Snooping Proudly

My 13 year old has just returned from 3 weeks at sleep away camp. After a lunch out with our very extended family of moms and partners, and after a few minutes reconnecting with me, his brother, and his drums, he has crashed on the couch, his beloved cell phone in hand. Because he also had to madly text as soon as he walked in the door. In fact, he even picked up his phone from his nightstand (he wasn’t allowed to have it at camp), turned it on, and cooed to it “I have missed you so much….” Creepy.

I hope I’m not the only parent who reads their child’s texts and emails. I have not hidden the fact that I do it. In fact, I made it clear that getting an email address and a cell phone would necessitate that I’d do a random check. And, frankly, I’ve found this practice to be both illuminating and reassuring. Illuminating in that I can find out more of what’s going on in his life, and reassuring because what’s going on isn’t all that exciting!

On the morning of my son’s departure, after returning home to shut off said cell phone to let it rest for three weeks (I mean, it must seriously crave some time to itself after being manhandled nonstop…). I saw a text from a friend who is a girl and, fearing that she didn’t know he was already gone, read the text so I could respond and let her know he was gone. Reading her expression of serious sentiment toward my son, I was torn between my sister-girl compassion for confessing feelings and hearing nothing back for three weeks and my wonderment that my complaining, whining son has elicited such strong emotions from someone and wanted to know more. I leaned toward the former and texted her, letting her know I am his mom and that he won’t be able to text her back for three weeks. Sheesh, I thought, he’s got a pile of trouble waiting for him when he gets back! But maybe not, now that I got “all in his business” (to quote him directly) and may have scared her off. Sister-girl compassion ended there, though, because I turned off his phone quickly, before she texted me back and I wound up in a love triangle worthy of an afterschool special.

That day reminded me of the early days of his email address. I used to read his emails every day, making sure he was respecting my rules of email behavior. And this is what I read: 

     my son (X) to John: “whazzzzzzuuuupp?” John to X in response: “not much, whazzzzuuup?” 

     X to Bill: “whazzzzzuuuuuuppp?” ...

You get the picture. And I thought to myself, “seriously? Do they really have absolutely nothing to say?!” I became bored, and stopped reading for days. And then it hit me, or I should say that when I re-scripted these conversations in light of my own troubled teen years, I realized I’d cracked the code: probably each extra “z” specified which drug they wanted, each extra “u” specified how much, and each extra “p” specified the pick up location and time. I continued in this vein of thinking: counting on my boredom, after they were satisfied I’d stopped reading, they had become more specific about their illict behavior in their emails but I would never see them, all the opportunities to nip bad behavior in the bud gone, because I did not have the fortitude to outlast the “wazzzzzzzzzzuppppppppp.” 

Then I looked at my geeky kid and his friends and realized that, nope, they just really do have absolutely nothing to say to each other. And I should stop watching crime shows.

Puttin' Out the Family Business

I have clearly failed in two areas: 1) permanently removing the possibility that my children will announce private family matters in very public situations, and 2) solidifying that they indeed know and practice the difference between “outside voices” and “inside voices,” particularly when announcing aforementioned private family matters.

Loudly proclaiming private family matters have come in two categories: those that shame the heck out of me, and those that should (but don’t) shame the heck out of them. There is the time that my now-13-year old announced to the woman who had not yet become my girlfriend (and thank goodness she ignores children or she might not have) that I had been a drug addict. True, but he neglected to mention that I had been clean for over 15 years at that point. There is the time that, at a party, when asked where I was, that same child loudly announced that I was pooping in the bathroom. Thankfully, aforementioned not-yet-my girlfriend wasn’t at that party. Besides the usual vociferous burping and farting (and peals of hilarious laughter afterwards), my 8-year-old seems to specialize in loudly proclaiming his family business. Recently, on a vacation at the beach and after a tumble in the waves, he came back out to the water to join his brother and me, screaming “I’m back! And no more rocks in my testicles!” The young couple right behind him probably ran for the nearest Rite-Aid to stock up on condoms.

My 8-year-old also has some strange habits that verge on exposing family business. He has developed a fondness for the smell of Gillette Clear Gel Deodorant and often sticks his nose in my armpits to smell them. In public. He has a love for texture, and is particularly fond of waffle weave shirts. He will rub his cheek on them and moan “waffle weeeeeeave…” In public. Since toddlerhood, he has “marked his people” by rubbing his cheek on the inside of your upper arm. While it seems cute in theory, his death grip on your arm makes the whole experience feel more like being in a gulag than a special moment. Oh, and he does this in public.

I used to tell myself that my children were free spirits, that I had helped them escape Society’s squashing of their true selves. But now I know the truth: my kids are weird and have no censor, and it is totally my fault.

PS. I just told my 8-year-old about this blog entry and he said “you should do a blog about this messy house.” It never ends.

Rhymin' White Boys Spittin' In My Car

I have had a dreadful, pitiful, tiny bit of sleep in the last few days. It’s always the case at the end of the semester, as no matter how much I space out those final assignments, I don’t do diddly about grading until the deadline for submitting grades is, at the most, 24 hours away (ok, more like 12). So I’ve been cranking out grades and sleeping one or two winks. Usually, that little bit of sleep makes me hyperfreakymommy in which any tiny bit of noise sounds like a hammer on my brain, any tiny bit of whining sounds like a high-pitched power tool (again, on my brain), any tiny bit of asking what’s for dinner sounds like a misogynist imposition on my time, and any tiny bit of talking in the car on the way to school sounds like a personal attack of the highest order.

But I must have been more tired than usual because today, on the way to school, when the punch-buggy game (I don’t allow the punching, we just call out the cars) turned into my 13-year old beat boxing while my 8-year old rapped about the cars, I was actually pleasantly entertained. Enthralled, actually, that my 13-year old could beat box for that long. Enraptured that my 8-year old could turn any line he had heard at any time from any tv show or commercial into a rhyme about cars. And pleased , most of all, that they were working together. It was one of those moments when the skies open up, a beam of light comes shooting down from the heavens, and your kids are getting along with each other. Don’t say anything about it out loud, though, for the skies close up as quickly as they opened when you do so. So I kept my mouth shut, grinned, and enjoyed the “music.” Because, let’s face it, as clever as they are, and as urban as they are, they’re still a couple of dorky white boys frontin’. But it kept me from falling asleep at the wheel.

Why the Proportion of Peanut Butter to Nutella Matters

Experts say to choose your battles. Judge me profoundly for this, but the battle I have clearly chosen is the appropriate proportion of peanut butter to Nutella in the sandwich. Both my children firmly believe that the appropriate proportion of peanut butter to Nutella should look like this: thin, transparent layer of peanut butter to thick, frosting-like layer of Nutella. Now, on some cosmic otherspace where nutrition does not matter, they are absolutely right. But for some reason, the battle I have chosen to wage is to make PB:N declarations that would stipulate the opposite: thin, transparent layer of Nutella to thicker (albeit not frosting-thick) layer of peanut butter. After all, I explain, the Nutella is like my kiss: you’re both ok with a quick kiss before we enter public spaces but how would you tolerate a smattering of kisses, slathered over you in a frosting-thick layer? They look at me confused; the analogy has become far too complicated and, bottom line, still indicates I say no. OK, I try again, the peanut butter is where you get all your nutrition, and so you’re cheating your bodies out of excellent opportunities to grow bigger and stronger. They now don an irritated expression; do I really think I can persuade them with that one? “Besides, each 13-oz jar is made with over 50 hazelNUTS,” my 7-year-old proudly exclaims, pointing to the text on the jar. “Aren’t all nuts nutritious?” Who taught him to read?

OK, next attempt, this time with honesty: “look, Nutella is ridiculously expensive and you guys go through it like candy. It’s simply not appropriate to load up on chocolate when you should be having a nutritious snack.” And then angry mommy: “if you don’t make your sandwiches the way I want them, I will make them and you will be forced to eat them that way.” Yikes! Now I have to make sandwiches for the next 10 years, just when we got to the point that there was finally one thing I didn’t have to do.

I have now had an epic battle with each son precisely over this issue. About 6 months ago, my 12-year-old was sent upstairs for ultimately sassing me over my critique of his PB:N sandwich-making, calling me a “control freak,” which escalated into a screaming match the neighbors still joke about. Just the other day, my 7-year-old crumbled during a similar argument. The 50-hazelnut argument wasn’t working with me this time.  “But you let X make his sandwiches himself, why can’t I?” he pleads, hoping that the I-hate-being-little-and-want-to-be-independent angle would work. “If you can’t abide by my rules, then you don’t get to,” I say, while removing half of the Nutella spread on his bread. I felt all proud of myself, I had put down a boundary and I was sticking to it, no matter how much he whined, slithering to the kitchen floor in a pooling wail of tears. I was hard. I meant it. I was going to win!

And then, the fatal Mediocre Parent move: I licked the Nutella off the knife rather than putting that Nutella back in the jar. An act which reminds both my sons of my apparently-not-so-secret proclivity, which is eating Nutella with a spoon out of the jar when they are asleep (an act, by the way, which makes my German friend cringe: “what is wrong with you Americans that a simple little bit is never enough?” When I was staying with her in Germany, I had to secretly eat Nutella with a spoon while she was sleeping, too). Almost as if they practiced it beforehand, they yell in unison: “why is it ok for YOU to eat that much but not for us?” My answer? In my head, the answer is, because you both take and take and take and my only pleasure in life is a spoonful of Nutella in private where no one can bother me, and when you grow up, you’ll see how very sad that is. My answer out loud? “Because, that’s why. Now eat your damn sandwich and get over yourself.”

I know they make PB/N sandwiches when I’m not around now and I haven’t yet managed to catch them in the act. Sneaky, though I have to give them credit for their dedication to their cause. And I? Well, I could stop buying the stuff (I know, you thought about that so much earlier in this story, that’s why I’m Mediocre and you’re not…) but then I deprive myself of my treat. I could buy it and hide it, but they will find it, chocolate-sniffing bloodhounds that they are. So I believe we are at an impasse, a de facto detante of sorts, in the PB:N battle.

Is there a point to all this, you now ask me? Yes. Choosing our battles is not wise, for we do not choose well.

Why Do I Always Miss My Son's Best Baseball Moves?

OK, this is the third year that my 7 year old has been playing baseball and it never fails; as soon as he makes a great play, or finally hits the ball, I'm blabbing away to another parent and miss it. I've tried every solution I can think of, including trying to enlist the cooperation of the parents I tend to blab to. "Hey, I'm totally listening to you, but I'm not looking at you because I don't want to miss X's time at bat." They sympathize "of course, did I show you this new gadget on my phone?" And then I look at the phone, and "Crack!"--I miss my son's best hit of the game.

I should let you know that I'm not the sport parent type. The only sport I understand is soccer because I played it in middle and high school and college. I don't take the boys outside to "do sports." We take walks, we bike ride (sometimes), but mostly I sit outside with a stack of papers to grade while they fight with each other over their skateboards, scooters, or why my 7 year old can't catch a football throw from my 12 year old that intentionally knocks him flat on his ass. But my youngest loves baseball, and, since his brother was awkward at sports for so many years, I supported the interest. What could be wrong with sitting outside a couple days a week, enjoying the weather and getting some grading done? I knew I wasn't like those other parents, who stay engaged, use the correct terminology for actual plays, and know the difference between a catcher's mitt and a regular one. But I'd be there, not like my parents who never showed up for a single college soccer game.

And yet, am I really there? Despite my best intentions to be "not like the others," the other parents are actually fairly decent people and, gasp, I might have a thing or two in common with them. Also, there is a reason that my older son has nicknamed me "Blabby McBlabbypants:" I'll pretty much find something to say to just about anybody. Even when my kid is at bat. Or when he plays first base and finally catches the ball. So I'm working on it. I place my chair facing a direction in which I can't help but look directly into the action. I practice not looking where I'm talking (which just confuses the cat, with whom I practice this technique). I vow to the Fates I will *not* start a conversation when X is on deck or in the hole (see, I've learned something about baseball!). And I cheer for those other kids, whose plays I usually don't miss, so that hopefully those parents will cheer for my kid, just in case I slip in my resolve to see every single one of his moments of baseball prowess. And then, exactly what I was afraid of happening happens: the parents start acting like a team, making note of each other's children's good plays, supporting each other and our kids, all that icky stuff I was afraid of and hoped to avoid by bringing that stack of papers and pretending I was a baseball mom island. Bottom line is, if I live on my island, I miss plays because I'm grading; if I engage with the parents, I miss plays because I don't know how not to chat. Just another way in which I help my son have enough material for therapy someday.

Welcome to My Blog, or Why I'm Telling You My Parenting Mistakes

Hello and welcome!

Would it be far too cliche to say my therapist suggested I write this? Probably, but also true. Though I had been thinking, for far too long now, that there must be other parents out there, aspiring for the middle of the road, yearning to be about average, cleaving to the hope of mediocrity. If you are, this blog is for you. If you're one of those sweater-set wearing PTA types who mills your own wheat for your homemade bread and reaps the benefits of well-adjusted children who adore you, think you're funny and cool, and respect you at all times...well...this blog is not for you.

So I won't take the first post as the get-to-know-me post; you'll discover tidbits about me as time goes on. It's mysterious that way, don't you think?

Tonight my 12-year old son declared that Gwyneth Paltrow is hot. And so begins my dilemma (and some back story). I'm a women's studies professor, which means I have to, at all times and much to the groaning chagrin of my sons, invoke cultural lessons about why "hot" is an inappropriate term for women they find attractive, as the term indicates that they fit into socially prescribed categories of feminity. "Say you find them attractive instead," I intone. "But isn't that the same as 'hot?'" they reply. Sigh. Back story point #2: I am a lesbian, and though I'm not particularly attracted to blondes, Gwyneth Paltrow would be the one exception. So ultimately, though my son's use of the word "hot" makes me feel icky and weird and wish he were still a little boy instead, my response is unfortunately not the one I should have had. I should have been the women's studies professor with keen analytical insight who helps her sons to get past sexist beauty ideals. I should have been the superior mother who nurtures her sons into being "good men" who like women for their inner qualities.

But, no. When my 12-year old declared Gwyneth Paltrow as hot, mediocre mother kicks in and says...you guessed it: "I know, she totally is!"