Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Great Falls rocks! (literally)

Ahhh, Memorial Day Weekend, the unofficial start of Summer, 3 glorious days free from school and work, when families everywhere take some time to doze in a hammock, splash in a pool, eat barbequed...stuff. And how does Team WestEnders choose to spend their steamy, sunny Memorial Day Monday? Ooh, I know: let's run around in the woods, and climb on some big honkin' rocks!

Today's jaunt--Great Falls--has actually been on my list of Potential Cool Activities (yes, this actually exists) for quite a while, but we just hadn't gotten around to it yet. In preparation, I did some research (naturally) to uncover vital facts that every intrepid explorer needs...you know, things such as "where it's located" and "what to do there." I knew that Great Falls lies on the Potomac River, with access from both the Maryland and the Virginia side. Add to that some printed directions, a description, and a Trail Map, and I felt fully equipped to launch our expedition--um, "Family Hike". As I skimmed the material, however, I noticed that the path we'd selected to attempt, the Billy Goat Trail, merited its own warning statement. Hmm, let's see, it says here "very physically demanding". Oh, pshaw--we're strong! We're fit! We laugh in the face of your cautionary words! In fact, we thrive on danger and live for the excitement of a challenging trek through forests and over boulders! Now stand aside and let us get on with it! (Believe it or not, author's embellishment notwithstanding, that's more or less the tone and content of the boys' response when I shared the Park Service information...)

So we (and by that I mean "Mom") packed snacks and drinks and bug spray and sunscreen and tissues and camera...and a bunch of other necessary items...and we made our way to the park. The Maryland portion actually is situated within the C&O Canal National Historical Park, which means you initially set foot on a wide, sandy, smooth towpath and gaze upon gently cascading water as it flows in an organized, controlled fashion through the locks. Eventually you meander toward the entrance to the wooded section. When you arrive at the head of the Billy Goat Trail, there's a friendly volunteer Ranger, and a large, serious-looking sign...which starts off by telling you that this hike is one of the most difficult...in the East. Well, now...that seems...somewhat sobering. Below that, it advises you to allow "up to 4 hours." Um...definitely beginning to experience some doubts, here. Then it finishes strongly by stating that due to a 40-foot rock face that you will encounter during the hike, "if you are afraid of heights, this might not be the place for you." Uhhhh ohhhh. I suddenly revised my earlier "no fear" stance and adopted a more prudent "we'll see" attitude....

In the early going, we managed the multitude of large rock chunks sticking out of the dirt by simply stepping over and around them. No problem, easy so far! Then we came to a section of the path where the only way to continue...was over some ginormous hunks of--I don't know, toppled mountains? The thing I found hilarious (and by "hilarious" I mean "are you freakin' kidding me with this?") was that the trail markers (those painted rectangles that show up periodically on trees, reassuring you that you're still going the right way) appeared on the boulders. Yep, some Park Service employee painted those suckers on, just so you'd know that in order to progress forward, you'd be required to scramble over. Okay, I've got this...hands and feet all reaching and stretching and gripping...and at times butt-scooting...but it's all good. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, actually, having navigated that little (or actually not so little) bump in the road. Moving on!

And then, we came face to face with the Cliffs of Insanity (and tragically, no Fezzik to carry me up). Yep, they were not exaggerating about the daunting tower of sandstone squarely blocking...pretty much the entire landscape...preventing me from proceeding any further. Because I took one look up up UP and reached an instantaneous, irrevocable "no thank you" conclusion. Unhappiness with heights, terror of slipping, my weak left ankle--pick one, and it was enough to dissuade me from being a crazy climbing fool...like Husband and children. Sigh. Monkey boys and their Dad clambered right on up there without a backward glance. At least they waved to their lily-livered mother (I mean "one who wisely recognizes and accepts her limitations") when they safely reached the top. (Ironically, while they were busy with the rocks, I overheard another hiker talking about the fact that there are actually three Billy Goat Trails...of which the other two are significantly easier. Rats!) After the family made their way back down, we figured it was time to turn back, as we deemed ourselves sufficiently hot, sweaty, and tired to have earned our lunch.(You knew it all had to circle back to "food" somehow, right?)

The male members of our tribe are already talking about returning in the Fall, when it's cooler, and finishing the entire length of the trail as a boy-bonding endeavor. And I say "go for it"...because outside the woods, I already know there's a delightful canal path that I can stroll--or bike--for mile after peaceful, non-strenuous mile, as long as I want...and meet them back at the car for a nice picnic when everyone's had their fill of preferred adventure!

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Perils of the Pool

Today's anecdote comes to you courtesy of Derek, who probably will not be as amused by the retelling as I was by the original incident...but it just goes to show you how your life is fraught with all sorts of danger and doom, when you have a Mom Who Blogs. (Overly dramatic? Yeah, that's another risk that accompanies a creative parent. I just keep my fingers perpetually crossed that Derek--who thus far has been a completely open-book, tell-all, un-self-conscious kind of guy--never becomes too embarrassed to tell me stories. Or to allow me to put them in print...on the Web...for the whole wide world to see. Luckily, as Husband points out, "He does like to read his own Press.")

Anyway, the three males were preparing to storm the pool for the first time this season. Derek and Riley dug out their swimsuits, and attempted to shimmy into them...oops. Guess we didn't think to do a little size check this Spring...but it was worth the price of admission (even if that was "free") to watch Riley grimace and wriggle and tug his shorts over his tushie...then jump around and try to remedy the massive wedgie he received as a reward for his valiant efforts. "It's fine," he bravely asserted, just before I made him take it off and use one of Derek's...which fit perfectly. Uh oh. This didn't bode well for the older brother, who we already know has shot up 3 inches and packed on 10+ pounds since last Summer. Using the same hop/squirm/pull technique, Derek managed to force himself into his own suit, declaring it, "Okay...for today at least." (I think he might even have been holding his breath and sucking in his stomach to facilitate the process. Memo to me: Target trip, STAT!)

After that pre-game warmup, off they went to the Swim Club. (Sounds much swankier that way than "neighborhood pool", yes?) Meanwhile I stayed home to...well, frankly I don't remember exactly what I did while they were gone, but it's not important. When they returned, our tale resumes. Derek immediately came upstairs to treat me to the full Pool Report. "We saw the F family and the G family and the H family (not making this up--it just so happens some of our... alphabetically-sequenced...friends were there at the same time). But wait, here comes the exciting plot twist: after a short pause he added, almost as an afterthought, "And some girls from my school were there...they kept calling my name...which I didn't really get. First reaction: "Awww, how precious! Little tweeny-boppers are flirting with my baby!" Followed instantly by: "Heeeyyyy, wait just a doggone minute!" And the funny thing is, I can picture the scene with absolute clarity: the pack of females hanging together, hailing the boys with their high-pitched girly voices, then hiding behind their hands and giggling amongst themselves...OY.

Fortunately, Derek seemed bemused and befuddled by the whole experience. Or perhaps by relating the occurrence to me, what he really sought was some Mom Answers and Advice. Well, here it is, sweetie: girls are alien creatures that you will not even begin to understand until you are much, MUCH older. So truly, there's no point wasting any time on them right now. Focus on stuff like sports, video games, and bro-bonding and you'll be just fine. Now run along and play some soccer while I go shopping for the ugliest, least-girl-attracting swimsuit I can find. (Think that'll help? Worth a shot, right?)

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Mystical Medicine

One challenge you hear a lot about in today's extra-busy, fast-paced world is women putting everything else in their lives before their own well-being, taking care of everyone else first, and feeling guilty about carving out time out to tend to their own needs. Well...not me. Call me selfish if you want, but I realized a long time ago (hmm...about the time I had kids, as a matter of fact) that eating properly, exercising, and prioritizing some "alone time" are not optional, but rather absolutely necessary to keep me functioning on all cylinders. Only when I'm looking out for my own health can I give my best to my family as well. Over the years, my self-designed "Holistic Wellness Plan" has evolved to embrace both "traditional medicine" (physicians, dentists, physical therapists on occasion) and what used to be considered "alternative therapies" but are now more and more being accepted into the mainstream. For me, the latter category has at one time or another included specialists in acupuncture, chiropractic, and massage.

Why bring this up? For the past several years, I've been keeping regular appointments with a Chiropractor (who when I told him I'd be writing about him using a pseudonym, good-naturedly encouraged me to go ahead and print his real name. But I'll just stick to "Dr. H") who himself incorporates different styles of treatment. First off, this is not your "neck-cracking" kind of manipulation. After hearing my synopsis of "what's creaky this month", Dr. H is more likely to test certain muscles by applying pressure gently with his hand, and having me resist by pushing back, in an attempt to maintain my arm or leg in the original position without wobbling or giving out. When he identifies a weak spot in my response (i.e.: he can move me more easily and I'm unable to fully deflect the pressure), he can then determine which muscle needs work to either release a knot, or move it back into alignment. Yes, I realize it sounds like quackery, but from repeated experience, I can tell you it honestly does work. Occasionally when Dr. H does something that seems a little more...new agey?...than usual, I'll request the explanation. And the scientific reason for everything he does is either based in the concrete anatomy (the scapula's connected to the vertebrae...and so on) or what I think of as the more "Eastern-type" philosophy of stimulating acupressure points and activating the body's energy centers.

So I've just always gone along and swallowed this routine in its entirety, rarely even questioning Dr. H's techniques any more. I trust him, whatever he does works, so usually we simply chat during my visits about weekend plans or family stuff or whatever. But today's encounter went well beyond the whoo-whoo stuff I normally accept without blinking. There I was, lying on the table on my back with my right arm in the air, bent at the elbow. Dr. H was checking my right shoulder by pressing down on my arm while I pushed back. So far this was completely familiar and comfortable territory. I was focusing on keeping my arm steady and strong, not even paying particular attention as he gently pressed various other unrelated points. But then suddenly he queried, "Has your hip been bothering you at all lately?" Excuse me, my WHAT? I was shocked ...stunned ...speechless ...because the answer was an unequivocal yes. "How did you figure that out?" I sputtered. I'm sure I'm not remembering all the details, but to sum up: when he put pressure on a certain point and my arm wavered, it indicated a related weakness in my hip. Oh....kay....now I'm thinking maybe my Board-Certified Chiropractor might actually be more of a...Voodoo Doctor.

But wait, it gets even more surreal, believe it or not. After using one of those handheld massagers to relax the tight hip muscle, he continued exploring other acupressure areas. Then he mused, sounding hesitant and almost apologetic for even suggesting such a thing, "You don't really seem the type, but is it possible you have a problem with sugar in your diet?" Oh. My. Gosh. Next I expected him to get out the Tarot cards and crystal ball to compete our diagnosis, because there is no way he could have guessed that. I only see him, briefly, once a month, and I know the results of my recent physical exam never came up in our casual conversations. So either I accidentally stumbled into the Psychic Friends Division of Chiropractors...or those freakin' acupressure points are scarily accurate (and also obnoxiously tattle-tale...y). Anyway, now I suppose I have yet another good motivating factor to continue my Sugar Purge. Evidently the evil white stuff takes its toll on my body in more ways than I suspected. And apparently, I can't hide my habits from Dr. H, so I'm going to try even harder to kick the cookie habit. From now on, carrots instead of cake...and in return, I'll take some more of that hip massage, please!

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

A Bee in my Bonnet...

Continuing this week's Homework Theme, let's move on to Riley's current after-school task. Remember how I described feeling relieved and grateful that in Middle School the focus of homework has shifted from Parental Supervision to Student Self-Management, with kids expected to oversee their own math problems, reading logs, short-essay analyses, and even long term multi-media projects? In a word: delightful. In contrast, Riley remains firmly entrenched in the Elementary School system, which still emphasizes parental signing off on completed tasks (irritating, but do-able), adult assistance for producing detailed, in-depth written responses to comprehension questions (totally my forte, so not a problem)...and unfortunately, production of crafty-type projects. (Ugh--sooooo over it already!)

Now, I've never been what you'd call an "artsy" person. Markers, construction paper, popsicle sticks, glitter glue--I've kept all these in the house for the boys to goof around with since they were pre-schoolers. But you'd be hard pressed to find me at the table with them, concocting some kind of sparkly masterpiece. Just not my thing. So over the years, when assignments have cropped up requiring the envisioning and constructing of a...creative...thingamabob...my typical response has been to heave a massive inner woe-is-me sigh, and then resign myself to supporting my child in making the best darn...whatever-it-may-be...that we can. (All the while, looking longingly forward to the blessed time when we can be DONE with this "demonstrate your comprehension through expressive channels" nonsense.)

Sooo, this time, it's the *#$%--I mean "entertaining and educational"--Honeybee Project. To begin: read informative text about the species, highlighting important information. (Yes! Love it!) Next, label the bee's structures as you identify them on this diagram. (Terrific! And useful! Plus, you get to use the word "proboscis", which is tons of fun--go ahead, try it!) Then, plan your model by listing what supplies you'll need to represent each part. (Uh oh. Here we go...) Finally, go ahead and build your bee! (Um...must we? I mean...yaaaaay?) Of course we first had to undertake the obligatory trek to Michael's. (What, you thought I had a ready stash of pipe cleaners, styrofoam balls, and shiny pom-poms lying around the house? I wish!) Twenty bucks later, we owned the necessary items to assemble this precious bee. Then it became just a matter of gluing and painting and attaching...until we had something that resembled...well to be perfectly objective, it's more of an impressionistic view of the honeybees found in nature, rather than a strictly realistic rendition.

And really, that's my complaint about this whole process: how is this artistic exercise actually teaching kids about bees? 'Cuz I've seen bees, you know...and they don't look a whole lot like our--admittedly cute--sculpture. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the special bonding time that Riley and I have spent fashioning our bee. But (I can't believe I'm saying this) what ever happened to good old research? For example, we could have maybe watched a documentary about bees and the critical role they play in supporting the environment. Or we could have taken an Observation Walk outside, and photographed bees in their natural habitat, performing their duties. (Although to be completely fair, I suspect a teacher is prohibited from suggesting this, due to the risk of stings, anaphylactic shock, and whatnot.) I'm just saying, aside from indulging your inner artist, I fail to see the value in these kinds of homework assignments. (And did I mention that it was his ONLY reading homework for THREE WEEKS? Not coincidentally: the longest three weeks of the entire school year as far as I'm concerned.)

But, the end is finally within reach. Riley's teacher set the due date for after Memorial Day (to enable all the slackers who ignored the assignment for a month to throw something together over the long weekend, no doubt). So next Tuesday, I'll deliver Riley and his little friend to school...and we can say a hearty "Buzz Off" to the bee project!


Monday, May 21, 2012

When I was your age...

Here we are in late May, approaching Memorial Day, which means only a few more weeks remain in the current school term. When Spring finally decided to stick around for good--bringing longer hours of daylight, warmer temperatures (and therefore increased opportunities to romp outside), and soccer practices (aka "structured frolicking")--it became a challenge to stay focused on schoolwork, and dedicated to finishing out the 4th quarter in strong fashion. (Yeah, that's probably because it's only ME who cares about these things...but I'll keep cracking the whip, have no fear!)

Even though Derek has almost completely managed his own homework load independently in 6th grade, it's an ingrained habit for me to query him about each night's tasks. But I've got to admit, that's one thing I've truly adored about Middle School: the emphasis on kids taking responsibility for their academic life. No more monitoring the Math sheet before he turns it in to check for errors, no more proofreading paragraphs to edit for spelling and grammar, no more initialing the bottom of the Assignment Book to prove parental vigilance. Now don't get me wrong--all of these things are services freely offered by the in-house Homework Assistant should they be requested or required. (You don't even have to use the formal title, you can just call her "Mom"...um, unless it's "Dad"...whatever, you get my point...) But for the most part, Derek has taken care of business on his own. So when he approached me last night and announced that he needed to interview me for his Reading task, I was intrigued. He settled down on my bed with his paper and pencil and began, "Describe popular fashions when you were in Middle School." Wait, I'm sorry, what? And we would be discussing this....WHY, exactly? "Cultural growth and changes," he elaborated. Oh yes...naturally.

Aaaanyway, sweetie, I'm so glad you asked! At this point there was really no other choice but to break out the old photo albums and illustrate dramatically for him the beloved fashions of the 80s. (Let me be clear: under no circumstances did I EVER copy the early lacy/trampy Madonna look. But I might have been caught wearing legwarmers. However, since there appears to be no surviving photographic evidence, you can't prove a thing!) As I giggled, flipping through the nostalgic pages, he interrupted me, "Ahem, can we get back on track, here?" Oh, right. Where were we? Next item: "What represented cutting edge technology back then?" Ha! Let's start with what we didn't have: computers; video game systems (although good old Atari showed up sometime...ah, Frogger and Space Invaders...); cell phones; cable television; mp3 players. Hmm, what was available to make our lives easier and/or more entertaining? Oh, I know: Walkmans! (Carry a box with your music in it wherever you go! It's bulky and heavy and the cassette tape will eventually snarl or break, but it's the best thing going!) And cordless phones! (Chat with a friend, without being attached to the wall! Go ahead, wander into the other room, it's tons of fun!) And...VCRs! (Watch a movie in the privacy and comfort of your own house. Oops, missed something? Rewind...nope, fast forward, nope rewind again! Thank goodness my children will never know the torture of a world before DVDs...) Meanwhile, Derek dutifully took all this down...snickering softly into his worksheet as he wrote.

After that little jaunt down memory lane, he posed his next question: "How was school different then?" You mean besides having to go to the Library to look up information? And using a pen to write it down? After the obvious pre-Internet factor, I was actually puzzled by this one. From what I remember, school started too early in the morning for my taste, I traveled there by bus, I began in Homeroom, then had 7 periods in different classrooms with different teachers, and I tackled homework each night from a select number of my subjects. Hey, all of this sounds eerily similar to what my son experiences right now in 2012! So maybe the old adage applies here: the more things change, the more they stay the same. Only now, Derek's generation can track the trends and updates using a laptop...or his iPod...or breaking news reports on 24-hour CNN...and the rest of us Gen Xers had better sprint to keep up!

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

How I Met Your M...Father

I can't believe I've been yammering on in cyberspace for almost four years now, and haven't gotten around to officially chronicling this particular story. While this will be familiar territory to many of our friends--some of whom actually lived it right along with us--our sons might want to be let in on the tale one of these days. So, with apologies to the McLaren's gang (and possible copyright infraction notwithstanding), here goes...

Kids, in December 1995 I was a young single professional woman, with a good job, a quaint (that's code for "rent-controlled and slightly dilapidated") apartment in which I lived by myself, and a full and satisfying social life. Yes, these were the heady days of youth, when I could hang out with friends on "school nights" (I actually did work for a school system, so the concept still fit) if I wanted, and stay out late on weekends whenever I chose. Many of these Friday and Saturday night frolics involved my special partner in crime--I mean "one of my closest girlfriends from college". For instance, she and I would often venture to our old stomping grounds, Baltimore's Fells Point neighborhood, to hear our favorite local Cover Band rock out in whatever bar they happened to be playing. Now, one evening we had made plans to do just that, but when I called my pal to confirm the logistics (you know 20-something women: "who's driving?"; "what time should we go?"; and most critically of all, "what the heck should I wear?") she made an unexpected request. She explained that a friend of hers was giving a holiday party that night, and she'd promised to stop by for a while. "Would you mind if we just made a quick appearance on our way to Baltimore?" she coaxed, before apparently feeling compelled to add, "Even though you probably won't know anyone?" I applauded her honesty, and at least as I recall the conversation, scoffed at the prospect of being a wallflower: "You know me, Ms. Social Butterfly, right? I'll make new buddies!"

So with our revised agenda proposed and approved, we set off for the detour-shindig. And when we arrived, the funniest thing happened: my friend knocked on the door, was invited in, and immediately was greeted by name, as a number of...enthusiastic (code word for...well, you can guess...) partygoers heralded her entrance. (It was exactly like a "Norm" moment...except she's a girl...and it wasn't a bar...oh, never mind.) She peeled off to chat with some of her admirers, I tentatively stepped over the threshold...and heard my own name bellowed from somewhere across the room. Evidently, I DID know some of my fellow attendees after all. Okay, this part gets a tad confusing, so stick with me here: the hostess went to college with both of us, but several graduating classes later. My friend knew her from campus activities they'd participated in together, but as it turned out, I also was acquainted with some of their mutual amigos from my own college-sphere. Got it so far? Good, because it's about to get all super-complicated on ya. How in the world does Husband wander into this madcap scenario? Well, party-throwing girl grew up on Long Island, where she met--wait for it--Husband's roommate. Hostess and Roommate had in fact dated for a portion of the time she'd been down in Baltimore at college. Meanwhile Roommate and Husband had bonded and become Bros at Penn State, and now were splitting the rent on a townhouse in Pennsylvania near where they both worked.

With me? Okay, moving on...Hostess had invited her ex and his housemate (yes, Husband) to drive down for her fiesta. My girlfriend had impulsively asked if I would like to drop in on that event as well. Thus, Husband and I ended up--from Philadelphia to Bethesda to a suburb of Baltimore--at the very same social gala (makes it sound all black-tie and shrimp cocktail, right? more like miniskirt, chips, and porch-keg, actually) at the precise same moment. Wild, right? Then we just had to figure out how to date from 300-miles apart....but that's a story for another time. So we'll just leave it at this: right place, right time, and the rest, as they say, is (17 years of) history!

Monday, May 14, 2012

Mamma Mia!

It's the second Sunday in May, so I sincerely hope you all remembered to purchase your flowers and cards and candy for your Mommies. (That's right, yet another Chocolate Occasion. But seriously, if a non-cocoa-holiday actually exists, I'm certainly not interested in commemorating it...) I enjoy the double privilege of both honoring my own mother, and being the recipient of special treatment from Husband and sons. So to begin this reminiscence, allow me to describe Mother's Day traditions as they have occurred at my mom's house in recent years.

First, the participants: Mom and Dad, of course, presiding over the mayhem--ahem, I mean..."festivities". Then to round out the celebration, there's my sister, my brother and his 3 kids, and the four of us. Now, since it's supposed to be a day to shower mothers with respect, gratitude, and pampering...the menfolk are assigned to prepare the meal. This generally translated into my Dad at the grill, charring some meat product, my brother assembling a tossed salad (under Mom's watchful eye, and with plenty of detailed instructions...'cuz you just can't trust the all-important "slicing cucumbers" job to chance), and Husband contributing a pasta salad. While all this is transpiring in and around the kitchen, the ladies are theoretically supposed to relax, chat, sip iced tea...but in the presence of 5 cousins in a 7-year age range, that is, shall we say, "unlikely" (or if you prefer blunt honesty: "not gonna freakin' happen"). The actual tableau tends to resemble something like Kiddie Animal House, with youngsters of various sizes careening around the house, chasing each other, throwing tackles, and periodically punctuating the chaos with shrieks of either glee or pain. Every so often a Parental Referee Situation will arise, requiring one of the pint-sized players to be flagged for such infractions as "illegal tickling" or "unsanctioned use of the elbows as a weapon". (Yes, my brother's kids do in fact watch waaaay too much UFC...) Eventually, of course, dinnertime arrives, and we all sit down for a relatively (no pun intended...okay, a tiny little bit of pun intended) sane and peaceful meal. That is, unless someone doesn't want to eat their salad...or feels very strongly that they got the "wrong plate"...or demands more Hershey's syrup in their milk...Yeah, on second thought, Family Dinners--while absolutely amusing and treasured by all of us--aren't all that tranquil since the kids came along.

Meanwhile, back at Casa WestEnders, I walked in the door yesterday and happened upon Husband and Riley, wearing determinedly innocent expressions (I swear they were practically gazing at the ceiling and whistling, they were trying so hard to be nonchalant) and attempting (unsuccessfully) to hide stuffed grocery bags behind their backs. Riley--Mr. Full Disclosure himself--promptly announced, "We're making you a special dessert, you can't see!"  So I was shooed unceremoniously from my kitchen while they...concocted. By the time I returned from my walk, all evidence had been tidied away, and the sweet surprise tucked into the refrigerator to chill. The only other information that my son proudly shared with me was that, while the recipe came from Paula Deen, they had carefully read all labels on ingredient packages to make sure there was "no partially hydrogenated oils, and no trans fats!" Sniffle...I love my little health-conscious chef! Oh, and Husband added that at no point during the proceedings had Riley felt compelled to let fly with a "yaaaa'llllll". So thank goodness for that! When the moment for the big reveal (and more importantly, taste) came, the culinary delight turned out to be: banana pudding. But not just any old banana pudding--oh no, this one contained sweetened condensed milk, and cream cheese, and whipped topping, and Pepperidge Farms Chessmen cookies...oh yeah, and some fruit! It was rich, it was decadent, it was utterly delectable.

So now I only have one question: can it be Mother's Day tomorrow, too? (Wait, we still have 3/4 of the pan of pudding left...so I believe the answer is YES, yes it can! Bananas make a good breakfast, right?)

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

A Cinematic Conundrum...

One of those less-fun-but-vitally-important things parents must do, as part of the basic job description, is set limits for their children. Before I had kids of my own, I don't think I ever contemplated just how frequent and ongoing a task this actually is (And why would I? I was a young adult with freedom and no boundaries, baby! Yeah, 'cuz that totally describes my responsible and sensible nature...oh, never mind...) On a daily basis, parents make choices about mundane issues such as "drinking no more than a certain amount of juice per day" or "banning partially-hydrogenated oils from our house" or "monitoring electronics-time"...or "for heaven's sake it's below 40-degrees would you please please please put on some long pants". (You know, hypothetical stuff like that.)

I've always considered Husband and myself to fall solidly on the conservative side of the fence, meaning that it seems we tend to impose relatively strict limits on our kids' behavior and privileges, compared to the wider Parent Population. One example lies in the field of, let's lump it under the term "entertainment media"--encompassing such things as video games and movies. Up to this point, the boys have known and accepted our standards: nothing above an E10-rated game, or a PG film. However, the rule was recently broken when we allowed Derek to see Hunger Games in the theater. It was actually an accident that led to this breach of protocol; I was supposed to go with friends from work, who mistakenly thought Husband was coming along and bought him a ticket. Thus, extra ticket, already paid for...and someone had to stay home with Riley. So Derek experienced the (for him) unprecedented opportunity to attend a PG-13 movie...and on a school night, no less! (I know, soooo shockingly permissive, for me! Maybe I'm finally ready to relax my death-grip-control over my children....hahahaha, who am I kidding?)

But that doesn't mean we're chucking the whole Family Code of Conduct out the window, or anything. It was just supposed to be a one-time deal...except then The Avengers dive-bombed into theaters. And I gotta tell ya, it looks mega-cool to me. (Okay, okay, I admit I have a bit of a thing for Iron Man, so what?) So we were discussing it over dinner one evening (well, mostly I was raving about how excited I was to go see it) when Husband made a startling announcement: he is not interested! Whaaaaat? But, you're...a guy! It's comic book characters! With guns and explosions and whatnot! And need I mention, Scarlett Johansson in a tight...leather-ish....thingie! C'mon, dude, what's up with that? Anyway, Derek instantly brought up the fact that he was able to handle Hunger Games. (See, I should've known that would come back to bite me in the butt...jeez, give 'em an inch...and they assume they're now authorized to see every borderline-appropriate movie Hollywood puts out. Then again, maybe my enthusiasm about the super-powers and the stuff blowing up was a tad too infectious...oops!) Naturally, when Husband volunteered to stay home with Riley so that Derek and I could attend together, Riley protested that he wanted to come along.

Now I was stuck--I didn't feel comfortable just agreeing outright, so I did what any Nerd Mom--I mean cautious, protective....scientifically-oriented parent--would do: I promised to perform some online research, looking specifically for both parental opinions and professional reviews by family-oriented filmgoers. What I found was a mixed bag of information regarding the onscreen violence and potentially scary situations...which did nothing to help me make a firm decision about my sensitive, easily-upset 8-1/2 year old accompanying us. I mean, Riley's still working through the "cover your eyes when things get too frightening" stage, (Voldemort in Harry Potter? Viewed through barely-slitted fingers. Gollum in Lord of the Rings? Peeking out from behind the couch...) so I just didn't feel confident that he could handle big screen mayhem just yet. However...then I found out that ALL of my friends had already rushed out to see Avengers during its opening weekend, most of them bringing their children for the ride. (Reminds me of another famous Parental Line: if all your friends went to the movies, would you...jump off the bridge...too? Or something like that. Incidentally, in this particular case, the answer is Y-E-S!) And wouldn't you know, a fellow Soccer Mom pal who happens to have sons exactly the same ages as mine told me it was completely fine for the younger brothers. In fact, she proclaimed it "not scary at all".

Well, alrighty then, that's good enough for me! Looks like Riley graduates to the Big Leagues, and I've got not one, but TWO movie dates for the first major blockbuster of the year. And for my part, I promise to fulfill my Mommy duties by putting down my popcorn to shield his eyes if it turns out he really needs it at any point. (As for my buddy, I forgot to ask her--if Riley turns out to have nightmares afterwards, he can come stay with her family for the night, right? That sounds fair...) Superheroes, here we come!

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Take this job and...well, just take it!

Last week, the semester came to an end at the college where I work. Thus, my part-time gig goes into hiatus for a while, at least until Summer classes commence. I've found that people who do the 9-5 thing tend to get a little green (with envy, not nausea, just to be clear) when I mention my Semester Breaks. And while I'll be the first one to admit that I'm a huuuuge fan of having some time away (even unpaid time) from my gainful employment, before anyone imagines me lying in a hammock, nibbling grapes and reading a romance novel, let me hasten to add: my full-time job--you know, the one that doesn't pay me anything--continues full steam ahead. It's just that now, rather than squeezing my Household Manager duties in amidst my 3-days-a-week-at-the-college schedule, I have time to devote to actually getting things done without running around like a madwoman, scanning my list, racing from errand to errand, stressing about running out of time, and always feeling like I'm forgetting something important (and let's not forget: muttering to myself under my breath, because that's how I process things best, out loud...which probably earns me some odd looks from fellow shoppers...)

Believe it or not, though, there's actually a downside to having more free moments to contemplate my existence...I've had a chance to recognize the fact that...I absolutely loathe some of my everyday assigned tasks. When you consider the essential chores that must be accomplished to prevent this house and all its occupants from spiraling into utter chaos (okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but work with me on this for a second), certain things spring to mind. Food preparation (obviously, as if I haven't mentioned Derek's appetite enough in these posts); periodic cleanup of messes (crumbs from meals, mud from shoes...random...boy dirt), laundry (Derek also seems to wear more clothes than strictly necessary, for reasons as yet unknown, since he couldn't care less about fashion--or impressing the ladies--at this point); dishes...and that only covers the at-home portion of our routine. Throw in the weekly grocery shopping at Giant and toiletries at Target and cramming the car full at Costco...I'm getting tired just thinking about it.

One recent afternoon, in a 4:00 slump, when I was feeling pressured because I hadn't completed my To Do List for the day, and resentful because the kids wanted something from me--probably a snack...or three--and I didn't want to deal with it (darn demanding boys), I was just about to snap at one of them to leave me alone because "Mom's tired and fed up and doesn't have any more time or energy to give right now!" As I opened my mouth to vent my frustration, I suddenly experienced a revelation: my children are NOT needy little toddlers or pre-schoolers any more. (I know, right: D-U-H!) What I mean to say is that they are perfectly capable of helping out a whole lot more than I've asked them to, and also waaaay more ready for responsibility than I've given them credit for, up to now. My Inner Control Freak, who wants things done to exact specifications, has been preventing me from delegating onerous--I mean worthwhile, rewarding, even character-building--jobs to my little minions...I mean SONS, of course.

Filled with excitement and renewed purpose at this revolutionary idea, I immediately enlisted Derek for some "training". He must have noticed the somewhat manic gleam in my eye, since he approached me warily when I called him. "Yeeesss? Am I in trouble?" Giddy with my new goal of teaching my child meaningful survival skills, I cheerfully answered, "Nope, but you get to learn how to do laundry!" If I was expecting some sort of grateful response ("Oh, thank you, Mom, for helping me to achieve my lifelong dream of...clean clothing!") my hopes were quickly dashed by his lukewarm, "Um...okaaaay..." (The unspoken message clearly being: "But why? You always do it for me!) Not to be deterred by his unenthusiastic demeanor, I marched him down to the laundry room and showed him...the proper sequence in which to press the buttons on the washing machine. Seriously, he has no earthly idea how very thankful he should be--at least I'm not asking him to take a washtub to the river and beat his dirty soccer uniform with a rock! Jeez!

Next on this list: the dishwasher. This represents an area of great contention in our household....okay, the problem is actually entirely mine. You see, Husband fills the machine...wrong. He just refuses to place all the matching items together, for easier unloading. And don't get me started on how he haphazardly flings the utensils in, all facing the same direction so they can potentially stick together and not get fully clean--it's infuriating! Okay, so my Type-A tendencies are not always so constructive, I admit...BUT after 14 years of fuming about this and trying to force (um, "encourage") Husband to just do it the right way--that is to say "my way" for crying out loud--I finally figured out the solution: I'm not emptying the dishwasher any more! Yayyyyy! Let someone else (male) put things away, and I won't give a hoot about how items are crammed in there. Heck, maybe I'll just go all crazy and throw stuff in willy-nilly, myself, from now on. It's the little things, I tell you...

Finally, just so Riley wouldn't feel left out (yeah, because I was really doing this all for them, not to make my life easier at all...) I enlisted him to help me with a tedious chore that gets on my nerves: washing and cutting up fruit. (I know, I know, ironic that a vegetarian finds this to be such a drag...it's just that it needs to be done so darn often, when eating healthy. Stupid "pulled from the Earth" food...why can't it just come out already clean? And maybe nicely sliced, too? Is that really too much to ask?) Anyway, Riley felt like a big man indeed when I handed him the knife and demonstrated how to chop strawberries. In fact, he was so jazzed, he declared afterwards that from now on, it would always be his responsibility to cut the strawberries. Now that's the kind of  excitement I'm looking for! Such a bright, energetic worker should be put to good use--maybe next I'll give him the full lesson on how to use the Dustbuster! Yep, my load is feeling lighter already...

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Baby, you can drive my car (but NOT YET!)

Sometimes I feel like my kids are secretly watching my actions, evaluating my performance, and taking notes for use in the future. (Which can be a terrifying prospect in any number of ways--do they want to be just like Mom? Or report me to the authorities? Or perhaps just hold me accountable for my mistakes...then blackmail me to get some kind of reward...probably in the form of video game booty?) Of course, this can be a positive thing, when I'm modeling good behavior or trying to illustrate a point about "making good choices" (to use current popular educational lingo). Or it can totally backfire, like when they catch me in a bad habit that I forget to suppress around my impressionable offspring.

At least I worked in a school system for nine years prior to having children, so the anti-cursing routine is pretty well ingrained in me. (Although I must confess that I do let fly with more...colorful...language when not in the presence of young ears. Somehow "rats" or "fudgesicles" just don't do the trick when frustrated with the computer, or angry at the..."stupidhead"...who just cut me off in traffic.) Anyway, one such "teachable moment" came up last week in the car on the way to soccer practice. We were inching our way towards the fields, slowly and carefully navigating the long line of vehicles waiting to turn at the light, when Derek suddenly piped up from the backseat, "Mom, how did you get to be such a good driver?"

I was...momentarily stunned. I suppose he overlooks the fact that I'm easily irritated and impatient behind the wheel, and judges me on the basis of...what, exactly? That I don't get speeding tickets? (Excuse me a moment, must knock wood, right now. Okay, I'm good.) That I haven't caused any accidents? (A few minor fender benders before they were born, yes, but there's no reason for them to have that information, right? Shhh...) Maybe he simply meant that to him, cars appear to be enormously complicated machines...and I seem competent in operating all of the controls at the same time. I mean, sure, I can steer, brake, accelerate, turn on the lights, run the windshield wipers, utilize the turn signal (although I realize this is beyond the capabilities of many drivers in our area), manage the temperature...and locate an acceptable song on the radio. Oh, and I drive a manual transmission, so throw in the clutch and gearshift as well. Okay, so I guess it does look pretty doggone complex to a 12-year old.

Naturally, I answered him by first noting my many years of driving practice, under a wide variety of conditions, and the increased skill that comes with experience. I couldn't resist tossing in a comment about how important it is to pay attention to the road, and the other idiots--I mean "fellow drivers"--and not allow oneself to become distracted by other tasks or people. "It's fine to push the preset-buttons on the radio, or take a quick sip of your drink," I sternly stated, "but that's about it!" Then Riley chimed in, with a tone of great seriousness, "Sometimes you change the music...or take your hands off the wheel to put your hair up." He quickly added (as if he was afraid he'd offended me with his unflinching candor and keen powers of observation) "But you've been driving for a long time!" Slight pause, "And fixing your hair for a long time, too, so that's okay!" Oops. Soooo busted. He kindly refrained from mentioning the other instance in which I--only for a second, mind you--steer with my knees: when I need two hands to remove the lid from a water bottle and take a sip. (All I can say is: lucky for me they weren't around to spy on me traveling all over the U.S. in my 20s...alone...opening Diet Dr. Peppers and straightening my ponytail and scribbling notes to myself...while traversing the highways of our great nation...) Darn my sharp-eyed, detail-oriented children! Clearly I had forgotten a basic, critical rule of parenting--Always assume they miss NOTHING! (And the equally-important corollary: Cover your...tracks... accordingly. That is how it goes, right?)

At this point I could see no other recourse than to humbly admit that sometimes adults aren't perfect, (Shoot! I was hoping to foster this illusion for a few more years!) and that kids shouldn't always mimic their parents' every move without judging for themselves if it's the best course. Yes, that was a painful Mom Moment. Hopefully, we'll all learn something valuable from this...for the boys, to start internalizing safe rules-of-the-road and sensible decision-making...and for me, to begin demonstrating the driving skills of a model citizen, at once! That is, at least when I have young passengers along for the ride...