Raising Jackson: The Talk

Jack has always been a "lady's man."  Let me tell you a little story.

When Jack was three years old, he attended a darling, little preschool called Love N Laughter, an old house converted into a school many years ago.  At that time, I happened to be working at the school, teaching the two-year olds.  It was a warm, spring day and the kids were headed outside to play.  As I led my little ones out to the playground, I saw Jack standing in the middle of the yard, transfixed on something in the near distance.  I called to him once.  Twice.  Nothing.  I walked towards him, following his line of sight to an "older" four year old girl.  Long blond hair, blue-green eyes, wearing a summer dress over which was a jean jacket, the collar turned up, like she was a "Pink Lady" in training.  As she walked from the swing set to the slide, she pulled a tube of chap stick out of her pocket, applied it to her little, bow-shaped mouth, smiled at my little Romeo and kept walking.

I cleared my throat.  "Jack?"

"Mooooooomm," Jack sighed as she passed him, "did you see those lips?"

True story.


One night, when Jack was in the fourth grade, we were driving (just he and I) in the car and got on the subject of girls.  He wanted to know if it was okay to kiss them.  The great thing about Jack is that he really will talk about it with me. He might be uncomfortable, he might roll his eyes or sigh, but he will talk with me.  A good sign.  So we talked.  And decided that maybe he wasn't quite ready for that.  Yet.


Last night, the subject of girls came up again (definitely one of Jack's favorite topics).  Now, at 12 1/2 years old, Jack is finishing up his first year of middle school.  So, the talk is changing.  His older brother, just days away from his 15th birthday, was in the room, too.  Anyway, Jack told me that he and his friends saw "a used condom" on the parking lot outside of school.  Oh, Dear Lord.  At the middle school?  Are you kidding me?  Should I take some comfort in the fact that at the very least there was a condom?  Ugh.

(Author's 1st side note: Can you understand that this single mom has much to impart to her two wonderful boys, and that she needs to tread carefully?  And that these two boys still require different conversations as it relates to this topic?)


I've always told Jack that he should treat a girl just like he would want a future boyfriend to treat his little sister.  And last night, I added two ideas to that:

#1 Any girl he dates is someone's sister.  Someone's daughter.  And someday, she is going to be someone else's husband.  Respect that.

and #2  Somewhere out there is Jack's future wife.  And until he meets her, she will date other boys.  How does he want those guys to treat HIS future wife?  Something to think about.

Jack looked at me and said "I know mom.  Keep it in the fireplace."  This is what they were taught in PSR - that sex is an act of intimacy between a husband and a wife.  Meant for them alone.  His older brother and I both nodded, liking Jack's analogy.

After his brother left the room, I told Jack that he is most likely going to hear different information from different sources - namely his peers.  And that if he has any questions, he should just ask me.  He might be embarrassed, I said, but I'll be a little embarrassed, too.  And that's okay, we'll just be embarrassed together.  At least we'll be talking, and he'll get the right information.  He promptly informed me that he'd just ask  his brother.  Oh, Geez.  Please, Jack, I said to him, just ask me.

"Okay," he said.  Then, he smiled and added, "I'm gonna go on Facebook and tell my friends that you just attempted to have 'the talk' with me."   (Geez, is nothing sacred?)

(Author's 2nd side note:  I then gave Jack the really bad news:  We're not done.  This is an ongoing conversation.  Like, ongoing for the next six years.  Good times!)

Raising Jackson: Kindred Spirits

Remember when you were a kid? And your mom used to say to you something like this: "I hope you have one just like you some day."  You don't?  Oh, well, then maybe it was just my mom who said it to me (Author's side note to her mother: please don't read into this, I'm sure your mom said it to you, and her mom said it to her).

Well...I got mine.  It's true, I think, that everyone who has children can see pieces of themselves in their son(s) or daughter(s).  The good and the bad.  But, sometimes, a child will come along who is so like ourselves...not in the mirror mind you, I'm not talking spitting image here.  I'm talking about the soul.  What's in the heart.  I call mine the "child of my heart" for fear of using a less flattering term.  Deep down, Jack and I are kindred spirits.  But what happens here is this:  We fight.

We don't just disagree sometimes, arguing as you would with someone over a split piece of chocolate cake.  Oh no.  We. Fight.

Now, not all of this is due to that kindred spirit I speak of - that's just an explanation for it, not the reason.  Jack is a passionate soul.  When he is happy, he is the single most loving, giving, warm person in the room - in the world.  He walks into a room and truly Lights. It. Up.  I mean that very sincerely.  Maybe you have a child like this.  Maybe you know someone like this.  Hell, chances are you've fallen in love with someone like this - it's easy to do with these room lighters, let me tell ya.

There is a flip side.  When Jack is angry, there isn't a soul for miles who doesn't know it.  He breathes and sweats that anger.  It radiates from every limb.  When he is angry, he is walking, talking, breathing, sweating, being - angry.  This is the side of Jack that is difficult to raise.  There is no reasoning with Angry Jack.  There is no calming, reassuring, or squelching Angry Jack.  He just IS.  And the aftermath is typical of any violent storm - there is damage.  Residue.  Holes in the wall, broken doors, bruised hearts.

The good news here is that Jack is not afraid to talk.  He freely shares his feelings, his emotions, his thoughts with me (well, pretty freely, considering that he is a pre-teen boy).  There is no wondering what kind of mood Jack is in.  Ya just Know.  Ya know?

But I Digress.  It was towards the end of one of these storms last night that something happened.  In my eyes, it was nothing short of miraculous.  We were squared off at opposite ends of the laundry room, like a couple of cowboys in an old John Wayne flick.  Arms at our sides, hands curled into fists, with our fightin' faces on, Jack says something to me that stops me in my tracks.  It wasn't so much the words he used (which I'll keep private, seeing as I'm letting the universe in on everything else about our relationship), as it was the tone he used.  He changed his voice just a touch.  Softened his tone just enough, uncurled his fists just a hint, let the fire out of his eyes.  He let me in beneath the anger.  And I softened.  I listened.  He listened.  And then we both sat down and talked it out.

I explained to Jack that I really do "get" him - because (and son, I know you don't want to hear this, but...) we are sooo much alike.  Creative souls.  Passionate.  Complex.  Begging to be understood, if only by the ones closest to us.  Maybe he got it.  Maybe he didn't.  But it made us both feel better, I think, to understand a bit more why the two of us fight so much.

Now, as a parent, I can't let this kindred spirit stop me from parenting.  I can't let it lower my expectations.  It doesn't, for example, excuse the violence, the disrespect.  Not for a second.  But what it does do is help me to understand from where it comes.  And that is the first step in helping Jack learn how to deal with it, diffuse it, and find more acceptable ways to handle it.

No one said parenting was easy.  And when you're dealing with a strong-willed, complex child, well, all I can say is, may cooler heads prevail.

I think I may turn this blog - Raising Jackson - into a series.  If I knew of a parent going through the same type of challenges as me, who was willing to lay it out in a blog, I'd certainly feel better about my own challenges.  And maybe I'd discover some idea I hadn't yet tried.  


What I learned last night is that Jack and I can learn from each other.  So, maybe you and I can, too.

Why It Takes a Mom Longer to Get Well

Strep Throat.  I don't think I've had it before.  If I have, it's been a damn long time.  Let me tell you, it's miserable.  It hit me Tuesday morning. It is now Saturday afternoon, and I'm finally, finally feeling better.  My 12 year-old came down with it on Wednesday.  He's up and running today.  It hit my 14 year-old yesterday.  He's already good to go.

Why is it that it's taking me so long to recover?  Could it be because despite the diagnosis, despite the attempted rest, I still had client emails to reply to, spreadsheets to update and budgets to finalize?  Or maybe it's because just when I sat down to rest, my three kids were home, hungry for dinner, bored, out of clean clothes.

Or possibly, it was the fact that one by one they fell sick, like dominoes.  And needed me.  Or rather, I needed to take care of them.  It's what I do.  I've determined that I'd much rather take care of the sick than be the sick.  Who wouldn't?

So, I administered medicine, heated soup, filled cups, checked temperatures.  And attempted to get well myself. A mom can't afford to get sick.  We don't have TIME.

Throughout this week, my 6 year-old daughter has remained (knock wood) healthy.  Which, technically, is a good thing, right?  But, it also meant that she had more energy than the rest of us put together.  She wanted to play, read books, build legos, and on and on.  Is it horrible of me to think that if she just had a touch - the slightest touch - of this Strep, that she might slow down, lie on the couch, take naps like the rest of us?  Horrible, I know.  I'm a terrible mother.  Just awful.

But I digress, we are all on the mend.  I'm feeling human again.  Hell, I've even showered and dried my hair!  Today I am wiping every visible surface with antibacterial clorox wipes, scrubbing the kitchen and baths, washing every sheet, pillow case and blanket in hot water.

I'm still tired.  But, there is a Super Bowl tomorrow, and if anyone is still brave enough to enter through our front door, the least I can do is lose the germs.

On this day, 1999

My middle child, Jack, is twelve today.  12!  Hard to believe.

From the moment he came into this world, very late (or early, as it were) on a Saturday, I had a feeling he'd be a whirlwind. I was 37 weeks along when I felt a contraction while getting ready for bed.  It was about 11:15 at night.  Back labor is not pretty.  By 2am, I was 8 centimeters and barely had time for that sweet, sweet epidural.  He was born just 27 minutes later. Fast and furious, he didn't waste his time being born.  The only thing he slowed down for was sleep.  From just 3 weeks old, he was sleeping through the night.  He played hard, and crashed hard.  That was a blessing. To this day, he never has a problem falling asleep.

He was also born with a confidence, a self-assuredness that continues to surprise me.  We always have a "Jack story" to tell at holidays and get-togethers.

Like the time when Jack was two, and heard me on the phone.  I was in the middle of a conversation, saying "Can you believe that son of a ..." I stopped short of saying a bad word when I saw him toddle into the room.  He stopped, looked up at me, and said "bitch, mama.  Son of a bitch."  And continued on his way.

Or the time when he was five.  His older brother was at his friend Nick's house.  Nick's mom and I were making plans to all meet up for dinner.  It was a well known fact that Jack had a crush on his mom (Kris).  So when our phone rang, and her name came up on the caller ID, I handed the phone to Jack.  He said, "Hi Krissy!"  "Hi Jack!" she said, "Hey, buddy, I'm gonna get Nick and Connor and we're all gonna meet down at Wings for dinner, okay?"
Jack responded, "Okay, but why don't you leave that husband of yours at home."

Or the time when he was six, and I took him to get a haircut.  The hairdresser was young and pretty.  Jack was talking her ear off.  "We're just about done," she said to him.  "Okay," he answered.  "What time do you get off work?"  She smiled, "eight o'clock.  Why?"
"Do you like Sponge Bob?" Jack asked her.  "Sure!" she played along.
"Well, you wanna come over and watch some Sponge Bob with me?"

Or when he was in the third grade, and one of the girls in his class was getting picked on at recess.  She was surrounded by a group of girls, frightened.  Jack stepped in, took her hand, told those girls to deal with him next time, and walked her out of there.  When he got home from school, I asked how his day had been.  "Fine." was all he said.

Later, I got two calls.  The first was from the Principal telling me that Jack was called in to tell his side of the story.  She told me what a fine young man I was raising.  The second call came from the girl's father. He called to thank me for raising a brave, young gentleman.  He was grateful that Jack had been there that day.  Jack thought nothing of it.  He saw someone getting picked on, and he stepped in to help out.

Jack has a compassion for others who can't stand up for themselves.  He is a protector by nature and won't accept anyone making fun of kids who are different, and won't let their differences stop him from sitting with them at lunch, or helping them with school work.

There are certain people who just light up a room.  That's Jack.  He has a way of making everyone around him feel special.  His energy, confidence, charisma and charm are unmatched.

Happy Birthday Jack.  You are so special.  I have no doubt that you are going to make something very big of yourself.  We butt heads, we argue, I get thoroughly exhausted - mentally and physically.  And some days are just a pure challenge, I'll give you that.  But you are the child of my heart.  

When I was growing up, my mom used to say to me, "Just you wait!  You're going to grow up and have a child just like you!"  Back then, I just rolled my eyes.  Now I know exactly what she meant.  That's my Jack.  Creative, passionate, energetic, and sometimes, just not fully understood.

What a huge responsibility I have ahead of me - to mold you into the very best of all that you are.  I am so lucky to be the one who gets the pleasure of watching you grow into the amazingly talented, confident, compassionate man I know you will become.  And then, maybe, helping you get through those years of raising one of your own...; )

I Am So Proud

My son's high school held a "Mother Son Mass and Brunch" today.  During mass, the priest spoke about how the first two commandments are God's greatest commandments to us.  The first being to "love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and soul," and the second being to "love your neighbor as yourself."  It's hard to imagine a love so deep, so powerful, so unconditional.

Not for moms.  We know the power of that love from the moment our children are born, and in many cases from the moment we know we are carrying our child.

The priest spoke then about how at the very core of this love is letting go.  From the moment we become parents we are faced with having to let go.  Day by day, little by little, as they grow into independent, capable adults.  If you are a parent, regardless of whether you're religious, spiritual or neither of these, you can probably agree with this.  The letting go is the hardest, most painful part of love.  But it's also the most important.

I can apply this to more than just my kids.  Maybe you can, too.  Letting go, in many forms is painful.  But when done with love, it's the greatest gift of all.  But I digress...

Later, we all had brunch together.  Four of the seniors each gave a short speech on why their moms mean so much to them.  It was very touching.  There were hundreds of boys in attendance with their moms.  And each one, from the seniors down to the youngest freshmen were polite, kind, and gracious.  I am so very glad that I am able to provide this education for my son.  More than just academics, he's part of a brotherhood that leads by example, with respect.  I am so proud of the young man he is, the considerate, intelligent, respectful man he is becoming right before my eyes.

On another note, I met with my second son, Jack's, teachers on Friday.  They told me how incredible my son is with an autistic boy in his classroom.  On more than one occasion, Jack has picked up his tray at lunch to go sit with this boy when he was alone at a table.  He offers a kind word and help with school work.  With no prompting, Jack has become this boy's unspoken protector.  I am so very proud.  

My daughter is learning to read.  Everywhere we go, she calls out to me, "mama, what does (insert letters here) spell?"  She's beginning to recognize simple words, and is both surprised and proud when she recognizes a word ("Hey, that spells STOP!").  I am so proud.

I write this with all three of my kids tucked into their respective beds.  And I feel truly blessed.  Blessed to have them all home, safe and sound.  Blessed to have three kids whom I truly like as people.  Each so different, all so incredible.

**sigh**

On this night, 2005...

Allow me to take you back to this night, August 25th, in the year 2005.  I am fat, with a capital HUGE.  Nine months pregnant, I have been to the hospital three times already with "false" labor.  Let me tell you something about "false" labor.  It doesn't FEEL "false."  And having been through childbirth twice before, I do know what it feels like.  But this little girl...she is a stubborn one (she comes by it quite naturally).

So, my due date is 2 days away.  Having had my first child 3 days early, and my second child 3 WEEKS early, this feels miserably late to me.  I am tired.  I am round.  My boobs are hitting me in the chin, and my bladder is dragging the ground like an orangutan's knuckles.

My husband has just arrived home from work, and taking pity on his poor, bloated wife (or realizing that any attempt to ask me for dinner could result in his losing a testicle), he offered to take me and our boys out for pizza.  Pizza!  I feel instantly better.   We gather the boys and head off to Fortel's.  Not yet out of the subdivision, my stomach cramps up.  Not again, I think.  I'll just ignore it.

I ignore it all the way to Fortel's Pizza Den.  My husband stops at an ATM down the street from the restaurant for cash.  While he punches at the buttons on the machine, I groan out loud at the pain that has tightened my bulging belly.  "Mom?" my oldest son asks from the backseat, "are you okay?"
My husband turns his head to look at me, and I simultaneously grunt "ummm, yeah, I'm good," and give him a wide-eyed look.  He urges me to go ahead and call the doctor.  I do.

"Dr. Pearse?" I say between breaths, "I'm having some labor pains again."  He asks me a few questions, as my husband pulls the car into the lot and parks in front of Fortel's.  The boys, 8 and 5, wait patiently, listening to my end of the conversation.  "Go ahead and head into the hospital," he says.
"Yeah, right." I hear myself bark at him, "so you can send me home a fourth time?  I don't thinks so."

He's determined by the way I'm talking and breathing that this pain is real, but I'm having no part of it.
He urges me one last time, "Beth.  Really, you need to go.  How far away are you?"
I give in a little with the next crushing pain, my hand squeezing the blood out of my husband's forearm.

"Okay, damn it," I tell him, "but I am leaving that hospital with a baby - I don't care if I have to steal it from the damn nursery!"

Gratefully, he ignored my threat and told me he'd see me soon.  I didn't get Fortel's pizza that night.  But at exactly 1am on August 26th, Ella Lee was born.  She was beautiful.  And quite bald.

I'd always wanted to have three kids.  And was convinced that I'd be happy with three boys.  In fact, I was terrified of having a girl.  All of my friends with boys shuddered at the thought of raising a girl.  If you're one of us, you know why.  We can be a bit...difficult at times (okay, if you're not one of us, chances are you've had a scary encounter or two.  We feel ya.).

But I digress.  The moment the doctor placed that baby girl in my arms, I was so in love.  She has brought so much joy and happiness, so much laughter and love into all of our lives.  I'm thankful every day for her.

Happy birthday baby girl.  Can not believe you are 6 years old!


                 Time flies!

Serenity...Just $13.99

Sometimes it's just not worth the battle.

My middle child (you remember him?  Willful, loving, Jack) hurt his elbow during goalie training last night.  They were practicing diving for the soccer ball (it's your third hand, you love the ball!) and he landed on it, his elbow slamming into hard ground.  Nothing broken (I'm not a doctor, but we've had 5 in our house - none Jack's), no heinous swelling or bruising.  But Jack was hurting last night.  I coaxed him into a warm bath, got him settled on the couch with a fluffy pillow, soft blanket and tv and he fell right to sleep.  This morning he was a hornet's nest.  

Couldn't move his arm (he said), couldn't do anything, refused to go to summer camp because he was afraid to take the field trip to the in-link skating rink.  He was bored, restless, and then got it in his head that he needed to have his arm in a sling. 

 

I tried telling him I don't have a sling.  I tried telling him I was working (from home today, mind you) and he needed to relax (read: be quiet!) and keep ice on it.  

Nothing worked.  Once he got the idea of a sling into his head, nothing else was going to do.  "Mom, pulleeeese!" he whined, "it hurts!"  Dragging out the words as though stretching the syllables would impress upon me his dire circumstances.  It simply stretched that nerve ending to near breaking.  You know the one...the LAST SENSITIVE NERVE?  Yep.  That one.

I heard about it from 8am this morning through 1pm when I had to run out for a doctor's appointment.  Then I read about it via text.  Gosh, I do love technology. 

On the way home, it hit me.  I had spent the past 5+ hours listening to this whining, complaining misery.  And suddenly an infomercial began playing in my head:  

Are you in need of peace?  Do you need a few moments of serenity?  How long have you had to put up with the whining?  Well, folks, have we got just the thing for you!

Peace!  Serenity! A temporarily content 11 year-old boy!  That's right!  All this can be yours for the low, low price of $13.99.  Just one payment of $13.99 can buy you a few moments of whinelessness (is that even a word? It is now...)!  All you have to do is stop at Walgreens on your way home and purchase that cotton, adjustable sling.  $13.99.  Operators are standing by...

Now, I normally do not fall victim to these sales pitches, but this was one I absolutely could not argue with.  I simply could not refuse.  I swerved into that Walgreens parking lot and ran in like I was on fire.  And when I got home and presented Jack with the sling...

Well, let's just say I'm writing this in complete silence...

 

Footsteps in the Dark

I just love a good book.

I’ve seen this one in the bookstore on several occasions, but for whatever reason, passed it up for different titles. Finally, after weeks on the Best Seller table, I bought a copy of “The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo.”

This is a good book.

It’s been awhile since I’ve stayed up past midnight reading, but I simply could not put this one down. If any of you have read it, there are a few awful parts. The other night, I was reading one of these, and decided I’d better close the book and get some sleep before I gave myself nightmares. I turned off my bedroom light, slid under the covers, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. There is an alarm key pad right next to my bedroom door. And I noticed, the minute I lie down, that the light went from green to red. Mind you, I am a single mom with three kids, but it was midnight. They were nestled all snug in their beds (sorry, couldn’t help giving a little nod to the season), right?

A split second later, there was a shadow looming over me, and as my eyes adjusted the shadow turned into the shape of a man. I screamed. I didn’t yell, I didn’t cry for help, or grab the bedside lamp and knock it over his head. I screamed. Just like a pitiful, helpless creature in a B-roll horror flick.

“Mom, it’s me!” Yes, it was my thirteen year-old son. Who stands 5’8” now, and in the dark, looks like a man (where did my baby go?!).

It took me a few minutes to recover from that one.

Last night, I skipped the reading and went straight to bed. I was in a deep sleep when I thought I heard footsteps. I opened my eyes to see my son, his head peering cautiously around the corner of my bedroom door. “Mom. It’s me,” he whispered as loud as possible, “don’t scream!”

I belted out a laugh instead.

Being Mom: What a Difference A Day Makes

Last night: Raced home, changed clothes, worked out, raced home, cooked dinner, set table, broke up two fights between my sons, did two loads of laundry, raced to store with oldest son to pick up his new glasses, raced home, watched American Idol sans commercials and in fast forward (thanks to DVR), gave Ella a bath, did the dishes, had an argument with Jack (my middle child) that escalated until we were both in tears, tucked in the oldest and youngest, went to talk to Jack only to find him sound asleep, crawled into his bed, hugged him tight and woke him up to tell him how much I love him. Finally went to sleep.

Tonight: My kids are with their dad and I wish I would have slowed down. I wish I would have closed my mouth and opened my arms. I wish I would have remembered that the laundry and the dishes would still be there tomorrow. I wish I would have enjoyed bath time, read a little slower, cuddled a little longer.

Some parenting days are more stressful than others. Sometimes I say "no" when I should have said "yes," and sometimes I say "yes" when I should have said "no." Sometimes I screw up, and make mistakes and wish for a "do-over." But, always, always, I love my kids. And I hope they know that.