Don't Ask Questions

I’m discovering that I’m just as mediocre at posting regularly in this blog as I am at parenting, but I have decided that consistency is of paramount importance, so here goes my annual post, haha. I’d vow to post more consistently and regularly, but that wouldn’t be consistent, so I won’t lie. And I’m not a Philosophy professor, but I think I just made a logical fallacy. Or illogical. Either way, let’s move on.

While my gargantuan monster of a 16 year old continues to grow (he’s now 6’2” and has feet that are the last shoe size available in stores), my 11-year old grew up undetected. Well, other parents might have noticed but I was too busy with 1) being mediocre, 2) redirecting every possible comment uttered by my 16 year old that began with “I don’t want to be offensive, but….” (hint: what comes next most assuredly WILL be offensive), and 3) engaging in a never-ending driving loop between home and the grocery store to keep the gargantuan child fed and sated (apparently two different things).

So it shouldn’t surprise you that my revelation that my baby son was actually growing up occurred in my home-away-from-home, the grocery store. So there we were, in Giant, in the seltzer aisle (they sell other beverages in that aisle, but we’re so obsessed with seltzer that that’s what we call it), and my 16 year old says “Ma, [#2] got to grab Y’s ass the other day.” Background: Y is a girl, and she and my youngest claim that they’re “going together,” which apparently means hugging each other goodbye at aftercare and telling everyone they are “going together.” Now a new activity has popped up and at first, none of this computed in my head. So I pondered and asked a question I will regret for the rest of my life—a question I certainly did not want to know the answer to and so one I should not have asked. I said “On purpose? Like, was it an accident?” And then I encountered the moment I can never take back, the moment that will burn in my eyes forever: that moment when your last child, for whatever reason the one who just will never grow up in your head, says “of course it was on purpose! We were hugging and then I just went in like this.” And he mimics that perennial ass grab that men have been doing since the beginning of time (I’m willing to bet there is actual sufficient numerical data to support this claim), where he wraps his hands around her and goes right into her cheeks and squeezes. And he thrusted just a bit. My brain popped. Literally. Like a case of seltzer cans at once. Everything went black for a minute. My oldest recognized my shock and smartly said “You shouldn’t ask a question you don’t want to know the answer to.” Except for ending that sentence with a preposition, he’s exactly right.

Although it was hard for me to take my oldest becoming man-like, it seemed to happen a little later and was accompanied by a rapid growth spurt that sent him towering over me. This kid, my last hope, my last one, is only up to my shoulder. I wasn’t ready. I had no warning. And now he’s moping around because he’s getting moved to another school this month for middle school (ok, I’ll fess up, because that sentence sounds like he’s getting moved by an external force; in fact, his other mother and I are moving him to another school)—a decision that, apparently, will ruin him and his future with Y. Never mind that this is the best academic opportunity we could find in public schools in the City. Never mind that we know this is the best move for him. No. He spends hours on the phone with her, off and on, lamenting that they won’t be in school together. Planning what high schools they will go to IN THREE YEARS so they can be together again. I must have blocked out the first love drama with the first kid, or maybe just pretended it wasn’t happening, or maybe was able to complement it with some good old Lego building with the second kid so it didn’t seem to fill the house with D.R.A.M.A. But here we are, suffocating under a cloud of “it’s not fair”s and “you’re ruining my life”s. Before, I used the younger kid as my Great Drama Deflection Shield. But I don’t have another younger kid to deflect this. My first thought this morning was that maybe I’m not too old at 50 to have another baby. That’s crazy, right? Right?

Why I Hate Roller Coasters, or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying And Love The Ride

I don’t like roller coasters. I never have. And yet I have recently found myself gripping through the roller coaster known as a teenaged boy’s life. If the real world changed as much as he has in the last few months, it would be an episode of “Revolution.” Oh, wait, that’s not real.

Anyway, my 15-year-old son, I discovered yesterday when he casually measured himself at Great Clips (reason for visit will come, be patient!), is just shy of 6’ tall. He’s 15. On my best days, I am 5’7” (that is what is says on my driver’s license, despite its inflated conflict with what it said on my chart at my most recent doctor’s visit). You see, when I had kids, I knew intellectually that they would grow up and be men. But what I never factored in was the thought that I’d have to physically look up to them. I’m not a short woman for my generation (and certainly not for Jews—I practically tower over all those squat ladies at temple), and looking up to my not-quite-grown boy child feels icky. Like I might have lost a little power. Or worst yet, like he now sees how thin my hair is on top.

Why were we at Great Clips? Is that all you’ve been thinking about this whole paragraph? OK, so, up until June, my son also had really long hair. Decidedly NOT a hipster, his hair was more of a rock ‘n roller choice, to match his serious drummer persona. But not only was it long, it was really thick, and he sweated a lot and it was in his face a lot, and I don’t know what happened, but in the spring he decided he wanted to cut it mostly off. Two days after school, off he went to Great Clips Sojourn #1 and came out with a short cut. And then the obsession started. We’ve been back 3 more times this summer, as he has finessed, and shortened, his hair. Now, as my partner warily commented, he could pass as a Republican.

It’s not just the hair and his height. They are big changes but ultimately not too hard to manage. No, the killer is, he has decided he wants to play football. Remember I’m a women’s studies gal, wary of gender-trappings of which football fits the masculinity trap in the highest order. I worry he’ll participate in gay-baiting (he doesn’t), or hurt himself in an effort to be the manliest on the team (he hasn’t). But what I’m now realizing as pre-season dwindles and school starts tomorrow, I’m now a football mom. You know, like the little moms you see on TV with their famous gargantuan football player sons. What’s crazy is, I am looking at (up to) an almost-man who is strong enough and tall enough for this crazy game, and I’m realizing that when I started this little lesbian family and thought how awesome it would be to raise feminist sons, I’m reeling a little bit from seeing my son become a man (I might also be reeling a little bit from the smell of his socks and holiest of holy hell of smells, his football jersey). He’s not a man yet, but I see the trajectory much more clearly, and wow, I’m just hoping I said and did the right things on that early part of the ride, when it’s all flat and you feel the wind in your hair, just before the ride drops too many feet and you can’t go back to the beginning and you have to depend on the good work of others to make it safely out the other side. Let’s hope the same is true for raising boys and men.

Boxing Day Blues (or How I Tried to Be Lazy)

I just finished an all-day project that has been years in the making and was completely not planned for today. Or any day, for that matter, which is why it’s been years in the making. Today, after all, is Boxing Day, and while that literally means nothing to those of us born in the US, since it is printed on my wall calendar, I have long decided that Boxing Day must be important and must be celebrated. By laying around and barely doing anything.

But despite global warming, snow descended on Baltimore today for about an hour, which put Child #2 in ecstasy. “Can we pleeeeeeeeeeeease play in the snow? Please please please?” “Maybe,” I say, “later, when the chocolate chip pancake crash is over. Besides, it’s Boxing Day, and you know we’re not supposed to do anything strenuous on Boxing Day.” #2 displays complete and total exasperation, complete with a deep sigh, a “we’re never going outside, are we” grimace, and a helpless flop of his arms. An hour later, he tries again, plaintively, “Mom. It’s beginning to rain. Can I PUH-LEASE go play in the snow before it’s gone?” Before I can say yes or no, he is digging in the front closet looking for snow boots, finds his snow pants from goddess-knows-what-year-since-it-last-snowed, finds a hat and snow gloves and heads out the back. Proud of his dogged determination, and his ability to find snow-related outerwear in the house, I decide to go through that front closet. At first, I am hoping to find snow boots for Child #1 so he, too, can go outside. His derisive and smoldering 14-year-old look indicates he is in no way desirous to spend one minute out in the cold. Fine. I’ll just see if I even have any boots for him should I indenture him to shoveling later in the week.

And so it began, pulling out boxes of winter stuff that fit no one in my house, gathering said merchandise into piles: 1) nice enough to give to the refugee resettlement agency; 2) scary and weird stuff that I’m glad #1 grew out of and will never want to see again on #2 or on any refugee (hence the trash pile); or 3) stuff that is so overlaid with dust that I don’t feel like washing it first (hence the trash pile).

But then I got all Girl Scout-y and couldn’t just leave the closet at that. I vacuumed dust and found things. The George Forman Grill I never even took out of the box (and still haven’t, but it’s on a shelf now where I can see it should I want to take it out of the box and, shock, use it). The electric tea kettle I bought for my old office and then took back when I left the office, in a huffy kind of “hah, now you people can’t make any tea because I’m taking this back” kind of way, and then promptly lost the kettle to the back of the closet. The hat to a kid’s coat that got zipped off. The mini chopper I used to use to chop whole nuts before I just bought them pre-chopped.

And wondrous of wonders, that age-old college staple, the good friend in days of yore…the provider of snack at will…the popcorn air popper. It was a gradual unveiling: first I found the butter melting cup, 10 minutes later the yellow plastic top, and then at least an hour later, the base. I thought about it for over an hour. Are the 1980s really over? Even though my cholesterol has been perfect all my life, should I bring the air popper back regardless? Is microwave popcorn really the same? Is there some kind of authenticity the air popper would bring back to my life, give it meaning, metaphorically give me respite from global capitalism? Would bringing the air popper back be a healthy move for my kids? Would it be fun, even, and provide kid-bonding over the errant popped kernels as they fly out of the popper? Would we engage in peals of laughter? Would we time the butter melting phase well enough? Would that become some kind of science experiment where I’m the fun one and they learn something and like me? And then something brought me out of my wondrous mommy reverie: #2 came back in from that snow and said “what the HECK is that? Looks like it’s from a science fiction movie.” #1’s withering look confirmed he agreed with his brother, coupled with a suspicious glare that I might make him use it, whatever it was. “It’s a popcorn popper,” I say, “when you plug it in, the air circulates down here, gets hot, and pops the corn.” #2: “You mean, just like a microwave? Why would you need something else just to pop popcorn? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Yep, he was right. Why keep something that does only one thing? Isn’t microwave technology also science-y? And I don’t have to supervise microwave technology, which increases the amount of time I can both ignore my kids and lay down on the couch. Besides, it’s Boxing Day and I should be laying down and all this thinking is too much for a holiday. Hence the trash pile.

The Times They Are A’Changin'

So 30 years ago, when I was finishing high school (30? Really?), the one “out” kid was mercilessly teased, even though he was 1) extraordinarily attractive, 2) a great dresser, 3) had a fantastic singing voice, and 4) was friends with all the pretty girls that I secretly had a crush on. Side note: when I bumped into that person ten years later, he confessed he had been dating our Biology teacher, who was probably the hottest guy for miles around. Well done, my friend!

Anyway, times have surely changed. Now, according to my 13-yr-old, it’s the homophobes who get teased. “Hot damn,” I thought, “now there’s some tables that needed serious turning!” Of course, now I’m also a parent, besides a lesbian with an intense revenge fantasy, and somewhere inside I felt empathy toward the homophobe, who is clearly being raised that way by his intolerant parents. And so I now understand the bully, even though I secretly cheered when his girlfriend broke up with him.

But now we’ve really turned the tide. In the car the other day (my favorite place to have conversations with my kids, because they can’t jump out of the car while it’s moving to avoid talking to me), Child #1 (in birth order, not order of preference) tells me that Child X, a kid I’ve known since he was 2 years old and I’m good friends with his mother, came out as gay awhile back.

            Me: Why didn’t you tell me?!

            #1: Cuz he doesn’t want parents to know, cuz you know…..

            Me: But have you met me? I am, after all, ….gay. And I’ve known X forever!

            #1: That’s the thing. The kids are all cool and he’s cool if they know. But the

parents think they’re cool and then they’ll be all, like, fawning over him and be like ‘oh, X, do you want some reeeee-sources?’

The sneer that accompanied “resources” was unmistakable. And justified, because I probably would have 1) fawned, and 2) provided resources.

Another day, as I was pulling up to #2’s school for drop off, we were behind a car with the HRC = bumper sticker.

Me: Oh, look, the parents in the car ahead of us are gay.

#2: How do you know that?

Me: Because of the = sticker.

#2: [Deep sigh] Mom. Just because they have that sticker doesn’t mean that

they’re gay. Lots of straight people use that sticker to show they’re with us.

Indeed, the mom who got out of that car is definitely straight, and of course #2 runs up to her to tell her our conversation. Humiliated twice in 5 minutes, by an 8 year old who clearly knows better.

I’m glad the times are a’changin’, but it does take getting used to!

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.