Even the sweet ones will flip you the bird, apparently - Throwback Thursday

The boys are pretty good lately. They are (almost) easy. They are doing their homework (almost) without reminders. They don't fight (too much). They are even getting up for school (most days) without even one sleepy grumble. But going back and reading an old post like this one keeps me from feeling too smug... It's hard to believe that this deliciousness once shot me the bird, huh?

When Your Kid Flips You the Bird

This post was originally posted here on September 24, 2013

(I didn't even realize I wrote this EXACTLY 2 years today until I went back just now!)

Isn't it ironic?

That's what Alanis said, right? Yeah, life's like that sometimes.

It was just last night, for example, that I reread an old blog post entitled "Sometimes I Don't Like My Kid." It's my most popular post, stats-wise. I was chuckling (out loud) about how much easier Ben has gotten since that post...about how I could barely remember that feeling of really disliking my own kid and thinking that perhaps his behavior was out of my control...that feeling of wondering to myself: Who the F is this kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!? (Chuckle, chuckle.) It was sooooo long ago. (Snicker.) I was such a new, inexperienced mother. (Tee-hee-hee.)  My kid has since gotten himself under control (most days). I barely remember that feeling!

Yes, that was me, last night, chuckling away. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Ha.

And I suppose it was just that sort of cocky guffawing that got the Universe a little amused with me and decided: Oh yeah?

And so today, upon picking up my younger son at school, the son who is (supposedly) the more angelic one of the two (as if!), the one who tends to hide behind my legs in new settings, the one who is always described by others as "sweet," "marshmallow-like," "quiet," and "such a good boy," I was told he punched not one, but two, of his friends. Punched! One lucky friend got it in the stomach. The other, right on the cheek.

Apparently, it pays to be known as the sweet, marshmallow-like, quiet, good boy, because neither the teacher nor the bus driver did much more than admonish.

Mommy, on the other hand, made up for both of those suckers who have been fooled by his cherub face, dimpled cheeks, and Sponge Bob eyeglasses.

Once The Talk had been had and The Consequences had been determined, we went about our afternoon of homework, homework, and more homework, with a little bit of dinner sprinkled in.

It happened somewhere in between the dinosaur chicken nuggets and the homework completion: my baby flipped me the bird.

Knowingly.

Like, for real.

Before you jump to the conclusion that Hubby and I are typical Miami drivers and flip the bird on a regular basis as part of our commute, I can honestly say that not only have I never shot a bird in front of my kids, the bird is not even my expletive of choice. For one thing, it's not an expletive at all: it's silent. And if you know me, you know I'm anything but. I'm more of a loud F-bomb kinda girl. (And before you get all excited and eager waiting for the blog post to come in which one of  my kids loudly drops an F-bomb, I'll have you know that being a teacher instills in you an almost superhuman-like ability to not curse in front of children.)

So where, then, did my five-year-old learn how to appropriately and accurately use Mr. Tall Man?

Of course...his (not much) older brother.

And where, then, did my eight-year-old learn it?

Duh. School, of course!'

So there I was again: wondering who the F is this punching, bird-flipping, bully of a kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!?

Of course, when I filled in my husband on the afternoon's events, he chuckled quite audibly, and immediately asked: "So there's a blog post in there somewhere, right?"

I was already typing as he asked.

*Note to self: If you happen to reread this blog post in a few years, do NOT chuckle, especially if the boys are behaving themselves.

*****************************************************

Lesson learned...No chuckling here!!

Exhaustion: How am I supposed to write when my brain is fried?

Image from James Harris Gallery

So I've decided to participate in Just Write Tuesdays, although I'm thinking I might lose my audience if I am in the same frame of mind each Tuesday that I am tonight. The concept is you Just Write (duh, right?) without trying to over-analyze or edit yourself too much. It's pretty open: I can describe what I'm experiencing around me, a recent situation, whatever...but it should be pretty fresh (or at least recent) and "free."

Considering I'm feeling pretty wiped out right now, I'm not sure this is going to go off so well.

You know those days when you just feel Done? You're like, you can't go any further. You can't clean up one more dirty dish. You can't put away one more piece of clean laundry. You can't contribute one more thing of any value to this earth in this moment? Yep, that's me. Right now.

I know...lucky you.

My day has been a whirlwind of the usual day-to-day stuff: students and children and meetings and grading and my pants don't fit and don't forget to buy bread and I don't feel like making a salad for tomorrow's lunch. And all day, I've wanted to come back Here. To write. To feel like I did Something Important. Something that makes me feel good, just because it's all mine.

But then Life happens.

Your kid develops a fever two days before you are leaving for a trip.
You have a major blow out with a major friend.
You realize that damned salad still has to be made or those damn pants will still refuse to fit.

And then you wonder: how the hell am I going to put anything Out There when you have nothing left?

Project Underblog's 31Days31Voices: Sometimes I Don't Like My Kid

Today I am honored (once again) to be the featured blogger at Project: Underblog, in celebration of 31 Days 31 Voices. After checking my post here, snoop around and read all the other wonderful voices being featured this month.

I chose to share a post that has obviously struck a chord with many readers out there, since I am still getting comments on it even now, a couple of years later. Apparently, lots of moms out there Google the phrase: I don't like my kid. That, apparently, is how they find me.

It was a post that, back then, was difficult for me to write, because I was still sorta new to this whole motherhood thing, and I wasn't sure if my son's behavior was my own fault. And, even more worrisome, I wasn't sure if it was normal to not like my own kid.

Fast forward to today, and not only have I learned that it is absolutely completely normal to not always like your own kid (sometimes you absolutely can't stand your own kid...that's normal, too), but I've also learned that it's not my fault...that parenting is not always an if-then sort of thing.

I've had so many women contact me via email and through comments to thank me for writing that post...to tell me that, because of my honesty, they felt better, relieved, understood, and not alone.

That, for me, was the main reason I started blogging back then: I needed to express what I was going through as a mother, and I needed to be honest. I couldn't take the Motherhood-is-all-rainbows-and-teddy-bears-and-warm-fuzzies. Sometimes it is. Most of the times, it's not. And I needed to talk about it. So go check it out. Read it for the first time, or, if you've been following me for a while, read it again. And while you're doing that, I'll be playing with my oldest son, Ben, who, luckily, today I like a whole damn lot. (But tomorrow might be another story...)

A letter to my pissy self

Dear You,

What the hell is wrong with you? You do know that no one wants to be around someone like this, right? What happened to all that talk about energy and optimism and choosing to be happy? What happened to the Buddhist books you read and the inspiring quotes you put up? I mean, seriously, what the F is wrong with you today?

Many years ago, you learned the Yiddish word "farbissina." That's a sourpuss, thank you very much. A bitter, frown-y, generally pissy person.

And that has been you...all day long today.

If it had just been today, then maybe that wouldn't be enough cause for a letter to oneself. But there were all those days last week, too.

And think about it: if you don't like being around yourself, what the hell can you expect from everyone around you?

Yes, work sucks right now.
Yes, you're tired.
Yes, school-age, homework-ridden children have now brought a whole new slant into the day-to-day.
Yes, the house has been in complete disarray for weeks now.
Yes, your foot is in a boot every night (and not the sexy over-the-knee Stuart Weitzmans you covet) due to your damned plantar fasciitis.
Yes, you find it harder and harder to have quality time with Hubby.
Yes, you want to write, write, write, but you can't seem to find the energy, energy, energy.

But so fuckin' what?

Get a grip.

Cause really, life is good.

Cancer is no longer the main topic of discussion when you talk to your sister.
Your children are healthy.
Your husband actually wants to have quality time with you.
And every day when you go to work and you are generally pissed off about the state of public education, you get to vent and laugh and eat lunch with your Friends.

Remember that article you read? The one about the couple battling breast cancer and how all they wanted was to have a normal day, to make coffee in the morning, and make lunches, and go to work, and deal with the everyday nonsense of nothing? Remember how much that impacted you?

Remember it.

And stop whining about the bullshit realities of everyday.
Choose to be happy.
Dance and sing.
Smile.
And you know that little post-it note you put up on your laptop at work? The one that says: "You are responsible for the energy you bring to this place"?
Apply it.

Now have a good day.

(Really) Sincerely,
Yourself

When your kid flips you the bird

 

Isn't it ironic?

That's what Alanis said, right? Yeah, life's like that sometimes.

It was just last night, for example, that I reread an old blog post entitled "Sometimes I Don't Like My Kid." It's my most popular post, stats-wise. I was chuckling (out loud) about how much easier Ben has gotten since that post...about how I could barely remember that feeling of really disliking my own kid and thinking that perhaps his behavior was out of my control...that feeling of wondering to myself: Who the F is this kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!? (Chuckle, chuckle.) It was sooooo long ago. (Snicker.) I was such a new, inexperienced mother. (Tee-hee-hee.)  My kid has since gotten himself under control (most days). I barely remember that feeling!

Yes, that was me, last night, chuckling away. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Ha.

And I suppose it was just that sort of cocky guffawing that got the Universe a little amused with me and decided: Oh yeah?

And so today, upon picking up my younger son at school, the son who is (supposedly) the more angelic one of the two (as if!), the one who tends to hide behind my legs in new settings, the one who is always described by others as "sweet," "marshmallow-like," "quiet," and "such a good boy," I was told he punched not one, but two, of his friends. Punched! One lucky friend got it in the stomach. The other, right on the cheek.

Apparently, it pays to be known as the sweet, marshmallow-like, quiet, good boy, because neither the teacher nor the bus driver did much more than admonish.

Mommy, on the other hand, made up for both of those suckers who have been fooled by his cherub face, dimpled cheeks, and Sponge Bob eyeglasses.

Once The Talk had been had and The Consequences had been determined, we went about our afternoon of homework, homework, and more homework, with a little bit of dinner sprinkled in.

It happened somewhere in between the dinosaur chicken nuggets and the homework completion: my baby flipped me the bird.

Knowingly.

Like, for real.

Before you jump to the conclusion that Hubby and I are typical Miami drivers and flip the bird on a regular basis as part of our commute, I can honestly say that not only have I never shot a bird in front of my kids, the bird is not even my expletive of choice. For one thing, it's not an expletive at all: it's silent. And if you know me, you know I'm anything but. I'm more of a loud F-bomb kinda girl. (And before you get all excited and eager waiting for the blog post to come in which one of  my kids loudly drops an F-bomb, I'll have you know that being a teacher instills in you an almost superhuman-like ability to not curse in front of children.)

So where, then, did my five-year-old learn how to appropriately and accurately use Mr. Tall Man?

Of course...his (not much) older brother.

And where, then, did my eight-year-old learn it?

Duh. School, of course!'

So there I was again: wondering who the F is this punching, bird-flipping, bully of a kid and why is he pulling this kind of shit?!?

Of course, when I filled in my husband on the afternoon's events, he chuckled quite audibly, and immediately asked: "So there's a blog post in there somewhere, right?"

I was already typing as he asked.

*Note to self: If you happen to reread this blog post in a few years, do NOT chuckle, especially if the boys are behaving themselves.

Can I wash that vitamin down with some beer?

I have gone through many stages in my life when I realize that something's gotta change.

Sometimes, it's just my attitude, as in: I am being overly dramatic or overly pessimistic or overly pissy.

Sometimes, it's been my weight, like after I had the boys and I felt so trapped inside that swollen, slow, puffy body that I knew I had to make it my focus.

Sometimes, it's even been the people I associate with: a spouse who made me miserable, a friend who made me crazy.

It's simpler when the problem is easy to identify and the solution within your control. When you are attacked by falling hangers every time you try to pull a shirt out of your closet (true story), you know what you gotta do. A couple of hours and some minor effort later, the problem has been solved. But usually, life isn't that easy. You don't always know what the problem is, or whether it's within your control at all. Sometimes, the problem isn't even a problem; sometimes it could just be a string of bad luck. I'm not sure which of these applies to me right now, but I know I function better when I at least think I'm trying to do something about it. So I am.

The problem these days is my body. For a change, it's not about fitting into that perfect size 4 in the back of my closet. It's not about losing the stubborn pooch that came along with my two boys and likes to masquerade as a Shar-Pei when I bend over. It's not even about my thighs.

It's about my health.

I'm not sure what's going on lately, but my body's been complaining. And they say that if you listen really carefully, your body will let you know what it needs. Well, my body definitely needs something.

Over the last year, I've had several colds/bugs/viruses/under-the-weather-spells. I've been diagnosed with GERD, exercise-induced asthma, acute bronchitis, and a rib head disarticulation. (Yeah, I didn't know what it was either, but it hurts like hell.) I've had liquid drained from my good knee. I've had three sinus infections and three corneal abrasions. Throw into the mix my chronic migraines, and it's been a stellar year, health-wise.

And this week? Recovering from hand, foot, and mouth disease. (Remember my post about how I was absolutely, definitely not getting strep? Well, I didn't. Instead, I got this.) "Adults don't usually get hand, foot, and mouth." "It's a children's virus." "If you get it as an adult, it's super mild." That's what I was told. But you know me. I got it BIG TIME. And if you don't know anything about this virus, let's just say it's super fun. As in, your closest friends literally cringe when you touch them. (It's okay, M, I would have cringed too.)

I realize that I have two small kids who bring everything home from pre-k and kindergarten. I realize that both Hubby and I are elementary school teachers who bring everything else home. I realize that we lead very hectic lives and run around a lot. And I also know that in the grand scheme of things, none of this stuff is a big deal and I really am lucky and blessed and healthy. But I've gotta try to make things a little better...help my body do its thing somehow. So the question is how? What's gotta change?

Well, for starters, Hubby pointed out that, lately, we've been spending a whole more money on beer than on vitamins. And my four-day-per-week-minimums at the gym have turned into twice if I'm lucky. Fish and salads for dinner have been swapped for dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and frozen pizzas. We've gone from a very healthy lifestyle to "What's the quickest thing we can throw in the microwave and does it go well with my Belgium lager?"

Even Hubby, who was sick--literally--like twice in the first 11 years we've been together, has been sick four times in the past year.

So what to do? I need a plan of action. I am an anal, Type A, list-making kinda girl.

Well, for one thing: cut back on the booze.
Go back to the runs, the bike rides, the gym visits. Make that a priority.
Pull out the yoga gift certificate I've had in my purse for 6 months.
Stop being so cheap and buy some good supplements again.
Buy more fish.
Become obsessive-compulsive about all things Dr. Oz.

Maybe none of this will make a damn difference. Maybe next week, I'll develop some other random, annoying, cringe-worthy virus. But at least I'll get a false sense of control over my circumstances. Even that's gotta be healthier than how I've been feeling lately. Then maybe I can start obsessing unhealthily about my thighs again.

Summer Jinx?

My mom believes in the "evil eye."

Mal de ojo.

That's what they call it in spanish. The old Cuban way of thinking is that if  you have good stuff in your life, then people will wish you ill. They will be jealous. They tell me this--my family--over and over again. Even young, professional, educated, modern, Cuban parents fall into this superstition: everywhere in Miami, you see cute fat babies with little black beads hanging from their necklaces--azabaches--to ward off the infamous evil eye.

I never believed in it.

When I had my kids, I refused to put one of these little black stones on them. I lectured my parents on karma. I told them that if someone wished my delicious, perfect little boy ill, then that person would surely get it back from the Universe. They, in turn, tried to tell me that most of the time, when you got this evil eye, it wasn't purposeful; it was actually accidental: people were just admiring your child, your choices, your life.

How could this be? I scoffed. You're trying to tell me that someone who is happy for me has accidentally given me bad luck? Nonsense.

Then again, I am the person who knocks on wood--literally--every single time I say something about how great things are. I mean, I actually wander around, mid-sentence, looking for wood, or something that resembles it, to knock on if I say something like "Everything is good. Everyone is good." It's like, I don't want to throw it out there...to the universe...that all is good...I feel like just maybe, I might jinx myself.

Isn't that silly?

Isn't that almost the same thing as my mom with her evil eye and black beads?

For the last 17 days, at least one of the people in my household has been sick. Not sick-sick (I just knocked on the plywood computer desk), but sick as in strep throat, high fevers, overall misery. Poor Ben had it for a whopping 15 days. Aidan for a mere 2 (we cheated and broke every rule and gave him Ben's antibiotic the minute he started with the symptoms). And now, Hubby.

We postponed a major road trip with the 4 grandparents and 2 kids (yes, FOUR grandparents and TWO kids--sick ones, at that-- in one RV) and then went anyways and then had to come back one day early in a huff and a rush with a little one puking and suffering with 104. (Truth is I think the grandparents suffered more just watching and worrying and wishing I would have just put one teeny tiny little black bead on the kid...).

Now I postponed an annual girls' getaway because of Hubby.

I was told by my good wise old friend: "You know you're next."

No.
I will NOT be next.
I refuse.

I can't take one more thermometer, one more dose of nasty-smelling antibiotic, one more cold washcloth on a steaming forehead.

I am officially pronouncing us all done.
Done.
You hear that, Universe? You hear that, jinx agents of the world? You hear that, Karma gods?

But maybe, just maybe, just in case, I will ask my mom for a couple of those beads...

(Knock-knock)

Sometimes less is more (or: Can I please get a break from parenting?)

My children think the floors are wet.

I have just spent 3 hours cleaning my house: the full blown kind, with mopping and scrubbing mildewy corners of showers and replacing all the area rugs. And now? Now I am practically hiding in my bedroom, having "dinner" (don't feel bad; I looooovvvvve guac, salsa, and beer), and letting my boys think the floors are still wet, and therefore, they are required to stay in their room.

So far, it's worked out pretty well. I mean, I was able to open the beer, guacamole, and salsa, and start this post. I will let you know as I proceed how it all turns out.

So is this what life comes down to when you're a parent? (I say "parent," since really, I must admit, that I am one of the BLESSED ones to have a husband who is more of a mother than I am, so I'm guessing he does this sorta thing, too, except I suspect he does it in the bathroom, claiming a stomach ache and reading his Men's Health magazines.) We steal a moment here and there, hoping and praying with bated breath that it will extend to a couple of minutes...then five...then--dare we?--15? And before you know it maybe you have read the whole article on how to have killer abs and build your biceps after 40, or you have completed a full draft of a blog post.

It's definitely gotten easier. Overall, we can't complain. We just gave away the big step stool for the bathroom. It is amazing how ecstatic it can make a couple to toss the tall one and leave only the short little Elmo step. Having two boys who can reach the sink, either on flat feet, tippy-toes, or a squat little step? Glorious.

Because for us, it means less.

Less times we will have to go and help Aidan Kai brush his teeth. Less times we will have to stop mid-kitchen-clean-up post-dinner to help him reach his toothbrush. Less of the constant demands that little ones bring.

Okay, now I am really full-out lying here. Ben just called "Mama? Can we come now?" and I responded with "In a few minutes. It's still drying." If it weren't for this Heineken, I'd feel really, really guilty. Thanks to this Heineken, I only feel a little bit guilty. Two more chips, and I GOTTA run a bath...

So I'll go ahead and tell you to please refrain from commenting on how I'm going to miss these days...how I'm going to wish I could do more, instead of less.

I know.

I have written about that, too. For real. Look around.

But today, right now, I am more about the less.

I've been wondering lately why I lose my patience so easily. Last night, in fact, I dreamt that I slapped Ben 3 times in public for doing the wrong thing, repeatedly and harshly. And my dad was there, and he was just like: "Wow, you are just ruthless."

Intermission: Okay, dinner instead of baths. 2 bowls of heated up spaghetti leftovers and some Hi-C, and I'm back. Of course, now I have to go back to the beginning and reread everything, because I have no recollection where the hell I was. That's the thing with parenting, too: your life is in a constant state of interruption (at least for the first few years, before they stop talking to you altogether, according to what I hear from my friends with teenagers, and yes, I know that I will probably be blogging about how much easier it was when they were little and how much I miss my children talking to me) because your main purpose and responsibility in life is them.

But the thing with my lack of patience...it's just that it never seems to stop. I am always packing lunches or practicing flashcards or counting to 3 or using reverse psychology so someone will eat a piece of chicken. And if you know me, you know there is ALREADY a whole lot of noise in my head as it is. My head NEVER shuts down. So put that all together with the noise of work, life, laundry, and kids: it's explosive.

I realized while I was driving home alone today, windows open, radio blaring, that I used to do this thing to drown out the noise. I had totally forgotten about it until today. On those days when work got to be too much or life was a little too complicated, I would get in the car and do what I found myself doing today: drive with the music so loud, that I could no longer hear the sound of my own voice--or anyone else's--inside my head. By the time I got home, I felt significantly more clear-headed. It was as if I was allowing myself, for that brief period of time in the car, to block everything out: no plans, no worries, no thoughts, no stress, just my music and the wind. And it worked. But now, it is extremely rare that at least one of my kids isn't in the car with me, or, as is even more often the case, the whole family.

"Mama can I have more cheese I already ate some spaghetti can I have more cheese I'm tired." All one sentence. All one thought. I'm off again, probably forgetting my own thoughts while I'm grabbing another serving of my youngest's favorite version of protein: sliced cheese. Don't worry: the pediatrician approved it.

So yeah, there really isn't too many opportunities to drown out the noise anymore. And even when I get a chance to, the minute the volume on the radio is turned down, the volume at home is turned up. And I feel like I'm always on call.

Sometimes, during phases like this, I find myself counting the days of the month. Surely, there MUST be a valid reason for my shortness, my general grouchiness, the resentment that can threaten to creep in,  the desperate need for solitude. If it's caused by something hormonal, then it's not really my fault, right? It's not that I'm a bad mom. It's not that I don't love my life. It's not me. And sometimes, the calendar happens to fall on the right day, and I let myself off the hook. But other times...

Crisis! Aidan Kai ate allllll the pineapple. Ben is NOT happy. Grapes serve as substitute. Followed by 5 SourPatch candies each, half of which end up scattered all over my newly clean floor.

Ben: "Look, Mommy, when I scrape my fork on my teeth is sounds like a sword!"
Aidan Kai: "Buuuuuttttt I don't waaaaaannnnnttt to brush my teeeeeeeth."
Me: "Ben, stop scraping your teeth with metal. Aidan, no teeth brushing, no bubble bath."


...but other times, I can't peg it on female bullshit.
I can make up all kinds of other excuses, but the bottom line is that sometimes I just want to hide in my room and drink a beer.

If I have to be honest...

I'm not sure

if

motherhood

was for me

I'm not sure

if

I'm very good

at it

I feel most alive

sometimes

when I am leaving

driving away

leaving them behind

for a few hours

stolen

away from my life

Me

unregulated

no disciplining or

enforcement of truth-telling or

homework or

scattered toy pieces

and then

I look at them

they do something

that thing

they do

each one

and my heart leaps

and sinks

because I think

there is no way

I deserve them



Potty Training Boot Camp (or: And So I Turn To The Merlot...)

Potty training stinks.

There is no faster way to suck the joy of summer right out of you like dirty superhero underwear.

Hubby, the boys, and I were all officially "off" for summer as of Friday morning. By Sunday afternoon, we were officially "on" for Boot Camp. We had done it with Ben when he was this age, and after only a few days, he had caught on. We figured, after months of plateauing on the potty, it was time for Aidan too. We know the boot camp method is a controversial one. We know it doesn't support the whole "the child needs to be ready" philosophy. But I sorta know my kids, and sometimes you have to push them a little (shove, really) or they might end up in college with Depends. They are both just the kinds of kids who would rather be playing with Hot Wheels or watching another episode of "Sponge Bob" rather than be receiving stickers and accolades for their bowel movements. My boys, it seems, can not always be bothered.

So, we figured we would jump in head (butt?) first, and do the intense potty training immediately. We had a window of time before the grandparents would be babysitting, and we knew it was now or never. After a visit to Target for Thomas and Marvel underoos in a 3T, we literally waved goodbye to all the diapers and Aidan proudly dumped them into the garbage (and then we promptly pulled them right back out and hid them...just in case...and mainly to be renamed as "nighttime big boy pull-ups"). Before the first 10-minute timer had beeped, in the midst of, apparently, a very intense game of Hot Wheels Monster Truck, I noticed a smell. "Aidan, do you have to go potty?" I asked, my voice pitched a bit too high already. Sure enough, I was initiated into the first hour of Boot Camp 2.0 with poop smushed right into Spiderman's face, and then, thanks to much wiggling, rolling out onto the bathroom tile, rug, and, just for good measure, smeared onto the Elmo Potty Seat.

The last 4 days have been filled with urine puddles and droplets, endless loads of laundry, cheers and stickers, timed potty runs (he's like Pavlov's dog when he hears the bell), and powdered laxative. Oh yes, our little champ decided he was not going to poop. At all.

Combine all of this with the stress of packing for a vacation and the number of children in the house doubling to 4 because of cousin sleepovers and two adults who need to get out of the house every day or else...well, summer ain't fun yet.

P.S. About an hour after posting my above entry, the following occurred:

~Aidan had a stomach ache and a fit and refused to go potty.

~While said stomach ache and fit were occurring, I tried to happily and cheerily encourage (read: force while still smiling) him to sit on the potty. This resulted in no bowel movement, but a sudden and unexpected stream of pee shooting out of him and onto me, my pink fuzzy slippers, the newly-washed bathroom rug, my newly-bathed, shaved, and moisturized leg, and the Eric Carle board book I was attempting to use as entertainment while he supposedly sat.

~Ben became The Obnoxious Version of Himself which sometimes makes an appearance and has been spending way too much time around here since school ended, and messed up any joy possible while preparing Father's Day gifts and cards (surely, a blog post to follow on this one).

~I drank waaaaaaay too much Merlot on an empty stomach, making me waaaaaay happier than when I started this post and making the title waaaaaaay more appropriate than I even thought possible when I wrote it.

The curse continues (or: WTF?!?)

After my last post, I figured, surely, we were done: the string of bad luck had run its course. I mean, we had gone for Hubby's staph infection follow-up and it was all good. Aidan was no longer needing the splint on his finger. We'd had two full nights of uninterrupted sleep. I had tangerine-colored nails, for God's sake! But you know where this is going...

Saturday morning, sometime before dawn, I was in the half-awake/half-asleep stage, stretching and tossing and turning under the covers, my brain trying to figure out if it was a weekday, trying to register why the alarm hadn't gone off yet. I stretched...my head pushing up against my palm, my palm against my head, twisting and opening my body into one of those deep intense morning stretches...when I felt a searing and sudden pain on the right side of my neck and shoulder, and I became fully awake. I knew I had pulled something. After trying to shrug it off (no pun intended) and trying to fall back asleep, the pain was unbearable, and I got out of bed. The rest of my day included an emergency visit to the chiropractor (if you're keeping count from the last post, that would be the 9th emergency doctor visit for the family in 2 weeks), 9 ibuprofen pills, 2 Tylenol PMs, and lots of ice.

Hubby and I chuckled (okay, not really...Hubby, in his ever-optimistic-never-bothered-by-anything-attitude chuckled and I pouted) about it. Really, who messes up her neck that badly on the first day of no-drama in 2 weeks? And how was I going to manage a full day at the beach for Mother's Day with both sides of the family and all the kids for our annual Mother's Day celebration when I could barely move?

Ah. So that is where the irony perhaps kicks in: I didn't have to figure out how I was going to manage my Mother's Day Beach Day Extravaganza with an injured neck because....

...Ben got a stomach virus!

Yep.

It continues.

Now poor Ben, who has had his string of bad luck too, has spent the last 24 hours next to a bucket. Poor thing..for a kid who has such a strong personality, he sure is a passive patient. Yesterday while he and his little brother were eating dinner at the table (and by dinner, I mean Ben was attempting to have crackers and juice) and I was in the kitchen, I hear Aidan say: "Hey! Where's Ben? What is Ben doing under the table?" I figured he was playing around, but before I could yell at him to get back in his chair, he sputtered: "I need water!" and proceeded to heave into the bucket he'd brought with him to the table. He spent the rest of the day with ashy lips and a pale face.

Today, in an effort to make Mother's Day better for all of us, Hubby brought home a special breakfast and put down the "nice tablecloth." He has joked that my Mother's Day at home today is even better than one at the beach because he's "doing laundry, folding and putting away clothes, installing my new car radio (the Mother's Day gift I requested), and cleaning up the house." But the truth is, I'm one of the lucky ones who has a husband who does that all the time...not on special occasions. And we do go to the beach all the time. So I suppose every day can be Mother's Day for me, and I will keep a smile on my face all day (except when I turn my neck in the wrong direction and see stars).

But I have to tell you...I am seriously wondering if there is really such a thing as being "jinxed" or needing a "cleansing" (not the type the celebrities do to lose weight, although I admit I wouldn't admit dropping a few pounds). Rabbit's foot, anyone?

Wanted: Rabbit's foot, horseshoe, four leaf clover, magic crystal, and any other hocus-pocus, superstitious, good luck crap

I tend to get anxious.

I'm not one of those crazy neurotic people, but I get a little tense when stuff goes awry...especially medical stuff.

Over the last 2 weeks, we've had 3 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Ben, 1 follow-up to the pediatric ENT, 2 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Aidan, one emergency visit to my eye doctor, and one trip to the emergency room for Hubby (this does not include one routine visit to the dermatologist in the mix).

Each visit was minor, as far as emergencies goes, and they all ended well (actually, I'm waiting on Hubby's return as I type this), but it's enough to put a person a little on edge.

Put this all together with two weeks of nightly interrupted sleep to check on: high fevers, chronic coughs, sore throats, fractured fingers, and general discomfort (sometimes theirs, sometimes mine)...well, I'm not in the best of places this week.

I literally feel like I've been jinxed...like maybe that slightly sociopathic student in my class who wrote an essay about how much he hated me and threatened to kill a classmate over the weekend just might have gotten himself a blond voodoo doll and found himself something to do over his 10 day suspension for throwing a punch at a teacher who was visiting in my class (that teacher happened to be Hubby).

Perhaps I should be looking at the bright side: nothing serious in any case....could be worse...just bad colds...small fracture...infected bug bites...all that stuff. But really, I just feel like I've been walking around with a black cloud of bad luck literally hanging over my family's heads and if we cross the street a grand piano or an Acme safe is gonna come crashing down on us.

My chest feels tight, I have a pit in my stomach, and every time I think: "Ok, that was it...certainly that was the last doctor's visit/middle-of-the-night scare/hammered finger/scratched cornea/possibly toxic insect bite," something else pops up. And right now, until Hubby comes home and gives me a full report on the bite on his leg that looked like something straight out of one those scary, disgusting chain emails they send around, I will not be at ease.

*Morning-after update:
~So after lots of antibiotics, minor cutting-open, and a wound that made me (literally) woozy, Hubby should be fine.
~Aidan yanked off his own splint so it wouldn't get wet in the bath, and then again before bed, proclaiming he "wouldn't sleep with it today."
~Ben is sick of his white-out-consistency antibiotic, but keeps taking it like a trooper and doesn't show anymore symptoms.
~I woke up this morning to discover that we had actually all slept straight through the night--a whopping 7 hours.
~I gave myself a pretty tangerine-colored mani/pedi late last night and woke up to find that I didn't get any those bedsheets lines and smudges on them.
So...hopefully the tide has turned (for a while anyway). But just in case, I'm gonna avoid ladders and black cats (and pianos) for a couple of days.

With parenting comes heartbreak

Parenting is filled with joy.

Nothing swells my heart more than when my oldest boy, on his way to his room, makes a quick unsolicited pit stop to kiss me on the arm and declare “I love you, Mama.” And when my littlest tilts his head to look up at me, grins his dimply smile, and states that Mama loves him “all da way to da stars,” my heart certainly grows a few sizes.

But along with the highs, there are the lows.

And I’m realizing there are more lows than I anticipated.

***

When I was a little girl, I daydreamed about my wedding day: the dress I would wear, the song I would dance, the shade of the flowers in my bouquet (little did I know then that I’d end up having not one, but two dresses, songs, bouquets….! Oh, if only I’d known, I would’ve daydreamed double!). Then, as I got older, I started daydreaming about being a Mommy: the pink bows and skirts, the Barbie dream house, the dolls (little did I know then that the only pink items in the house would be in my own closet, the dream house would continue to be a dream, and the dolls would be army men and action figures).

The point being: I’ve always had preconceived notions of what IT would be like. The IT referring to just about anything of any importance. And the older I get, the more I realize that it is these pre-set expectations, these self-imposed constraints, which cause me great grief on a day-to-day basis, because, as most of us know, IT rarely turns out exactly as you expected it to.

Having been a teacher of small children for a full decade prior to having kids of my own, I had some very definite visions of what IT would be like: school. As my baby slowly became a boy, I started daydreaming again: my son would be the well-rounded kid, the one who the teachers loved, the one who always turned everything in on time, the one who behaved, the one who said “please” and “thank you,” the one whose parents obviously were doing their job.

Yesterday, when picking up my two boys from school, I was told that Ben had had “a really bad day” (this was accompanied with some wide-eyed brow-raising and some whew-like whistling from the teacher) and had earned himself a red card. This red card was not accompanied, luckily, with stories about bullying on the playground…we have come a long way from that. His “yellow and red days” are more about not sitting still, goofing off, insisting that he come down the slide backwards and on his tummy. Immediately after this explanation, the teacher then went on to ask “Oh, and did you hear about Aidan?” (which I had…my usually-angelic-in-school two-year-old decided to whack his classmate on the head with a toy hard enough that a report needed to be signed). I went home yesterday, two adorable and sweaty little boys in tow, feeling dejected and discouraged.

This morning, while dropping them off, I hid my face from the mother of the kid Aidan had whacked, and wondered if she was thinking: “Oh, there’s the mother of THAT kid.”

I assured Ben’s teacher that yes, he had, in fact, gone to the bathroom (TWICE) at home before coming, but for some reason he was currently fixated on going again when he arrived at school, and apologized sheepishly for her having to take him for a third day in a row while I went to work.

I got into my car and silently prayed for a “green day.”

And then I started to cry.

In my daydreams of being a parent, I never imagined feeling embarrassment or shame when dropping them off at school. I never thought I’d worry about what the teachers must think of my kids—or worse—of us.

And therein lies my issue: I worry too damn much about what other people think.

I’m frustrated and stressed because I want it to be like a problem statement: “If this, then this.” I kinda thought that’s what parenting was: IF you teach your kids right from wrong, IF you are consistent and firm, IF you balance the rewards and the consequences, IF you are a good role model, THEN they will…

Will what?

What is it that I would be filling in the blank with here?

…THEN they will not go down the slide backwards on their tummies???????

Damaged Goods

I get migraines.

I've had them since I was a little girl. I have this very clear memory of being in 4th grade and asking my teacher to let me call home because of one, and she kept saying, "You just need to relaaaax. You'll be fiiiiine."
"You don't understand..." I tried to explain.
I had to wait until the Spanish teacher came in to the class and my regular teacher left so I could go to the office and call home.
I hated my fourth grade teacher forever.

I've always felt like it's something I have to explain, like I have this pre-existing condition that can pop up at any time, sometimes without warning, and completely knock me out, make me totally incompetent, paralyzed, useless, helpless.

It's inevitable that if you've known me for any given period of time, you know I get these headaches with some regularity. So my husband had been "forewarned" when we started dating. My very first migraine with him was memorable: sudden, acute, and accompanied by vomiting. Sexy.

"Teach me how to help you," he had said. (It's easy to see why I fell so hard, huh?)

After 10 years, he doesn't need to ask. He knows the routine, even for the most severe ones: ice pack for the head, Tiger Balm for the temples, bucket of hot water for the feet (according to my Chinese medicine doctor), prescription medication, neck rub, dark room, and assurances that I'll be okay.

He has never complained, but I have always felt guilty. I can't help but wonder how much he dreads those words: "I'm getting a headache." My migraines can't be helped, but still, they're an imposition. They make me an imposition. They make life come to a screeching halt...like last weekend when our Friday date night plans were replaced with the aforementioned routine. He must think it: "Here we go again." I know I do.

And I so resent that in this world of tension headaches and computer neck strain and general stress, the word "migraine" has become almost like a catch phrase. People throw it around to signify a "bad headache." How often I've heard, when I'm in the throes of one, no less: "Oh yeah, I know how you feel. I get the woooorst headaches..." or "Ugh, I had such a migraine the other day, I went home and had to have a glass of wine."

No.

No, you do not have "the worst headaches," and no, you did not have a migraine if you went home and cured yourself with alcohol. Lord knows, this girl likes herself a cocktail almost more than anyone, but when I have even the slightest hint of a headache, alcohol is the last thing on my mind. And I'm certainly not saying other people around are not entitled to their aches and pains, but those of us who suffer from actual, real migraines sorta know those around us who suffer from actual, real migraines, too. It's like a twisted, sad, sympathetic, resigned private club.

I've tried it all: meds/no meds, more exercise/less exercise, identifying triggers, keeping my sugar balanced, stress-relief, meditation, chiropractors, acupuncture, neurologists.... Some of it helps. Sometimes. Other times, like the last 2 weeks, nothing seems to help. I feel like I'm walking around, waiting (which, I know, probably makes it all worse), praying, hoping, and literally being aware of the absence of pain.

I realize that along the spectrum of chronic medical "issues," I can not complain. Most of the time, I manage. But pain really has a way of seeping in to your soul, tearing up your spirit and your resolve a bit, sucking the joy out of your everyday. And, not to mention, it can really piss you off.

Petty and Pissy

Once a month, I get crabby.
Bitchy.
Overly sensitive.

Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

But that's sorta understandable, right? I mean, we all know there's a physiological reason why this happens to most of us. We have an excuse.

But what about when you don't have an excuse?
What about when you're walking around, generally pissed off, and you can't blame the calendar?

I have no reason to be pissy.
Except I do.


Petty things that are currently pissing me off and I have no idea why:

1. What the fuck is wrong with people who think the general laws of traffic
do not apply to them? (This is especially aggravating when said people are your
colleagues and you want to kick them when you see them in the school
hallway.)

2. I've been busting my ass for 3 1/2 weeks to lose my summer weight and I
can't close one goddamn pair of pants without getting a muffin top, yet my
lovely Hubby eats 2 salads and works out 3 times and *poof!* his abs are
back!

3. Especially chipper people...you know, the ones who squeal "Smile!"
whenever they see you.

4. The fact that every night the only conversation I seem to have energy for is the same set of required questions: "You going to the gym in the morning?" "Did you prepare the coffee?" "Are the kitchen counters already wiped?" "Whose turn is it to read to Ben?" "Is everything ready for tomorrow?"

5. The general bullshit hypocrisy of people who pretend to be something they're not: like the person who has a rosary hanging from her car mirror but doesn't remember who she slept with last night, or the one who throws out risque comments every chance she gets but is really just a jealous prude.

6. The alarm clock needing to be set to 4:45 a.m., and knowing that the latest I'll be able to sleep in on the weekend is 7:15, if I'm lucky.

There.
I think I kinda feel better now.
Maybe this helped.

And if it doesn't, that's okay, I'm sure in a few days this random senseless pissiness will pass...
...just in time for that time of the month.
At least then, I'll have an excuse.

Sometimes I don't like my kid

It is very disconcerting when you look at your child and think: "I don't really like you right now."

It is even more disconcerting when you look at your child and think: "I'd like to slap you right now."

Yes.

Slap.

Right across the face.

No, I am not abusive. I am not even big on spanking. I've been a teacher for 13 years, love my children and my students, and consider myself a pretty kind individual.

But some days, I want to hit Ben.

Some days, I think what he needs is a good smack across the face...a wake up call. (Although, if I have to be completely honest--and why the heck not, at this point?--I often think the smack would be much more for my own benefit than his, which is probably the only thing that prevents me from doing it.)

I know.

I know what you're thinking.

Some of you who are reading this right now, aghast, shocked, indignant, are thinking: "I would never..."

Some of you who are reading this right now, shocked but relieved, are thinking: "I have so felt that way..."

A small few of you who are reading this might even be smirking knowingly and thinking: "Oh, I have done that..."

There are so many things you can't possibly understand until you are a parent. There are so many shocking realizations. The one that's killing me is the realization that I can only control my child's behavior to a certain point. I can mold, I can teach, I can explain, I can love, I can show through example, but I can not make this child be a particular way.

My four-year-old is, truly, a product of his parents. He is verbal, tenacious, silly, passionate, energetic, and bright. He is not afraid to stand up for himself when he feels he is being wronged. He is not afraid to ask why things have to be a certain way when he does not agree with them. He is a leader. He is outspoken and social. All wonderful qualities to inherit, I think.

But...also like his parents, he is obstinate, stubborn, strong-willed. He knows what he wants when he wants it, constantly questions authority, and thinks he's pretty damn smart. (The fact that he is, in fact, pretty damn smart is part of the problem.)

90% of the time his good qualities outshine his bad. Everyone who knows him, loves him.

The other 10% of the time?

I want to hit him.

Hard.

I hate not liking my kid. I hate that his behavior and defiance make me short-tempered, snappy, and ugly. I hate that because I don't like him, I find that I don't like myself, either.

I am an "If-then" kinda person. As in: "If I do this, then this should happen." When something goes wrong, I need to know why. Then I need to correct it. I would preach this kind of thinking as a solution to the parents of my misbehaving students: "If Little Johnny does not do his home learning, then you should provide a consequence at home." "If Little Johnny has a good day, then he should be rewarded." If-then. You have a parenting issue? Here's the solution....all wrapped up nice and pretty with a bow. Be consistent. Be firm. Let your expectations be known. And always, always lead by example.

If Ben hits a kid during recess, then he will not attend his friend's birthday party.
If Ben does not listen to the teacher the first time, then he will not be allowed to play outside.
If Ben is nice to his little brother, then we oooh and aaaah and celebrate.
If Ben gets a happy face on his daily report, then we let him ride his bike outside.

Consistent. Firm. Expectations known. Good example.

But...
If Ben continues to misbehave, then Mommy is going to have a breakdown.

It's no secret that I have control issues. I like to be able to control everything. I know. It's impossible. I'm starting to understand that. I'm learning to accept that I can not control the weather and I can not put my kids in a germ-free bubble just before a vacation, but I always thought I would be able to control my own kid.

Not most of the time...all of the time.

I know my kid is going to screw up. We all do. But there are certain behaviors I did not expect. Not listening to the teacher??? Hitting another kid??? Not acceptable.

Except...apparently, unacceptable is not enough because it keeps happening.

If I am this kind of parent...If my husband and I work as a team...If I provide consistent rewards and consequences...If we lead by example...If we make it clear that certain behaviors will absolutely not be tolerated...

...then your kid still screws up.
...then your kid still gets an "x" on his daily report.
...then your kid still bites his buddy on the shoulder.

So if you don't like your kid, then are you a bad mother?
Or worse, if your kid is misbehaving, then is it your own fault?

Sure, go ahead...make me feel worse

Recently, I shared my first true motherly heartbreak when my oldest son was mean to another kid on the playground at school. Hubby and I were pretty firm and really thought we'd done everything to make this a "defining moment."

Uh...apparently not.

Our playground bully struck again.

Only a week after the first incident, we picked Ben up at school to learn that he'd punched another child. What can I say? I was devastated. And angry. And again, sad.

He took full responsibility:
"I hit him first."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to."

Excellent.

Now, you have to understand my child: he is really, truly a pretty neat kid. He is funny and sweet and a rule-follower. He asks permission before he uses his dad's sports bottles. He helps his team mates up when they fall on the soccer field. He says "please" and "thank you" without being prompted. But he is strong-willed. He is stubborn. He is scary-smart. And apparently, he still has not figured out that two Alphas in this house is more than enough.

So...Hubby and I sat down and made a very difficult decision. We decided that in addition to the last set of consequences (no books at bedtime, no outside play, no TV, and apologies to all involved), he would also miss his best friend's birthday party. And, to make even a greater impact, he'd stay home with Dad while he watched his little brother and I go.

And I would take pictures.

And I would bring home only his brother's goody bag.

And I would tell Daddy aaaaallllll about how greaaaaaaat the party was.

Yes, I know, we sound cold and uncaring.

That might've been what was going on on the outside. Inside? I lost sleep for 2 nights. I woke up the morning of the party dreading the coming day. And when I saw the ponies, the bounce houses (yes, plural), the real-live Spiderman? I cried. Not teary-cried. I mean, full-blown-bottom-lip-trembling-have-to-turn-away-to-hide-my-face-boo-hooing.

This was the point during the party when the mommy of the birthday boy (who also happens to be one of the greatest friends a girl could ever have and has known me forever) stopped taking pictures of her own kid to reassure me: "Stop it. You did the right thing. It will pay off. We will laugh about this at their college graduation."

The rest of the world? Not quite so supportive.

Can somebody please tell me why mothers judge each other so damn harshly? Why I was called (to my face) "cruel" and "harsh" and why people gasped (audibly) when they found out that we did, in fact, follow through with our threat and not take him to this party? Why is it that instead of supporting each other, we sit in judgment of each other? Isn't this job hard enough already? How can someone know what my kid really needs?
How is it that we live in a world where you can't tell someone when a haircut has gone completely awry, but it's totally okay to tell someone when you think their parenting has?

So here's the deal: if I don't ask you what your opinion is on a subject as sensitive as this, don't tell me. Okay?

I have no issue with the fact that our parenting style may not match others'. I have no issue with the fact that you might not agree with my parenting decisions. I may not agree with yours. That's cool. But the judgments? The name-calling? The gasps and eye-rolling and blank stares of shock followed by rapid, confused blinking? Unnecessary.

Even on a good day, I am not always 100% sure we're doing the right thing as parents. When a stressful situation like this happens, I think it's only natural to doubt yourself. So there is absolutely no need to throw some more doubt in there, trust me. I'm beating myself up over this just fine all on my own. When I stood there, watching what my boy was missing, imagining the shrieks and giggles that could've been, I was heart broken. I was angry. I doubted myself. I didn't need anyone to make me feel worse; that would've been nearly impossible.

When the weekend was over and the grounding had been lifted and we were ready to start fresh, I still wondered if we'd done the right thing. I wondered if he'd really gotten anything from the whole experience. I admit I was internally cringing on Monday afternoon when it was time to hear how his day had gone. The teacher said that not only had he had a great day, but she'd eavesdropped on one of his conversations with his playground partners-in-crime. He'd decided to come up with "a plan": when someone was making a "bad choice," the rest of them would tell that friend it was a bad idea. If the friend didn't listen, they'd "go away" from that friend or tell the teacher. And only if someone was "making a good choice" then they'd do it..."but only if they really wanted." I guess this plan went over pretty well with his buddies, because they decided they should share this plan with the rest of the boys in the class.

Well then...1 point for the parents.

Bottom line? Parenting is hard. Really, really hard. Most days, we're all just wandering around, a little bit lost, a little bit in awe of how we are solely responsible for these amazing little people we've made. I truly think we are, for the most part, all doing the best we can, and we all struggle with this job at least some of the time. I just don't think everyone admits to that. I know I'm just muddling through, trying my damned best to bring up two independent, happy, strong, caring men. And even when I'm pretty sure we're doing the right thing, it can be tough on all of us.

Partying over at my other neighbor's...

Shortly after I started this whole blogging thing, I met another girl who happened to be a Mommy and also thought she might have a bit to share with the world. I think it's safe to say that we hit it off. And so now I think of Becca as a friend...enough so that Hubby knows her by name. The coolest thing about Becca is how much she has allowed herself to let go through her blog. I can honestly say I've watched Becca's blog grow up! So I was quite excited when she invited me over to guest post as part of "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" Go over there and check out one of my most honest archived posts on how parenting totally sucks...yeah, it was one of those days. And while you're there, take a few minutes to get to know Becca and her brood. I'm pretty sure you'll like her instantly. Oh, yeah, and make sure you meet Ben's future wife, Hannah. Becca and I are sure our oldest are meant to be. Of course, their first date will only work out if one of them ever stops talking...(like their Mamas???)

So this is what it feels like when your kid disappoints you

My 4-year-old can be a lot of things. He can be stubborn. He can be impatient. He can be manipulative. But up until now, he had never been mean.

Another new experience in the World of Parenting: when your kid does something that is really not nice, it breaks your heart. And makes you question everything you've done so far as a parent.

I picked Ben up from school yesterday and made sure to check in with his teacher on my way out. As per Hubby's and my suggestion, she put him on a progress report. He'd been having some trouble following directions (he has a habit of suggesting alternate plans instead of doing what he is told...example: "Stop playing tackle football, Ben." "I'll do it more slowly/carefully/quietly instead."). Turns out Ben's first bad progress report day wasn't because he was negotiating his options.

"During playground time, Ben and another boy were punching a third boy. The third boy was crying his eyes out."

Long story short? My extremely verbal child explained that his buddy suggested the two of them punch this third little boy. And my kid, who is known for never falling to peer pressure (or adult pressure, for that matter) decided THIS was the area in which he would allow himself to be led. This is a time when I'd love to say that my kid didn't know better. That he wasn't sure what the right thing to do would have been. But when prompted, Ben did know all the right answers:
"What would have been a good choice instead?"
"I should've said NO. I should've said I wasn't going to punch him. I should've helped him. I should've told the teacher."

This is what kills me. He knew better. He just truly chose not to do the right thing.

Now I know what some of you might be thinking: he is four.
I know what some others might still be thinking: he is a boy.
And I know what yet some others might be thinking: he must've learned this somewhere.

Yes, I know he's four. I don't care. He knew better. This is when it starts.
Yes, I know he's a boy. I care even less here. "Boys will be boys" is probably the most disgusting excuse for bowing out of parenting when it gets tough. Yes, boys are different than girls. Believe me, I figured that one out quick. Yes, boys are often louder and more active and rougher. But to excuse mean behavior because there's a penis involved? It's part of the reason little girls grow up to be women who sit around complaining about their husbands' inabilities to be sensitive and caring.
And finally, no, he didn't learn this from us. Or anyone around us, for that matter. And this is where the horrifying realization kicks in: As a parent, you really have to teach, teach, and teach. And then pray. Pray that the lessons stick. Pray that what they see at home is translated into their own behaviors. Pray that they make the right choices.

All I can think is: My little boy did a mean thing. Is my little boy mean?

And then all I can think is: I'm so sad.

Yes, sad. I mean, I'm angry too. I'm pissed off as hell and frustrated and disappointed. But mostly, I am sad.

When I had to sit there and tell him that we weren't doing his classmates' Valentine's cards together because he did a mean thing and Mommy and Daddy didn't want to be around someone who did mean things...that made me, I am sure, sadder than it made him.

"A defining moment."

This is what my most brilliant and wise friend (who once cancelled her now-grown daughter's trip to Disney when she was seven because she stole 35 cents from her father's drawer) called it: A defining moment. "Kids test," she said. "He made the wrong choice. Now it's up to you guys to decide what's going to happen with this. He needs to learn this lesson. He needs to learn that even more important than how cute he is or how many soccer goals he scored on Saturday or whether he can count to 100 is whether or not he is kind."

I have always said that there are two things I absolutely can not tolerate from my children: disrespect and meanness.

So here I am, a teacher for 13 years and a bit of a know-it-all... I thought the kids always behaved a certain way because of the parents. I thought if you put in all you had, if the father and the mother worked together, if you really did the "right thing" as a parent, then your child would, at the very least, turn out to be a well-behaved kid. I thought even the ones who were tougher to discipline could be controlled as long as the parents were consistent and firm and loving. Apparently, there are no guarantees. Apparently, you really do just have to give it your best and then pray.

Tomorrow my four-year-old will go find the boy he punched, look him in the face, and apologize to him. He will promise never to do that again, and he will ask that little boy to be his friend again. We have made sure this will happen because the teacher will follow up on it. Hubby and I have teamed up on the entire situation. We have come up with the consequences which we felt would make the most impact. We have sat him down and spoken with him, honestly, firmly, gently, and made sure he understands why this is important, why this will not be tolerated. But throughout it all, Ben hasn't exactly seemed incredibly remorseful.

And I worry that this is just a sign of what's to come. I worry that I will not be proud of this little boy as he grows up. I worry that no matter how good our parenting is, it will not matter.

And yes, I know...he's four. I know I may be getting ahead of myself. I know I may be making this bigger than it is. I hope so, actually. But to hear that my little boy was mean...well, this is probably my saddest moment as a mom so far.

You mean it gets worse?!?

It was one of those moments...I had the 25-pounder on my hip, a full blown wrestling match necessary to keep him from sliding down my side again and onto the floor, where he desperately wanted to reach the elevator alarm button.

Errands with a 15-month-old are not easy. No, let me correct that: errands with this 15-month-old are not easy. My first kid? I could go to the mall on Black Friday for 10 hours and he'd sit happily in the stroller the whole time.

Today was the second day in a row when I'd had to spend hours on my own with Aidan Kai while trying to accomplish something. Simple tasks such as buying a loaf of bread or dropping off a pair of glasses for repair become full blown tests of physical endurance and mental strength with this kid.

Yes, he's cute. Reeeeeeal cute. And funny. Reeeeeeal funny. But that baby who wailed the entire first four and a half months of his life? Still there.

So as I was standing there in the elevator, wondering how in the world women who don't work out can physically handle their toddlers when I thought surely I'd end the afternoon with either a broken back or a broken baby, a woman steps into the elevator with her teenage son. She looked serene. Her hair was brushed. She smiled at me. She made cooing sounds at Aidan Kai. That's when she points to her son and says wistfully: "Awwww, it's hard to believe he used to be that little." Another woman who had been standing behind me immediately piped in: "Yeah, they really do grow up so fast."

My response?

"Yeah, I hope so!"

It was my attempt at a bit of humor and a bit of honesty.

These two women with grown children did not think it was so funny. Or true, apparently.

"Oh, no, no, noooooo. Enjoy it. Trust us." They both nodded emphatically, nearly in unison.

At this point, the elevator door opens and as we all step out, the woman with the teenage son slows down enough to let him walk ahead. She turns back to me and conspiratorially whispers (complete with the hand over the mouth for dramatic emphasis): "You know how they say this is the best time?" She pauses and motions to Aidan. "It really is true." With that, she shuffles along to catch up with her son.

And I am left standing there, blinking. Discouraged.

You mean this is IT? This is where it peaks? Then I'm screwed, because most days, I'm not digging this part so much.

Look, I get it. I know I will look back and ooooh and ahhhh and nostalgically remember the days when my boys were babies. I already do that sometimes with Ben. I get that these days really will fly by in the grand scheme of things. I understand that they are only little for a very short time. I do know that. You realize it all the more when you've had one already grow up into a small boy, all scruffy and rough-and-tumble and occasionally stinky. So I do take time to inhale all that baby/Cheerios/milk/drool smell Aidan Kai manages to harbor in his neck and, amazingly, the very tippy top of his head. I do still make sure to take tons of pictures, so I never miss out on any lasting memories with the second child. I do try to keep in mind that this will be The Last Time In My Whole Life that I will see my child learn how to walk and say a new word and discover Mickey Mouse.

But I also think: it's gotta get easier. It's got to. Because, quite frankly, I can't do this much longer.

I often find myself fantasizing--we're talking full out theatrical production complete with narration going on in my head here--about when the boys will be old enough to be self-sufficient. No, I don't mean get jobs and move out. I don't want to fast forward that much. But an independent bath and butt wipe would be lovely. To be able to go to the beach, come home, and call out "Okay, everybody to the shower and then we're getting a pizza and a movie!" To be able to run an errand without lugging a wriggling, borderline-tantrumy sack of potatoes back and forth. To be able to unload a dishwasher without having to use one foot as a mid-air gate to keep the baby from climbing into it.

So, really, how bad do things get after this? Did that woman in the elevator know something I don't? Is this like when parents don't tell people who are thinking about having kids how tough it really is because a) they don't want to frighten them and b) misery loves company?

I've spoken to many women who tell me that they absolutely loooooved the baby stage. Sometimes I wonder if they really did, in fact, love it while they were in it, or, if maybe after the years have passed, they love the memories of it. Maybe once it's all over and you have grown kids running around, with their own set of issues and challenges, you just remember that fat wriggly cooing baby and wish for that simplicity. You block out the sleepless nights, the ear-splitting tantrums in the grocery store, the mashed peas thrown across the room. I read somewhere once that scientists have discovered that the brain tends to forget unpleasant memories. It's like a defense mechanism. I suppose if you couple that scientific logic with the everyday aches and pains of babyhood, it makes sense that we'd remember only the good.

The next time Aidan Kai is screeching, stiff-legged, refusing to sit down in the shopping cart, I will try and remember that woman with the teenager. I will try. And maybe, just maybe, one day I will walk into an elevator and see a struggling mom with her struggling baby and smile knowingly, maybe even long for the smell of Cheerios and drool. But I don't think I will tell her to "enjoy it." Because really, that's kind of unnecessary.