "Great" is high praise indeed from a 16-year-old boy. On day one it was only "good."

Knowing that Ian's doing well has eased that small ache, but I do miss his sense of humor. I suppose I better get used to it.

This Saturday, while Ian's still in Ohio, Rob, Abby, my mom and I will drive 10 hours to Banner Elk, NC for our church mission trip. We'll leave a day early, Friday, August 1, in order to pick up Ian at the Baltimore airport where he'll fly in from Cincinnati at the conclusion of his Miami U. experience. We'll return home that night where we will begin the month of August with nothing more than Vacation Bible School on the calendar.

It'll be weird, being together like that. I just hope the kids don't get on my nerves.

Sweet 16

Today I became the mother of a 16-year-old. I realize you may question the accuracy of this statement given that I haven't hit 30 yet myself, but it's true. My son Ian is 16. The big question for me is "How did this happen?" I remember I couldn't wait for the first few years of motherhood to speed up. The baby and toddler years were not my best. Everyone told me that time would fly, but you really have no concept of just how true that is until your child is in high school and preparing to leave the nest in just a couple years.

Today's blog post is dedicated to Ian, who has humored me, frustrated me, impressed me, and driven me crazy. I am blessed beyond measure to call him my son.

16 Reasons to Love Ian

1. He makes people laugh.
2. He has a beautiful singing voice.
3. He has an overwhelming passion for soccer, despite not being a player.
4. He's a loyal friend.
5. He's as quick-witted as anyone I know. The Tonight Show will be his someday.
6. He's super smart.
7. He looks adults in the eye when they make conversation with him.
8. He teaches Sunday school to elementary-age kids who can't wait to see him.
9. I've never known him to be mean.
10. Shockingly, he doesn't mind hanging out with me. No, really!
11. His friends' parents adore him.
12. He's a total smart ass, without being disrespectful.
13. He still gives hugs.
14. He has only run away from home once, albeit in the snow wearing really good shoes. 
15. He's the dictionary example of a "really good kid."
16. He still tells me he loves me. 

This is when he started laying around.

The first time we saw that awesome smile. 

He still makes a mess when he eats, 15 years later.

Early gangsta days.

Abby's already trying to tell him what to do.

He's never eaten black licorice again
since learning it comes with a baby sister.

Young man's best friend.

You mean not every kid sees Jamie Moyer
when visiting Dad at work?

The first and only time
he considered playing football.

First time we discovered he looks great dressed up.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Finding Faith Despite My Failings

On Sunday my son Ian was confirmed in our church, Media Presbyterian. This special day was the culmination of about seven months of classes, which he did not attend willingly. Because I failed to make Sunday school a required part of our week - a "given" - as kids, Ian and Abby both gradually fell away from the church. For Abby, the inconsistency in her attendance resulted in feelings of being behind in her learning (not a state she's comfortable in). For Ian, not being there regularly meant he never formed the close relationships that many of the other kids share. Fortunately, Abby has found youth group to be a place to grow in her faith. Ian's faith, however, has been a strictly personal journey, one taken alone instead of with the church family, the same church family that has literally changed my life. Because getting Ian to church was always a battle, last year I made it a point to regularly remind him that confirmation class was not up for discussion. He would go, not just because it was an important part of his spiritual growth, but because as a church elder, usher and involved member, I'd look like an even worse mom if my son did not get confirmed. A lousy reason, but an honest one.

So Ian went. And while the fellowship aspect of the experience did not greatly improve, Ian did grow significantly in his understanding of the Christian faith. More importantly, he actually enjoyed learning, and in the end, he was one of five confirmands who willingly read his faith statement in front of the congregation on Sunday. More on that later.

When Rob and I arrived at church yesterday, I immediately had the sense that I'd blown it. The pews were packed with family and friends who turned out to support and applaud these young people. We didn't even have Abby with us because we allowed her to choose between her brother's confirmation and a soccer game. A no-brainer in her book. I had invited my parents who were unable to attend, and that was it. I had no gift for Ian and no grand party. (He suggested we should have sent invitations to a post-party with instructions to "treat this like a Bar Mitvah."). I couldn't even convince him to let his Dad and me take him out for a nice lunch. For someone who claims to be a person of faith and a committed member of MPC, I had definitely dropped the ball on what was my son's biggest day in the life of the church. And the more I think about it, the more I realize I dropped the ball when it comes to my children's faith in general.

Ian and John

In addition to failing to make Sundays at church a family tradition, I rarely talk faith with Ian and Abby. I'll share it with my Freakin' Angels. I'll talk with Rob. I'll even write the occasional blog post about it, but the two most important people I should be sharing it with are being overlooked. I guess it should have come as no surprise when Ian stood in front of the church to read his faith statement and gave most of the credit to our youth director (and confirmation class teacher) John Chaffee. I think Rob and I were recognized for dragging, um, I mean bringing him to church. Even Pastor Bill and the children's choir director got more props than mom and dad. I know, he's a 15-year-old boy and they tend to forget their parents exist, but as he spoke and I reflected on those 15 years, I had to admit that I don't deserve the credit for bringing him to where he is now, at least where faith is concerned. I'm thankful to John for helping Ian to grow.

If you're wondering about Ian's paper presentation, I'm happy to say he did a great job with regard to his composure, delivery and eye contact. (He gets his public speaking chops from his mom.) As for the paper itself, it was classic Ian.

Honest: "I don't know where I'm headed with this faith journey or how I'm going to get there."

Humorous: "Despite appearances to the contrary, I actually enjoyed the time I've spent at church over the years." 

Brief (to John, before Sunday): "That's all I want to say. Can I stop at two pages?"

It's obvious that despite our lack of pomp and circumstance, confirmation meant something to Ian. After the service, he asked Pastor Bill if he can be a church elder now (the youngest elder ever, I'm sure). Bill offered him the pastorate instead, and I think Ian can handle it.

This was a Job for the Sociable Spouse

You knew this was coming when you read on Facebook that my son had offered our home as last Friday's pre-Frosh (freshman/sophomore dance) gathering spot for picture taking. I believe my status update ended with *+%#@!%&!. I was at work on Thursday when he asked if it was okay, so I had nonchalantly said yes without asking for details. Important details like, "How many people are coming," and "What's required of me beyond snapping a picture?" At 9:00 p.m. that evening I learned he was estimating about 30 people. Oh, and could I maybe provide some food? Hence the *+%#@!%&!

Much like everything these days (from Sweet 16 parties to senior prom invites), the pre-dance gathering has become a bit excessive. I guess I shouldn't say "has become" because actually I have no idea what they were like "back in the day." I don't recall ever gathering at anyone's house before a prom. The guy just came over to pick me up, my parents took some pictures and we were on our way. But then again I wasn't one of the popular kids and didn't exactly have a "group" of friends. Maybe the cliques got together and maybe their parents came too, and maybe the hosts provided food and drink and turned it into a brief, but well prepared party. That's what it's like now, anyway.

Thankfully I had some idea of what I was in for needed to do after experiencing one of these little gatherings last year. Before the 8th grade dance, we all converged on the home of one of the young ladies in Ian's circle of friends. There, I was shocked to discover a whole spread of food and soft drinks for the kids, and beer and wine for the adults.It was a more impressive soiree than I put on when I'm having a "real" party.

In addition to the woefully inadequate amount of time I had to prepare (damn my full time job!), to add to the pressure was the painful realization my understanding that the kids coming to my house that evening were not any old upper middle class kids. These were Silvertones (members of a select singing group at our high school). And Silvertones is code for "Swarthmoreans." I believe Ian is the token Wallingford kid. The director must have had a quota to fill. If you're not familiar with Swarthmore, which is part of our school district, it's home to the brightest of bright, most artistically talented, and all around green-living, peace-loving and healthy-eating Democrats. Home to the #1 ranked liberal arts college in the country, the borough attracts brilliant Swarthmore College professors who often are married to equally brilliant professors who work at Penn. I'm not positive, but I believe each home in Swarthmore is required to have at least one professor, one medical doctor, or an artist, writer or musician. Basically, compared to people in Swarthmore, I'm a hillbilly with a 6th grade education.

Clean cut, albeit clumped together

Although Swarthmoreans are not exactly unfriendly, I sense they're more comfortable with their own kind. Therefore, I was not looking forward to entertaining these folks and dealing with my petty insecurities. And then there's the fact that I can't remember any of their names when I see them. Clearly this was a job for Rob. And he was in Clearwater, Florida, hard at work taking clients to Spring Training baseball games, expensive meals and golfing. Talk about shitty jobs. Anyway, the point is, Rob was not home.

Rob is a much better entertainer / socializer / networker than I am. (Hence, his job.) He knows which cheeses, crackers and dips to buy, and he always buys enough. (I'm getting better at that.) He knows which wine to pull out of the cellar (No, we don't have a wine cellar. Just a cellar). And somehow he seems to know twice as many people living in our school district as I do. Did I mention Rob wasn't home for this grand affair that I was blowing completely out of proportion?

The older woman...

I'm sure you're anxious to know how it went. The good news is that the kids were pretty decent. One of them in particular, I think they call him D.G., was just about the nicest, most genuinely friendly kid I've ever met. Maybe he's not from Swarthmore. Clearly his parents have done an excellent job raising him. Another good thing about Swarthmore kids is that they tend to not offend my delicate sensibilities, a.k.a. prudishness. No skanky tarts panty-high mini skirts, bared midriffs, or plunging necklines in the bunch. Ian's date was a perfectly dressed, pretty young lady.

The bad news is, as anticipated, I couldn't remember the names of any of them -- kids or parents. And the living room was crowded and clumped with no good setting for a group picture. Then there's the fact that no one ate. I spent $50 on food and I think the only thing that was touched was the watermelon on the fruit platter. By the way, I have to give a big shout out to Freakin' Angel Cathie who made a BJ's appetizer run for me while I was at work.

Now, lest I leave you on a sour note, I should mention that I will have an opportunity to learn the names of all the Silvertones when we spend ten days together in Italy, beginning next Thursday, March 21. I'm chaperoning the group's biennial singing tour of what I have heard is a beautiful country with wine that's less expensive than soda. While I've never been there, I believe all the Swarthmorean kids have already traveled the world. I should be in good hands.

Good Times, but I'm Still Waiting for the Pie*

It's been four days since I returned home from our Lake Tahoe adventure and I think I need a vacaction. If not a vacation, at least a deep tissue massage. I didn't forsee the level of physical activity, some of which I alluded to in 10 Things I Learned on My Summer Vacation.

It started on Day One with a roughly 12 mile round trip bike ride from the Red Wolf Lodge at Squaw Valley where we stayed, to Tahoe City. The weather was phenomenal, the bike path mostly flat, and the scenery (riding along the Truckee River) beautiful. I had one small incident running my beach cruiser into a fence (damn those barely-there brakes), but other than that, we had an amazing time.

Then came Day Two.

It started innocently enough. We headed out with a small group of Red Wolf Lodge guests for a short, one hour round trip hike in Shirley Canyon. When we reached our destination and prepared to head back to the lodge, however, someone in our family, IAN, suggested we hike to High Camp. High Camp is up high (duh), at the top of the mountain (Squaw Valley). Given the shock of Ian suggesting any form of physical activity, Rob and I agreed.

We asked our tour guide about continuing the trek and were informed that we were about 1.5 hours from High Camp and that if we continued about 45 minutes past there we could also visit Shirley Lake. Best of all, we didn't need to hike back down the mountain because we could take the aerial tram from High Camp back to the village at no cost. Another hiker in our group encouraged us onward, assuring us that his wife had hiked it in her flip flops and that the trek wouldn't get any more difficult than it was then (relatively flat and wooded).

Let's just say news reporters aren't the only ones who should alway check their sources. To put it mildly, we were the victims of bad information. It turned out that fellow hiker man and his flip-flop footed wife had never made it all the way to High Camp and our tour guide had her destinations, and hence her times, reversed. The lake was actually 1.5 hours away and the tram 45 minutes past that. You couldn't actually get to the tram without traveling past the lake first (at least not without mountain climbing and rappelling gear). We didn't learn this bit of news until we were too far to turn back.

And did I mention that between the four of us we had one and a half bottles of water and no food?  

And that I wasn't even wearing my brand new Cabela hiking shorts?  

And that the wooded, dirt path turned into sheer rocks?

And that we were ultimately covering 3+ miles and working our way up a 6,000 foot incline?

I kept waiting for the St. Bernard with the little barrel around his neck to show up and rescue me, or at least provide some much needed hydration.

Our little adventure ended up taking three-plus hours and challenged me even more than my black belt tests. Of course it could be because I was so completely unprepared.

In the end, I'm glad we made the trek, first and foremost because I saw a new side of my son. Ian showed how mentally, emotionally, and physically strong he could be as he led the rest of us up that mountain without complaint. And of course along the way we viewed some of the most incredible sites -- and heights -- I've ever seen.

 

That was Day Two.  

Day Three included whitewater rafting (class 2 & 3 rapids).  

Day Four took us swimming at Sandy Beach State Park on Lake Tahoe, followed by horseback riding in Alpine Meadows where my horse and Ian's had a little spat. While we were riding them.

By Day Five we had come to our senses and were relaxing luxuriously at High Camp's pool and hot tub. Yes, there's a big beautiful pool, restaurant, and even rollerskating, disc golf, and paintball all at 8,200 feet. Pretty cool to swim a mile-plus above sea level. (And it was literally cool when that wind blew!)  

All in all, our week in Lake Tahoe was one of the best family vacations we've ever had. The kids fought a fair amount, but we had a heck of a lot of fun, tried a bunch of new things, and ate a number of quality hamburgers.

Good times indeed.

*If you're wondering what the pie reference in the title is all about, check out "The Psychological Power of Pie."

A Reunion and Regrets

I didn't mean to lead you on. I suggested I'd have some juicy blog material from my 25th high school reunion on Saturday. Unfortunately, I don't have anything overly hilarious, heartwarming, or heartbreaking to report. I may have had something to work with if more than 10% of my class of 500+ had showed up. Alas, the turnout was weak. Most of the attendees were locals with just a handful of obviously bored individuals making the trek from out of state.

Overall, I guess everything you would expect from a reunion basically held true. I checked myself in the mirror a few dozen times to make sure I looked okay before getting out the car. Then I contemplated finding a quick shot of botox in a back alley in downtown Easton. Of course I compared myself to every other woman there cause that's what women do. Some looked exactly the same. Some changed quite a lot. There were people whose faces I didn't recognize and some whose names I never heard before. A surprising number of people in my class have died.  Several are divorced. I was really glad to see a few of them, particularly those who, thanks to Facebook, I can now call friends. A shout out to Jim, "reporter for Guitar World," who falls into this "new friend" category.

I'm afraid the most memorable reunion experience was one that embarrassed me and that I'll likely never forget. I wish I could say that I discovered I'd been wearing two different shoes or that there was spinach in my teeth. Even asking someone if they were pregnant when they weren't would have been preferable. Nope. I'm embarrassed to report that I learned I'd been mean. I, Freakin' Angel Kim, had a mean girl moment 28 years ago.

Literally minutes after arriving at the reunion a classmate sought me out. He wanted to show me what I'd written in his 9th grade yearbook. Here's what I read:

To a real nerd, Good luck in the future (you'll need it). Kim

Mortifying. I was not the mean girl. I was the girl who made an effort to befriend outsiders. I never made fun of anyone or laughed at their expense. And I'm relatively certain I wrote that in jest, as is the case with 99% of my snarky comments. But it was a painful reminder of the power of words. The impression they can make and the hurt they can cause. And how something that might seem amusing at the time can say something else entirely 25+ years later.

The weird girl and her funny son

I couldn't apologize enough to this classmate. I tried to convince him (and I meant it) that I must have really liked him to be willing to insult him like that because I only tease (and hurt) the ones I care about. I know that sounds assinine, but that's me.

This yearbook flashback made me think about my son's 8th grade yearbook. I took a look through it recently and enjoyed the funny and sweet comments:

Ian, you're the best ever!

Ian, you are one of the funniest, awesomest people I know.

Ian, you're so cool.

Ian, you are one of the funniest guys I know and you always make me smile and laugh.

Ian! You are an awesome singer and friend too!

And then I read this:

Wow! The planets aligned and we ended up on the discovery team together! Anyway, I don't have much to say, but I do want to tell you that through thick and thin, no matter what happens...you will always be my best friend.

You will gladly do anything when we hang out, and when I feel down, you will always be on my side. As Alfred the Butler said "We fall so we can get up again." You are the reason I can always stand back up. Thank you for an amazing year and many more to come! 

Every time I read that I get a little choked up at the depth of emotion, the maturity, the devotion to their friendship. I never had (nor was) a friend like that in high school, much less through elementary and middle school. In looking back through my own yearbooks from those years, I saw nothing to compare. Many of the comments my "friends" wrote referred to me as "weird." I guess I was right to pray to be normal before the start of every school year. But that's another post.

Lest I leave you all with a tear in your eye and a lump in your throat, both over my meanness and my son's goodness, I will share one more reunion moment. It came in discussion with my junior prom date. He looked good. He's successful. And while I talked with him as Rob stood next to me, I realized I had made a mistake in my choice of men.

I should have never gone to the prom with that tool.

Finding Your Place

My vision of Ian,
a few years into the future...

My son is a gamer. There have been years months days when I was certain I'd find him slumped over the computer keyboard or Xbox controls, his body weakened by a lack of fresh air, nutritional sustenance, and face-to-face human interaction. Ian's love of the game has caused his poor mother more than a little bit of angst, but now I'm seeing a light at the end of the virtual tunnel. Eighth grade will be remembered as the year Ian found his place...somewhere other than in front of a screen.

During the second half of the school year, it became apparent that Ian's "thing" is music and theater. He's enjoyed singing in the chorus since 6th grade, but more recently I saw evidence of his passion and commitment when he attended, without complaint, daily after school rehearsals for the school musical. These rehearsals ate into what would have otherwise been valuable game time.  In addition to the musical, this winter Ian was asked to join Cantible, the select vocal group he unsuccessfully auditioned for back in September. Turns out someone else in the group wasn't doing his job and Ian was invited to take his place. (They had after school rehearsals as well. Even less game time.) When I recently thanked the director for giving Ian the opportunity, she remarked at how he had blossomed and surprised her with his development as a singer.

This past Friday we received news that confirmed that Ian has indeed found his voice. I had a phone call from his best friend, Noah, around 2:30 p.m. before Ian had arrived home from school. The conversation went something like this:

N: Hey, wanna hear something?

M: Sure, what's up? 

N: I think Ian made the Silvertones.

M: What? No way. Where did you get this information?

N: Someone said they saw the list posted at the high school and Ian's name was on it.

M: Are you sure?

N: About 80% sure. 

80% was not sufficient with news as potentially big as this. See, the Silvertones is the most select singing group at our high school. Only 36 students from grades 9 through 12 will make the cut. I had been hoping Ian might make it by his senior year (oh ye, of little faith). I waited anxiously for him to get home from school. Fifteen minutes later, he came to the door with a shocked, disbelieving, over the moon smile.

Me: Is it true?

Ian (playing dumb): What?

Me: Did you really make Silvertones?

Ian: I think so. That's what Henry said. 

Henry is one of Ian's friends. His dad happens to be the director of the choral and theater program at the high school. This meant Henry was likely to have insider information. But still, Ian warned me, "Do not post this on Facebook." He expected a letter from the high school to arrive that weekend. A few hours later, a congratulatory phone call came from the Silvertones coordinator. And the postman delivered a glorious letter also confirming the good news. Ian was one of only two freshmen/women) to be selected. The letter also provided valuable details, including:

• Ian's strengths (excellent resonance, placement, and relaxation throughout) and weaknesses (precise independent intonation and reading)
• The requirement for Silvertones members to be in all three high school choral groups
• The immediate start of 7 a.m. rehearsals, daily.
• An upcoming introductory meeting for parents...to include discussion of the group's spring trip to Italy.

My son, the gamer, a latecomer to finding his voice, now a member of the Silvertones. We're still in shock here, but I couldn't be more proud.

Seeing your child "find his place" in the world---his gifts, a sense of accomplishment and joy, a circle of friends, belonging to a community---is one of the most amazing things I've experienced as a parent.

Thanks for allowing me to share the experience with you.

10 Things I Love about My Son

Ian with the Phanatic 2007ish

Fourteen years ago I gave birth to my son, Ian. It was an unpleasant experience, primarily because I was too stupid clueless to request an epidural. Only recently have the scars on Rob's wrist faded after I dug my claws into him for getting me into that pregnant state in the first place. But this is not about the pain Ian has brought to my life. This is about the joy. I figure the kid's been through enough abuse via this blog that I owe him this:

The Top 10 Things I Love About My Son

1. He's a genuinely nice and particularly likeable kid.
2. He's extremely funny and quick-witted and can be a major goofball.
3. He's sensitive and affectionate.
4. He's smart and engaging.
5. He sings, acts, reads, and enjoys movies (we have lots in common).
6. He shows real concern for others.
7. He's respectful.
8. Other parents and his teachers have nothing but good things to say about him.
9. He's fun to spend time with (as long as there are no electronics within 300 ft.).
10. Every night before bed he tells his father and me that he loves us. 

Ian, I'm sorry I'm not the kind of mother who remembers what time you were born or your first word, but I hope you can take comfort in the fact that I never forget how blessed I am to be your mom.

Happy Birthday, Ian!

What We Have Here is a Failure to Communicate

I have both undergraduate and graduate degrees in Communications. I say this not to brag (only Phys Ed has a poorer reputation as an academic major), but to make the point that I'm well-versed in communicating. This often translates into my saying whatever thought comes to mind, but that's a post for another time. Today I want to talk about my son's communication skills.

Overall, I am pleased to say that Ian is generally a great communicator. He's personable, engaging, humorous, quick-witted, and well-spoken. He's even comfortable sharing his feeling (gasp!). Recently, however, there have been significant breakdowns in communication. I would rank them in the categories of MAJOR, SIGNIFICANT, and NOTEWORTHY. Let's start with the MAJOR and get it out of the way.

Last week, our schools started PSSA testing (Pennsylvania System of School Assessment). For those whose children are not yet in school or have long since graduated, the PSSAs are standardized tests that kids take almost every year to satisfy the government. But that's a post for another time. Anyway, part of Ian's math testing was going to require the use of a graphing calculator. Along with pencils, classroom chairs, notebooks, paper, tissues, folders, highlighters, basketballs for the gym, music stands for the choral room, and lunch for the principal, we had to purchase this calculator for the start of 6th grade. I have no idea how they work or what they calculate, but the damn thing was ridiculously expensive.

Ian's graphing calculator was "stolen" when he left it in a classroom.

Last year.

And when did I find out about this missing $2,000 $75.00 calculator? The day before he needed it for PSSAs.

This is a major failure to communicate on Ian's part. He admitted he was scared to tell me when the "theft" actually occurred. He quickly learned telling me the day before he needed a new one (when it was too late to at least find an Ebay bargain) was actually much scarier.

Let's move on to SIGNIFICANT.

I am learning that some kids Ian's age care about their appearance. They want their hair to look combed good. They prefer to have fresh breath. And they like their clothes to match and fit. Ian shows no signs of is slowly inching in this direction. I know this because last night he informed me that some of his clothes don't fit. In particular, his underwear. They were cutting off the circulation to his legs. His legs were turning purple. We may have to amputate.

I don't know how long Ian was wearing too tight undies, but just a few weeks ago I discovered the shirt he was wearing was so tight around his arms I couldn't pull the fabric away from his skin. I swear he had to grease himself to get into it. He may have been wearing that shirt (and God knows how many others) since he was 8.

Clothes that prohibit your breathing and movement are of significant concern and should be shared with your mother sooner rather than later.

Then there's NOTEWORTHY. These are issues where timely communication is helpful and preferred, though not life-threatening. Noteworthy issues include:

• Running out of soap and shampoo. How long will a child shower without a cleaning agent before mom notices?
• Having no clean socks, pants, shirts, and of course undies, 10 minutes before catching the bus.
• Taking and relaying a message when the governor phones for your mom because he wants to appoint her to his communication staff

That last one didn't really happen, but it could have. I'd never know.

I imagine Ian will make some modest improvements in these Major, Significant, and Noteworthy areas of communication, but I don't expect miracles. After all, there is the expression, "Like father, like son." I could say more, but Rob doesn't like to be the subject of my blog. But that's a post for another time...

"What we have here..."

Time to Self-Censor or Keep Being Me?

My newly teenage son, Ian, recently joined Facebook after claiming he never would because "it's stupid." I didn't think twice about giving him permission to join the world's 250 million Facebook users because 1) he's  a good kid and 2) he was willing to friend me and his dad, and our close friends, and the youth minister at church.

Ian generally makes good decisions (as long as there's no kitchen stove involved), so his behavior on Facebook doesn't worry me. What concerns me is my behavior. In my mind I've been going back over my status updates, trying to recall if they were appropriate for him to see. For the most part, my updates are about food and trying to convince or guilt people into taking me to lunch (which never happens, by the way). But occasionally I might push the boundaries of what I would be comfortable with my child reading. The same is undoubtedly true of my blog for which he will now see direct links to new posts.

All this has me thinking of how I've shielded Ian and Abby to this point in their young lives. And what I've realized is that I really haven't. I know parents who turn off the news when their kids are around to keep them from being worried or upset. I know some who never argue in front of the children, creating the illusion that marriages are always easy and carefree. Some won't be honest with their kids when mom or dad is angry, sad, anxious, or frustrated. Others tiptoe around the tough topics like body changes, feelings for the opposite sex, drinking, and drugs.

While I don't think I've ever shared anything when the kids were too young to handle the subject (though that is certainly open for debate), I've definitely been open with Ian and Abby to such a degree that there's little they haven't heard. They've listened to the news since they were little and asked questions and shared their concerns in response. They've heard mom and dad argue once in a great while, and while it upsets Ian (nothing phases Abby), he's also been reassured that disagreements are a normal part of relationships and life and they don't mean divorce is imminent.

Given my history of depression, I've been honest with my children about the source of my tears or sadness. I thinks it helps Ian to know I can relate when he "feels sad for no reason." And when they're driving me insane, I let them know exactly why I'm liable to snap at any moment if their behavior doesn't change immediately. As for the tough stuff, I especially enjoy being blunt and making them squirm. Recently Ian's eyes were very red after a night of little sleep. I told him they were red and asked if he was using drugs. Naturally he was mortified and actually burst into tears at the idea of me thinking such a thing. I laughed and told him it was my job to stay on top of this stuff. And regarding boys and girls and birds and bees, well I'm totally comfortable "going there" as well. Hey someone's got to do it (hint, hint, Rob).

So why my concern with my Facebook updates or my blog? Because in addition to my honesty and candor, one thing I feel is of utmost importance is that I always try to set a good example for my children. I strive to:

• Ttreat others with respect, consideration, and kindness
• Live out my faith
• Demonstrate the value of education (and a major love of reading!)
• Commit to being physically fit
• Value the gift of friendship
• Honor my parents (while still acknowledging that my dad's driving stinks)
• Help others, volunteer, be a good community citizen
• Live life with a good attitude

Do I fail miserably at some or all of these at one time or another? Absolutely. And quite often I fail spectacularly on Facebook and in my blog when I usually go for the laugh at the expense of being kind, respectful, positive, healthy, intelligent, or helpful. While my kids certainly know my sense of humor by now, I do wonder if I need to edit/monitor/watch my words now. Decisions, decisions, decisions...

Please share your opinion on this topic. Do I self-censor or keep being me?

Basking in the Glow

This weekend I saw something I've only seen once before. And I saw it not once, but twice within 48-hours. It wasn't a falling meteor. It wasn't a rare species of bird. It wasn't even my children getting along (which I'm still waiting for). It was even better than all those things. This weekend I was blessed by the sight of my son's pure joy and pride.

I've shared about my son Ian before. The almost-13-year-old kid with the heart of gold who still tells me he loves me and hugs me whether anyone is watching or not. The kid who gets straight As in school. The kid who despite his heart and brains seems to aspire to nothing more than double-digit daily hours in front of a screen, connected by a mouse, remote, or Wii gadget. I tenderly think of Ian as my bright and lovable slug.

My fencer!

This weekend my bright and lovable slug found satisfaction, accomplishment, and sheer delight away from the glow of a computer or television screen. It started on Saturday at his first fencing tournament. Ian began fencing at the beginning of this school year and Saturday was the "test" to rank the new students and determine whether they are ready to compete. Seeing Ian in his fencing mask and jacket was a treat for me. Before he even competed I saw that he had a certain confidence about him, that look you get when you're in your element. I was there for his first bout, which he won, and when that fencing mask came off, my son's face was red from exertion and glowing from his accomplishment. It was a look I'd seen on his face only once before and that was following his concert performance as part of the 6th grade's select chorus last year. It was a look every parent craves, the look that says "I did it! I worked hard for this and I proved myself and this is where I belong."

But Ian's glorious weekend didn't end with his four hours of fencing on Saturday. Sunday held its own surprises when Ian headed out at 6:30 a.m. to compete with the Science Olympiad team for the first time. Quite frankly, I expected Science Olympiad to be a bust. A super-long day with a great deal of down time combined with Ian's participation in one category he wasn't prepared for didn't bode well for his continued interest. But what does mom know? Ian came home 11 hours after he'd left, looking tired and telling me that he needs to study more. At that point the grin broke out and he pulled a gold medal from inside his jacket. He and his partner had won the gold in the category that Ian had been prepared for. Again, that glow! I swear you could light a room just from that proud smile.

Ian has stumbled his way through a number of ill-fitting activities (baseball, soccer, viola) to get to this place of joy and pride and that makes his successes all the sweeter. As a mom, is there anything more I can wish for my children than for them to find that which brings them true satisfaction and happiness? I'm starting my week feeling incredibly blessed!