The Walk & Talk about the Birds & Bees

Ian had an eventful weekend. On Saturday, he celebrated his 12th birthday with a party/sleepover. And on Friday evening, I made him take a neighborhood stroll with me while we talked about boy/girl stuff. I guess the good news is that Ian hates walking so much that the talking part didn't seem as bad in comparison.

I wouldn't have had to have the "talk" with Ian if my husband was doing his job. For about nine months now (the irony of that length of time isn't lost on me), I've been asking him to talk to Ian man-to-man. I wanted this conversation to take place before Ian had health class in school. Well, health class ended last week and still Rob has said nothing. Hence, the walk & talk with mom.

So you're probably wondering what I said and how it went. Well, it was rather spur of the moment and I didn't know what I wanted to cover, so needless to say I stammered through it. I stuck to the emotional aspect of things, acknowledging that health class probably covered most of the technical stuff, and for anything distinctly male, his Dad was going to have come through. I generally covered:

• Respecting girls/women
• Never doing anything with a girl that she doesn't want to do
• Sex being more than just a physical act and how your brain and heart need to be involved
• The significance of the "first time" and why you need to be an adult, in love, and in a committed relationship

That last one was a toughy. I threw in "ideally after marriage," but I couldn't bring myself to sell it to him as gospel (no pun intended). Yes, I'm a Christian, and yes, I know what I'm supposed to say. I also know that admitting this may get me thrown out of my own Freakin' Angels club and may result in me being shunned at church on Sunday, but I don't know that I believe waiting for marriage makes someone a better Christian or even makes for a better union between husband and wife. Yikes, there, I said it. Let the barrage of comments begin.

But back to Ian. So how did he take our "talk?" Pretty well, actually. When I asked him what he thought about everything, he said he thinks waiting for marriage is the way to go. Of course, it's possible he said that just so we wouldn't have to have this conversation again until his wedding night.

Party On...and Next Year, Off-Site

We almost missed it altogether. Another birthday. Another party. Ian was turning twelve, and with just a week to go, we hadn't planned anything for him. In a moment of brilliance I suggested a camp out in the backyard. We've got the perfect yard for it, including the fire pit, and I figured a group of 12-year-olds were prepared to sleep outside without parental supervision. Of course, I also considered that this wonderful plan would keep them out of my house.

Naturally, Mother Nature didn't cooperate. She turned up the wind machines, dropped the temperature 15 degrees, and the boys ended up on the floor of my newly redecorated living room, the only inhabitable room in the house.

If you've never been the mom of a 12-year-old, let me tell you what to expect at the party:

• The occasional swear word (when they assumed no adult was within hearing range)
• The sulker. The one kid who didn't want to do what the rest of the group was doing (He went off and played on the computer by himself.)
• Intense Nerf gun battles
• A refusal to go to sleep at a reasonable hour because, "We're 12, mom!!!"
• A wake-up call at an ungodly hour. When six 12-year-olds are up, you're up.

[Early on in the evening I remembered distinctly that I swore last year that I would stop having the kids' birthday parties at our house. Damn my 40-year-old memory!]

The most interesting part of the festivities revolved around food. Some highlights:

• The vegetarian who announced at breakfast that bacon has many death-hastening qualities.
• The kid who was never hungry. No dinner. No cake. No breakfast. 
• The smart-ass who requested I try not to burn his next hot dog, since the first one was inedible. "Look, Ian! This one isn't shriveled to less than three times its original size!"
• The kid who boasted that he had eaten horse and whale meat (note to self, don't dine at his house)

The best part of the evening, next to the drinks with Ian's friend's parents, was that I'd left my computer on and was able to immediately set my reminder for April 12, 2011.  The date on which I will reserve a restaurant, arcade, or paintball field for Ian's next birthday party.

Wishing the Tough Calls were Left to the Umps

Life can be painful. High heels. Paper cuts. Taxes. Love lost. Childbirth. Smacking yourself in the mouth when you're trying to pry open a the lid on a sports water bottle.

But one of the most painful things in life is seeing your child hurting.

We all know by now that I'm not the warm and fuzzy-type mommy. I'm not above making my child cry when he has it coming. However, when someone or something else makes my child cry, it hurts me, too.

Ian is playing baseball this season. Against his will. Rob signed him up based on Ian having enjoyed tolerated the sport last year. Ian is not a natural athlete. He much prefers his activities to include a screen rather than a bat, ball, or net. Needless to say, in an effort to keep him from becoming the definition of sedentary, Rob and I are always trying to keep him involved in something that doesn't require only the use of his thumbs. Hence, baseball.

This year, Ian isn't enjoying tolerating the experience. Our pre-game ritual involves Ian "standing up for himself" and fighting with whichever parent has the misfortune of having to take him to the ballpark. Once there, he puts on a reasonably good face until which time he misses the fly ball, hesitates on the throw, bobbles the ball, or strikes out, and then the game is over for him mentally and emotionally. Ian believes he is the worst player on the team and it's taking its toll on him.

Having never stuck with anything I wasn't good at until I hit my thirties, I am sympathetic to Ian and his overwhelming desire to quit baseball. It pains me to see him in tears in the dugout, knowing that the embarrassment of the tears themselves is probably as bad or worse than the play he just failed to make and the feeling that he's let his team down again. If this was an individual sport like karate, golf, or tennis, it would be easier to force him to stick with it for a determined amount of time, but being a team sport makes it that much more difficult for me to not kidnap him from the dugout and tuck him away safely somewhere.

I don't think Rob will allow Ian to quit baseball until this season is over, and it's not because he's cruel. I'm sure he believes that this experience will build Ian's character and hopefully teach him something about teamwork and perseverance. I hope he's right. In the meantime, I'll try to keep my sympathetic tears for Ian to myself.

Lessons Learned the Hard Way

Recently I've made (or been affected by) a number of mistakes that I want to share with you as a public service. There is plenty of practical everyday advice that we're all familiar with, thanks to our mothers. Mine is a bit more obscure, but I believe equally important:

• Don't apply eye drops while driving
• Don't use hand cream while driving
• Don't read a book while sitting in close proximity to little league players practicing their throwing and catching (or lack thereof). Even baseballs thrown at 10 mph sting a little when they hit you (twice).
• Always check for holes at the bottom of the plastic bag before using it to pick up dog poop
• Don't sit down and watch television while ignoring a pile of dog poop in front of you (because your mother will go ballistic)
• Don't allow your kids to use your ipod when you have the Violent Femmes "Add it Up" among your song selections
• Don't read a book on your recliner while your wife vacuums under your feet (because your wife will go ballistic)
• Don't fall asleep on a bus while drinking a 16 oz cup of tea in a flimsy to-go cup
• Don't confess to not following basketball when an intelligent fellow mom who also happens to be a journalist references the Baltimore Sun
• Don't loudly use the word "Hell" when you work in a Christian organization

That's all for now. Undoubtedly there will be a Part 2 to this one in the not-to-distant future. Meanwhile, feel free to share advice based on what you may have recently learned the hard way!

The Lure of the Museum Gift Shop

Yesterday was Ian's field trip to NYC. I chaperoned. We visited the United Nations (I highly recommend taking the tour) and the American Museum of Natural History. We lunched on a great big rock in Central Park and had dinner at Mars 2112 in Times Square. But do you know what is always the highlight of any field trip? The destination gift shops.

I believe gift shops pump candy-scented molecules into the air to entice children to enter. Once there, they are held captive by the never-ending assortment of crap myriad of goodies. Everything from mugs, marbles, and magnets, to books, bags, and baubles. At the UN gift shop, Ian settled on two items. The national flag of Tunisia which is his country for the sixth grade UN project, and a United Nations mouse pad. I had to steer him away from that must-have UN magnet.

At the Museum, Ian purchased (with his own money), a panda bear necklace. It was a sorta-manly styled necklace, but I guess the big selling point for Ian was the bear's "mood-indicator." Like the mood rings of the seventies, these necklaces change color depending on how you're feeling. I have no doubt it will be very effective. Of course he's already taken it off and I don't expect I'll ever see it on him again. (I've had Abby model it here for you.)

As someone who is notoriously cheap very practical, I have issues with souvenirs as a whole. It pains me to watch my child spend his hard-earned money, or mine, on generally junky items that I know within days will disappear into the black hole that is his bedroom. But still, how do you say no to this essential piece of the field trip experience? My parents, who were also notoriously cheap very practical, never denied me the opportunity to bring home a trinket from my travels. In fact, I have a warm memory of being in a gift shop, trying to decide on a pair of earrings to bring home for my mom. They had the same design available in three shapes: circle, oval, and rectangle. Since I just couldn't make up my mind I did what any sensible and loving child would do. I bought all three. She still has them all, though I'm not sure I remember her ever wearing them. Ah, the memories.

Any gift shop souvenirs you've kept since your school days?

Parenting, Swedish Fish, Freakin Angels, and Those Three Little Words

A funny thing happened on the way to this blog post, and naturally it involved that Freakin' Angel Karen who always has something thought-provoking to say.

Today's post was going to be on the topic of how to teach your children to make good decisions. Now it seems it will be about the importance of those three little words: "I am sorry." But let me back up.

On Sundays from 5:00 - 6:30 p.m., Ian goes to middle school youth group at our church. He loves it. In fact, it may be the only thing he loves that doesn't involve a screen. Because youth group takes place at dinnertime, they feed the kids. Usually it's pizza. Parents pitch in a couple bucks (when I remember) to help pay for it.

This past Sunday, when I picked up Ian, I noticed there were no pizza boxes present. (I know because I was hoping to snag a leftover piece). Driving home I asked Ian what they did for dinner and he told me that they walked to Wawa (the world's best convenience store, for those of you who don't live in the northeast portion of the country). I asked him what he got. He told me "Swedish Fish."

I proceeded to go off on him and his lack of judgment. I also questioned whether our youth directors should be allowing 11-to-13-year-olds to make their own dinner decisions (with my $3), but Ian implored me not to "ruin it for everyone." The whole battle discussion mom-meltdown was just one in an ever-increasing series of confrontations with my almost-twelve-year-old. It's becoming exhausting.

Here's where the Freakin' Angel intervention comes into the story.

On Monday night after our Pilates class, FAs Karen and Cathie and I decided to undo all the benefits of working out by going out for drinks afterward. We were joined by FAs Kim G. and Lori. As we women are known to do, we talked. A lot. About everything. I told them my Ian & the Swedish Fish story and instead of rousing support for my tough stance, FA Karen's first response was "at least he told you the truth."

Damn.

I think I'm pretty good at those teachable moments. I think I generally handle things with a textbook approach. But I totally missed the boat on this one. I was so quick to let Ian have it that it didn't occur to me that I needed to recognize his honesty.

When I got home Monday night, Ian was already in bed. I left on Tuesday morning before he was awake. And all day yesterday the need to talk to him was eating at me. When I finally walked in the door at 8:30 p.m., I did a pile driver on him on the couch, and told him I wanted to talk to him. I told him I wanted to apologize. Here's what I said,

The other night when I yelled at you about the Swedish Fish thing, I should have told you I was proud of you for telling me the truth. I shouldn't have gone off on you like that. I don't want you to start lying to me because you're afraid of how I'll react to the truth. So I am sorry. Of course, I hope in the future you'll make better decisions with regard to having Swedish Fish for dinner.

Ian's eyes lit up. He had a big smile and a laugh. He got it. I got it. It was a great moment in parenting history, all thanks to FA Karen.

I think being able to say "I'm sorry" to our children is both one of the hardest things to do and one of the most important. It teaches our kids that adults also make mistakes and hopefully it teaches them how to say "I'm sorry," too.

One mom learning experience down, 543,938 to go. 

Wanna Get Away?

As I write, I'm enjoying a frozen margarita. I just discovered I like frozen margaritas two weeks ago when my Freakin' Angel friend Cathie made them in celebration of the season premiere of Glee. (Yep, we're total gleeks.)

Friends and margaritas got me thinking:

If
Friend = Cathie
and Cathie = Margaritas
and Margaritas = Mexico
and Mexico = Get-away,
Then
Friend = Get-away

Today I'm recommending that all you women out there get away. With just the girls. (If you're not a girl, you might be disappointed with this post, but you'll just have to forgive me and find something else to read.) Sure, time with your family, spouse, or significant other is important, but there's something cathartic and special about a get-away with girlfriends.

Now if you're like me, you're saying "No shit duh! Girl time is awesome. Where are we going and when do we leave?" But it has come to my attention that there are some women (and let's pray they're in the minority), that don't want to go away. Don't want to leave their husband and/or their children. My neighbor Linda recently shared this disturbing piece of information when informing me about her husband's current boys-only trip. In SWITZERLAND. Each year, they take turns planning a get-away and the rest of the gang doesn't know where they're going until the day they leave. (Very cool concept, and particularly note-worthy because I don't know too many men who are good at planning anything, much less a vacation.) When I told Linda she needed to take a trip with the girls, she completely agreed. Unfortunately, it seems her circle of friends falls into this bizarre subset of women who don't want to travel sans man and child. I think Linda really needs new friends. Knowing there are women out there like this concerns frightens me.

In an effort to keep wives and moms sane (and to boost the struggling travel industry), I'm going to offer, as an unpaid public service, the top 5 reasons why all women should go on an annual girls getaway:

1. You never have to go to bed early with that "I have a headache" excuse. 
2. Your girlfriends will never raise their eyebrows when you have dessert after dinner. And lunch. Every day.
3. You can't giggle or laugh too much when you're with the girls.
4. Reading chick lit is perfectly acceptable.
5. The girls totally understand why you need to purchase jewelry, an outfit, or at least a Christmas tree ornament as a souvenir.

And probably the very best reason to get away is that when you return home your family may actually appreciate you--at least for those first five minutes, and you just might appreciate them, too.
 

For your comments:

1. Girls get-away: YES or NO?
2. Your top reason why girls should get away.
3. Your best girl get-away