July 7, 2011 ~ Day 209 Mr. Shark Teeth

My kid's been blessed with a little something extra.

Frankly, I know exactly where he gets it - straight from his mama.

"What is this gift?" you might ask. "What is this unique thing that she believes separates her child from most other children? Is it his staggering good looks, his impressive intellect, his superior dancing ability?"

Well of course as his mother, I do believe my child has all of those special things... but then again, so do the other darling children we know. With over a decade of teaching under my belt, I've never me a child I didn't think was gifted and beautiful in some unique way.

No... this thing that separates my kid from all the rest (at least for today) would be:

His teeth.

Specifically the two extra ones.

The third set of teeth he has growing in his mouth at this very moment, right between his baby teeth and his permanent teeth.

They're right there, hovering just underneath those perfect straight front baby teeth of his... lurking like sharks. Those darn teeth.

Having an extra set of teeth is not that common, although it isn't freakishly rare either. Teeth like this are called "supernumerary teeth" which just means that there are more of them than the kid is supposed to have in his or her mouth.

And yes, as mentioned before, my lucky little guy gets this problem from me.

Friends who have known me since the fourth grade may remember a time when I also had extra teeth growing in my mouth... and at the time, it really didn't seem like a big deal to me. I actually thought it was pretty cool that I had "extra" teeth and I can recall having them extracted at my sister's orthodontist's office with just a local anesthetic. I don't know exactly how old I was at the time... somewhere between the ages of 8 and 10. Maybe younger.

They just pulled those puppies out - and boy, they were long! I can still remember looking at the roots in awe, as they were twice as long as the rest of the baby teeth I was losing at a normal rate.

The tooth fairy's typical gift in those days was in the range of 25 cents per tooth - but for those extra teeth, she brought me a dollar each. I remember thinking that was pretty cool and wishing I had a few more extra teeth to take out.

And that was that.

So when my son's first pediatric dentist told us, three years ago, that his x-rays showed two supernumerary teeth, I laughed out loud. "Awesome!" I told my son. "It must be hereditary!"

"We'll have to pull them out, probably when he turns six years old," his then-dentist told me.

"Oh sure, no problem!" I responded, and then began to think about what inflation might have done to the Tooth Fairy's largess over 25 years. "I wonder how much she pays these days for a single tooth?"

* * * * * * *

Three years later (and approximately three weeks ago) I took my boys in for their annual dentist checkup using the brand-spanking-new dental insurance we FINALLY got for our family. I wondered if they would have cavities, or if my younger son would be frightened as they cleaned his teeth for the first time.

At the end of the appointment, the dentist - all smiles and welcome to his practice - told me what a GREAT JOB my sons had done, how GOOD their teeth looked, how GLAD he was to meet us... and that oh, my son wouldn't need his surgery for another year because his baby teeth were not ready to fall out yet.

"Okay," I said, "and you can pull those out with a local anesthetic, right?"

Suddenly brakes were screeching all over the road of his pearly white smile.

"Well actually," he responded, "No. We use a general anesthesia for that process. However I've done it hundreds of times and it's really not a big deal."

"Not a big deal, other than the normal risks of general anesthesia," I responded. "Is there another way?"

"Well, that is the way we do it here," he said. "But if you are uncomfortable we can do the procedure at Children's Hospital with a trained anesthesiologist in the room."

"With a local?"

"No, still with general anesthesia."

"The thing I don't understand," I began... and then went into a description of my own extra set of teeth, which burst right through the roof of my mouth and were extracted with no general anesthesia. "How could that have been possible 25 years ago, in the '80s, and not available today with all of the technological advances we've made?

"Well, general anesthesia isn't as risky as it was back then," he replied. "I'm not really sure how they did that."

Hmmmmmmmmm.....

("You mean, malpractice lawsuits were less likely back then?" I wanted to say.)

We went back and forth another few rounds, unable to find common ground.

"You can always decide not to do the surgery," he said, "but then your son's smile will look funny for life."

"Yes, I see your point," I responded. "But at least I would still have a son."

My irrational mom-fear of general anesthesia had me in its tight grip, and there really wasn't much he could say to dissuade me from the conviction that a local anesthetic would work just fine, thank you very much.

"Thanks for your time," I smiled politely.

"Nice to meet you," he smiled politely. We shook hands. I could almost hear the judgment in his head coming at me, but I didn't care. I was determined to find another way.

* * * * * * *

Ten telephone calls to dentists and oral surgeons throughout Southern California later, discouragement started to set in.

Every single practice I spoke with said the same thing. "General anesthesia. IV sedative. Unconscious."

With every call, I said the same thing: "Thanks for your time."

"What do they say, mommy?" asked my son nervously.

"Oh honey, they say that mommy is being silly and that putting you to rest for a few minutes while they pull your teeth will be relaxing and easy for you. They say that mommy is a worry-wart."

At last I found a pediatric orthodontist who trained at several Ivy League schools in pediatric dentistry and orthodontics. "Dr. James* will consult with your son for free, a complimentary consultation," explained his assistant. "He will take a free set of x-rays, and then give you his diagnosis which may differ from that of your dentist."

"Great!" I agreed, grasping at straws. I realized that this Dr. James would likely want to sell me some product or procedure but either way, I wanted a highly qualified opinion about the surgery and anesthesia.

"I hope this dentist will say I can stay awake, mommy."

"Honey, either way, you're going to be fine."

Weeks elapsed. My son and I allowed ourselves to forget about the diagnosis, his need for surgery, the anesthesia. Ignorance is bliss, and we waded in it happily.

* * * * * * *

Yesterday however, the calendar alerted us to our appointment with Dr. James.

Together with his little sister, my son and I ventured forth into the land of private orthodontics.

Wow.

This was a very eye-opening adventure.

The orthodontist worked in one of the nicest buildings I have ever seen - exquisite architecture... very modern, full of fountains. Super posh.

His office was the most child friendly place I've been outside of an actual school, definitely the most well thought out pediatric office I've ever seen. Instead of a main lobby or waiting room, the front door opened onto a narrow space with many alcoves, in the center of which was one giant fish tank. Along one hallway was a tooth brushing bar for young patients, complete with brand new toothbrushes and toothpastes, along with a wide mirror for little children to look at themselves in while brushing their teeth. To the right of the entrance, a playroom enclosed in soundproof glass complete with DVD/video and playstation technology along with lots of books and puzzles.

The head assistant, Margo, beckoned my daughter and I into a fancy front alcove showing off the dentist's many distinguished degrees ~ and it was pretty clear from the get-go that this was going to be the scene of the sales pitch. Handing my daughter a coloring book and pens which she just 'happened' to have in her desk, the woman began to put together a very thick folder for me of information.

She then took my son to get a complimentary set of x-rays (including the one pictured above) and when those photos were complete, we awaited the arrival of the pediatric dentist/orthodontist. They actually kept us waiting for some time, and as we were the only clients in the office, I had the sense that it was part of their pitch.

At last the gentleman of the hour arrived, and we began in earnest to hear why my son not only needs oral surgery complete with general anesthesia but also a very complex and expensive set of expanders, retainers and three years worth of follow up appointments, starting as soon as possible. To the tune of $5200. Not including cost of the actual oral surgery which would need to be performed elsewhere.

"We just want to make sure you understand, though, that doing this won't necessarily mean that he doesn't need to have braces when he hits around 12 or 13. This would be a start... and then we'd take a break, and then we'll see."

"Okay. And what would happen if we just let nature take its course?"

"Well, if we were living in Appalachia 30 years ago, your son might end up with the second set of teeth protruding from the top or bottom of his palate and when they busted through, they would need to be pulled out.

However, these extra teeth have already turned one of his permanent teeth to the side, so you are probably looking at needing braces when the permanent teeth come in anyway."

"Hmmmm... What do you suggest for young families who live in present day California yet cannot afford to pay thousands of dollars for orthodontic care for their five year old children?"

"Oh, don't worry, we have payment plans for that. Margo* will go over those with you."

Indeed, for the next twenty minutes Margo did go over a variety of payment plans with me. Thankfully, unlike the story of Rumpelstiltskin, none of them actually involved giving my firstborn child away!

Two hours after first arriving in the luxurious orthodontic office, after having undergone their full court press, my children and I at last made our way back into bright daylight. Restless and hungry, my kids wanted to get lunch. Tired and anxious about money, I wanted to curl up into a ball.

One of the many things I've discovered about being an adult is that sometimes you look for the 'better' option and there just isn't one. You find yourself standing between a rock and a hard place.

"Did the doctor say I don't have to go to sleep, Mommy?"

"Honey, I'm not sure yet what we'll do about your extra teeth but the one thing I can promise you is that you are the most important thing to us and we'll do whatever is safest and healthiest for you. We'll keep researching until we know we're making the very best choice we can."

"But I don't WANT them to make me rest mommy. I want to be awake when they take my teeth out. I don't want them to take my teeth out at all. Why can't I just keep all of them? Why can't I just stay like I was made?"

In the end, this is perhaps the most poignant question of all.

Why indeed do we live in a plastic society where it could be awful for my son to walk around as a teenager with two sets of front teeth... or a permanent front tooth that turned fully to its side? Why is perfection so important to us, especially perfection in a smile? Why will it make such a difference to my son's future and his potential success to have gleaming, straight, pearly white teeth?

What would his life have been like 200 years ago, were he to grow up with exactly the same situation? Would he have been considered a freak or an oddball, thanks to his extra teeth? And I suppose the same question applies to me too... what would my life have been like had my parents not agreed to let the orthodontist extract my own 'extra' teeth when I was a kid. Would it have affected my career? My love life? My marriage?

In the end, it doesn't seem right that we have to pay a substantial amount of money and apparently put our son's life and health at minor risk just to correct an aesthetic problem; to remove some part of my son's natural body that he was born with... a rare feature programmed into his genetic code that makes him a little different, a little special.

Are we playing God? Is it right to physically alter a child for such superficial reasons? I don't like it. Not at all.

For lack of a wittier ending... the situation really bites.










*Name changed to protect the privacy of the parties in question.

July 6, 2011 ~ Day 208 Experiment

Yesterday night I wrote about the brainstorming I've been doing lately as a woman, mother and wife about my need to control the behaviors of the people around me... most notably, those of my children.

I wondered aloud whether or not I just needed to let go and accept my three kids for who they are, including their rougher edges.

The Law of Attraction would call it turning my boat back downstream. Going with the flow, as it were.

Today then, I decided to try an experiment. Rather than reacting emotionally to the stressors in our household (at least, the things that stress *me* out) I would simply accept them. I would not try to change them. Just accept them.

I wondered how this would look in practice, and whether it was even possible.

I am a very protective, proactive mother so I knew that my way of "going with the flow" or "accepting" wouldn't equate to letting my kids run wild. It wouldn't change my actual parenting... just the emotions and communication tied to my parenting.

My real goal was to feel and express love and acceptance for my family, even when their behavior violated my own value system.

* * * * *

I got my first opportunity to work on this new strategy within moments of waking today. As I opened my eyes I could hear my three children shrieking hysterically in the bedroom next door. It was pretty obvious from the tenor of their dynamic that they were doing something they believed to be naughty.

Opening their bedroom door, I found the three of them dogpiled on one bed with my two year old daughter attempting to sit on her brother's backs and the boys wrestling. They were flustered and all mildly frustrated, and each of them looked about three minutes? away from exploding or sobbing.

Here was the first part of my experiment:

I took a deep breath.

I mean, a Really deep breath. In and out.
They stared at me.
I looked at them at length, silently but not with anger.

When I was sure I had full control over my response, I spoke.

"I accept the fact that each of you enjoy climbing all over each other and messing around doing silly things together. I accept each of you for who you are. I love you all. As you know we have a family rule about not rough-housing in this kind of way, especially not with your little sister.

So, I'll just say this to you calmly - we have a small house, without a lot of extra space. I don't have three individual bedrooms for each of you to sleep in. If you want to be able to stay together in one bedroom, as you have asked to do -- and if you want to stay in this neighborhood, then you need to respect our rules about roughhousing when you are alone together.

If I cannot depend on you to control your own behavior when you are alone, then we will have to talk about moving to a different neighborhood where we can afford to rent a larger home so that each of you can have your own bedrooms."

I said the whole thing in a very gentle, kind voice. My pace was slow. My delivery was loving.

"But I don't want to move," said our eldest. "I like this neighborhood. I like this house!"

"I don't want to sleep away from my brother and sister," cried the middle brother. "I get scared and lonely without them!"

"Well," I smiled. "The good news is that both of you get to participate in this decision, because it is your choice. If you can manage to sleep successfully in one bedroom without this kind of rough play, then we can stay here indefinitely. You can each make the choice to be here.

What you *can't* do though, is jump and climb all over each other in a dangerous way when your dad and I are sleeping. That is our rule, you need to respect it or we will have to separate you."

My boys looked at each other.

"Okay," they mumbled, moving away from each other without being asked. "We understand. What's for breakfast?"

Exhaling, I smiled again. "I'll get right to work... how about eggs and cereal?"

* * * * * * *

Hmmmmm.... I thought to myself. I wasn't expecting to start the day like that, but it wasn't too bad. We got through it, and nobody shouted or cried. It was a decent start.

As the day progressed, it turned out that I had a lot of opportunity to practice accepting events and responses I did not like.

In fact, I was honestly shocked by how many times I found myself taking a deep breath and saying, "I accept..."

Just a few examples:

• "I accept that you boys compete with each other for my attention and that you each wish that I would believe that you are the better son. I accept that you try to show this by tattling on each other, and telling me about the poor choices that your brother (whichever brother) has made. I understand why you do this and I sincerely love you both. That said, I do not like to listen to tattling or whining, and I do not find competition attractive. So I would like to politely ask both of you to change the subject so that we can talk about something else."
• "I accept that the two of you both feel that it is acceptable to yell at each other loudly in the car while I am driving. I understand that you are frustrated with each other, and that you are trying to get my attention. I accept that you choose to communicate like this, but the truth is, I just don't like it. So, if you can't stop yelling when you talk to each other - can we please have silence?" (Astoundingly, there was immediate silence.)
• "I accept that you are a child who feels comfortable asking me the same question thirty times in a row hoping that you will get a different response if you keep asking me. I realize that you do this because you are smart and determined. I need you to know that, while I accept you and love you, I am not going to change my mind about dessert tonight. You may have dessert only if you finish your dinner, and that's all there is to say."

...and so forth.

I must have taken a deep breath and said, "I accept" or "I accept you" twenty five times today.

Here is the amazing thing though. Despite how many times the kids stepped out of line in a way that would normally have catalyzed a significant reaction, there were almost NO tantrums or screaming today. No fussing. No arguing.

My acceptance stopped their arguments cold.

We had only one tantrum all day - when my younger son did not want to take his nap, and even though I said to him "I accept that you do not wish to sleep. However as your mother I can tell that you are very tired, and so I request that you at least get some rest even if you don't actually fall asleep."

That one brought out the big guns - crocodile tears galore.
He did NOT want to sleep *or* rest.

Still ~ in our home ~ an entire day from 6:00am through 9:00pm with only one set of tears is a pretty astounding thing. Almost too good to be true!

* * * * * * *

Here is the more amazing revelation:

I had SO much more energy today, all day long. As a mom, as a wife, as the resident chauffeur driving my kids across town (at least 90 minutes on the road). Even though I wasn't feeling totally well healthwise, I experienced SO much more happiness.

I didn't get tense. I didn't get upset. I didn't get frustrated. I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE A FAILURE. I didn't shake my head in dismay and wonder what I was doing so wrong as a mother.

Rather, I felt perfectly calm. Even when my son was flailing his arms about like a rabid octopus next to the wine aisle at the grocery store I found myself saying,

"I accept that you are a person who loves to sing and dance, and that you feel the need to dance wildly in the wine aisle. I love these things about you. That said, I would just like to remind you that if you accidentally knock over one of those wine bottles and break it, we will have to pay for everything you break."

The many bumps of our day flowed right over me because I just didn't absorb them. I let them pass right on by.

A few times, I definitely felt a pit of sorrow or negativity well up in me based upon the way someone was responding to me - and I accepted those feelings too. I just took more deep breaths and actively turned away from the negativity. Sooner than I would have imagined, the moments of feeling drained or sad were gone.

What I'm realizing is that I am learning a lot about my family members by accepting them. I'm not taking the time to argue against their positions or force them to see things my way. This means that I'm not rising to join in any arguments, nor am I instigating any.

Having this extra time and space around any given issue, without allowing myself to get emotionally involved in it, has already caused me to begin thinking more deeply about the unique motivations behind the actions of the people I love. I'm not busy attacking or defending so I have time to consider the source.

When our daughter had a massive diaper accident while sleeping tonight and needed a bath and clean pajamas, I noticed that my husband had a lot of advice about how to properly take care of her. Typically this might have made me feel defensive. Instead, I just smiled at him and said,

"I accept that you feel impelled to help me solve this situation by giving me advice. I believe you are doing it out of love, and I accept this part of you. I want you to know that everything is okay, and I am taking good care of our daughter."

Immediately he relaxed, smiled, and said - "Sorry, I know you don't need any advice and she'll be fine. I was just trying to help."

The funny thing is, if I'd have snapped at him rather than accepting him, it might have started some kind of superficial bickering between us. Instead, the moment passed swiftly and soon we were talking about something else.

I've had a long day. It is nearly 11pm as I type this; I woke at 6am.

That said, I feel well-rested and mentally fresh right now because I didn't sink into the emotional quicksand all around me today.

What I'm learning from this experiment so far is that when I don't try to control other people's behaviors or words, we're ALL happier... but the person who is MOST happy is me!

All these years I've been trying to control things that are actually beyond my control, I've been heading upstream (as Abraham and the Hicks would say). I never realized that I was the source of so much of my own unhappiness, just by not accepting people and events for what they really were.

They say that the people who benefit most from the U.S. Peace Corps program are the American citizens who participate as volunteers, the citizens who actually go out into the world to help others in impoverished situations. In the end, the helpers are more changed by the experience than the people whose lives they hope to improve.

I believe from what I have seen today that my experience of letting go of my Type A need to control life, and instead just accepting the people I love for who they are, is going to have a powerful long term affect upon my family.

There was almost no fighting in our home today of any kind, despite the heat and humidity and the fact that neither of my sons ended up napping. This peace between my sons is good for them - it's good for all of us.

Yet ironically the person who will apparently benefit the most from my letting go of control and instead loving unconditionally ~ is Me!

It turns out that when I love others unconditionally, I end MY day feeling peaceful and truly loved. Wow.

July 5, 2011 ~ Day 207 Can I Accept and Love That?

Obviously we've had a big week as a family: a lot of emotion and a handful of positive steps. Saturday's spontaneous Date Night with my eldest son signified a huge breakthrough for us and while things are not perfect, I really have seen a small but significant change for the better in both our relationship AND his relationship with his little brother.

All of this has given me a lot of pause for thought about the importance of unconditional love, and accepting a person for who they are.

I think for the past six years I have come at parenting from the perspective that it is up to me to guide and help mold my children into loving, responsible, respectful little people. I've given them the firm but kind discipline and tried to explain an infinite number of social conventions to them - like why we *do* hug people when they are sad, but *don't* pull down our pants in public.

In all of this time though, it never did occur to me to just accept the negative behaviors in my children. I mean, *can you* as a responsible parent just accept acts of violence? Theft? Lies?

Can you? Should you?

This is so tricky because the intuitive answer in my gut is a booming NO!!!! but then I wonder if perhaps I am wrong. Is the key to raising good human beings just to love them unconditionally, even when they evidence a terrible behavior? Is it to accept that some children are more rough than others, and some will be more kind than others, and some will be more manipulative than others?

Is it time to accept that I don't control my own children, and they may well grow up to become adults who make decisions that I don't agree with and wouldn't approve of?

Is it time to give them the freedom to find out on their own how others will respond to their less positive behaviors?

I mean, isn't that the way we learn in real life? Once we are adults? Should I just accept my kids for who they are, and then allow life to teach them in its own school of hard knocks that poor behaviors have natural consequences?

In real life, I don't try to change my friends or their actions. If a person shows insulting or violent behavior toward me or my family, I simply stop spending time with them. I choose to share my time with people who are compassionate and warm-hearted. People that have integrity.

Is 'violence doesn't pay' one of those lessons that my children are just going to have to learn the hard way?

In "real life" outside of our family, if my son ever punched another person's kid in the face, there would be major repercussions at school, with the other child's family, and among all of his friendships with the other children. He would learn pretty darn fast that nobody likes a bully. Peer pressure alone would provide a very powerful incentive to control his anger.

Is it my job to teach him this lesson? I've always thought so.
But is it? Can he actually learn that lesson from me?
Or does he need to learn it the hard way, like the rest of us did?

Do we actually learn things from our parents? Or, do we learn by watching their example?

When I really think about the example I've been setting for the past six years, what kind of message have I been sending my son through my actions and words? Have my actions said,

"I will love you no matter what, no matter what boundary you run up against,"

or, have they said something more akin to,

"My love for you is conditional - I will lavish you with love and attention if you are gentle and well behaved but when you act impulsively or violently, I will demonstrate frustration and emotional distance."

Has my love for him then been used as a carrot? An incentive for good behavior?

And if indeed I *have* been using love like that, is it any wonder that my son doesn't always try to win my love? That he doesn't always make the right choice in an attempt to win the carrot dangling in front of him on the stick?

In a way, I totally respect him for refusing to act like my dancing monkey. I'm glad that he has the strength of personality not to change or shape himself merely to win someone else's approval. I don't want him to grow up to become a pleaser, willing to change himself to meet the expectations of others.

I also think it's likely that perhaps he acts out on purpose, just to see if I will still love him even when he doesn't meet my expectations. Time and time again, I've grown so mad at him for hitting. The message this consistent anger or disappointment probably sends is that my love is artificial... untrustworthy. It tells him that I am a fair-weather friend.

So how does one do it then?

• How does one parent their children using only unconditional love?
• How does one manage to feel and convey a profound love right for their child at a moment when he or she has attacked another one of their children, right in plain view?
• How does a parent manage to protect and assure the 'victim' child, while still extending pure love and acceptance to the 'bully'?

When my eldest son was two years old and his brother was a baby, the elder brother often tried to hit and bite the baby.

"If he wants to hit, let him hit something - just not the baby," counseled his preschool teacher when we came to her in despair. "If he wants to bite, let him bite something - just not the baby."

We followed her advice... bought him a bounce up inflatable punching bag to hit... gave him a sterile cloth soaked in ice water to bite.

Four years later, these behaviors are still present ~ despite the best of our efforts. Yet, I can't help but think that maybe his preschool teacher was onto something important.

She didn't teach us how to extinguish his behavior. She simply gave us an alternate outlet for the inappropriate actions, and encouraged us to both protect the baby brother and continue loving our more aggressive son.

Isn't that a healthier and more realistic strategy than the one I've been parenting with all of this time?

My son loves to hit... isn't it time for me to simply embrace that fact? There are many positive outlets for hitting... T-ball and drumming kits to name just the first two to pop into my head. Maybe instead of fighting against the things that make him unique, it's high time I just accepted them and tried to find a way to make his proclivities work for the rest of the family.

I don't have a great, inspiring, WOW! ending to this post. Clearly I don't have many answers to all of the questions I've raised. I do think I am finally asking the right questions though.

In the end, maybe the best way for me to teach my son how to act with love is to work harder on myself and model my own improved behaviors. Show him how I am able to keep my temper under control. How I can refrain from getting frustrated with him when he makes bad choices. Show him what tolerance and grace under pressure look like. Show him the way I give love, even when others give me pain or sorrow.

All this time, I've been trying to raise *him* - but maybe in the end, it's me that needs to learn the hard lessons; me that needs to live in better harmony with my own beliefs about fairness, justice, turning the other cheek and unconditional love.

July 4, 2011 ~ Day 206 Odds and Ends

Fireworks are going off in the background as I type, and every so often our house shakes a little. I wish I was out with my family watching the bright lights right now but out of nowhere this lousy virus my entire family has been fighting for weeks hit me pretty hard, so I've been curled up on our bed trying music therapy - Via Satellite, Jeff Buckley and The Cure.

I do think the music is helping.

(As an aside, I once read that Norman Cousins cured himself of ankylosing spondylitis by locking himself in a hotel room, watching comedies and taking Vitamin C. In a related vein I'm pretty sure that the right music could cure me of *anything* if given enough time, and no interruptions.)

That said, I've gotta admit that I admire the chutzpah of my four year old son who barged into my bedroom despite his daddy telling him that I was sick, saw that I was nearly asleep, stormed over to my bed, grabbed my arm hard - yanked it - and said, "Mommy!!! MY SHOE!!!"

"Wha..." I mumbled in reply.

"MY SHOE IS WET. LOOK. IT'S WET." He shoved his tennis shoe right into my nose. "HOW did it get WET?"

"Ummmmm.... uh.... honey, ask your father."

"OKAY!"

He slammed the door behind him.

Even in my sickly stupor, I had to smile. My children have got to be the most inconsiderate people in the world sometimes and yet it is (almost) ALWAYS out of love. That kid just wanted me to know that he had a wet shoe. His life couldn't progress forward in a happy way until he was sure I knew of his plight. That's how much he loves me.

Sometimes it seems like he feels if he doesn't make sure I know about it... it might as well not have happened to him. This applies to all kinds of other situations, such as the fact that he asks me every single time if he can use the bathroom. While hopping on one foot.

"Of course!!! Sweetheart, you DON'T need to ask Mommy to use the potty!" I answer, every single time. "You can use the potty whenever you want to!"

When he's feeling unusually confident, he'll just inform rather than ask me. Sort of like a news bulletin. "Mom, I'm going to pee now."

"Um, okay. Well, thanks for letting me know."

Sometimes my husband and I begin to giggle uncontrollably when he does this, as we imagine how funny it would be if we consulted each other as much about bathroom agendas as our children do.

* * * * * * *

All this to say, I'm not asleep right now. The slamming door was like an alarm clock - it set off some kind of adrenalin rush in my heart and now even though I'm still feeling lousy I'm also a little bit wired.

Weird how you can be exhausted and wired at the same time.

I always wonder about the tie between immunity and emotions. I read once that people tend to have less immune resistance when they've had some kind of emotional trauma or a fight with someone they love. I think back to where I was three nights ago, so depressed over the problems we were having with our son... so much tension and strain throughout my body and mind that day. Maybe that explains why my resistance finally went down.

This makes a pretty good incentive for me to try to keep my emotions in a gentle state. One more thing to add to my Mommy-Do list.

"Stay relaxed, so you'll stay well... so you can take care of the family!"

I like the sound of that. If only they'd legalized marijuana in the state of California, I'd probably have given it a go with the hope that it would chill me out and keep me healthy.

Since we're on the theme of medicine and well-being...

Today I read an article in the newspaper that talked about a biomedical gerontologist's theory that the first person to live for 150 years is already alive... and that it is possible that the first person to live for 1000 years will be born just twenty years hence.

I'm not sure why that's on my mind right now, but I think it's pretty exciting. I couldn't help but wonder if one of my own children may live for 150 years. Imagine how much they would see! How much they could experience! How important their lives could become.

With 150 years in which to impact the world, you wouldn't necessarily be in a rush toward anything. People could stay in college for ten years if they felt like it, and still be considered very young to enter the job market.

Women wouldn't worry about giving up their careers to be stay-at-home mothers because in the grand scheme of things, if you're going to live to be 150, giving up 20+ of those years to raise your family is just a drop in the bucket. You've still got at least 110 more good years left in which to focus on yourself, after the kids are raised.

I wonder how that kind of life span would change the institution of marriage. These days, it's pretty rare for a couple to live long enough to be married for 50 years... especially because folks are getting married later.

If you knew that you were going to live for 150 years, would you ever get married? "Until Death Do Us Part" - well, if you marry at the age of 25, that could conceivably put you with the same partner for the next 125 years. Which is, um, a long time.

I guess it would be the same as it is now though... some folks would meet their true love in junior high and be blissfully companionate for the next 138 years. Others would play the field until they were say, 100, before settling down.

Biology being what it is, women would still need to have babies toward the beginning of their lives. However, one cool perk would be that new mothers would have their own mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers to turn to for help with babysitting or child-rearing advice. "We took care of our kids differently in my day!" would take on a vastly expanded meaning.

If I was to live to be 150 years old, that would mean that at 35, I am still basically a child. Endless time in front of me to travel, work, write, cook, achieve big things AND become a great mother to my children. I can only picture my children at the age of 106, 104 and 102... - with me at 137 - "You know, Mom - the first twenty years or so were a little rough but we've got to hand it to you, the last 80 years have been really solid. Nice job!"

Of course there are other practical ramifications to all of this too. Like birth control. If we were to live as long as 150 years, it would probably be necessary to limit the number of children that could be born in a country during any given year, since so many people would be living so much longer. Resources would be spread thin, and there would be no room for new life... the old life would still be monopolizing the planet.

Hard realities aside though... I would love to live to be 150 years old, especially if my children would likely still be around. With enough years of hard work I would surely be able to save up enough money to show them the entire world, country by country. I could take them everywhere from Alaska to Bhutan. We could live for thirty years in the Italian countryside or the Spanish Riviera.

There would be, quite simply, enough time.

I suppose that with a common lifespan of 150 years, a death at the age of 75 would be considered quite premature... way too young.

Funny how it's all relative.

I don't know if I'll ever see a personal benefit from all of the new medicine and technology that's apparently right on the cusp of becoming. Either way, to me life is miraculous and beautiful - full of potential. I love it! For this reason, I hope that Aubrey de Grey turns out to be right.

A long, active, healthy, happy, love-filled life.
Full of music, full of fireworks.

(Free of overpopulation, rationing and warfare over resources...)

I wish these things for my children - and I truly wish them for yours, too.

July 3, 2011 ~ Day 205 The Show Must Go On

The 4th of July has always been my second favorite holiday of the year, right after Thanksgiving. This is something that my husband and I share, a common love of this beautiful patriotic day filled with sunshine, fireworks, BBQ and festivity.

I can recall, very fondly, many memorable 4th of July experiences we've had together over the past decade... parties we've dropped into, conversations we've had with beloved friends.

On one particularly memorable 4th of July - just four days before I went into labor with our first child - we spent the entire day walking around my husband's hometown with one of his closest childhood buddies, chatting, laughing and trying to induce labor, as I was sooooo tired of being pregnant in the heat of summertime.

Even at 9 and 1/2 months pregnant, I loved the 4th of July. There's just something about the entire country coming together in happiness to celebrate and give thanks for our freedom and the great weather. Everyone you meet on the street has a smile on their face - at least here in southern California - and nobody needs an excuse to take the day off of work and go to the beach.

Last year, the 4th of July hit at a difficult time for me. I'd started having trouble swallowing solid food about two weeks prior... visited a GP and an ENT who told me it was probably something simple like GERD or a stricture; then sent for a barium swallow study (movie x-ray) where seemingly out of nowhere I was told that my esophagus didn't work, it probably wasn't cancer, and that I might have a serious autoimmune disease. The radiologist and GP said not to eat until an endoscopy could be performed. In three weeks.

So, I went for five weeks last June and July without eating - and on the 4th, my very favorite holiday of the year I watched sadly as my husband, children, mother, extended family and friends prepared and ate hamburgers and fries while I pulverized cooked ground beef with olive oil and zucchini in a blender with protein powder and drank my dinner from a glass.

Yeah, it sucked.

* * * * * * *

How wonderful is it, then, that one year later (thanks to antibiotic treatment for chronic lyme disease) I am much healthier and can't wait to enjoy a wonderful BBQ meal with my family for the 4th of July tomorrow!

I've gained back nearly all of the ten pounds I lost last Summer - not to mention a new outlook on just how lucky I am to take every single bite of food. It really puts things into perspective when you realize how lucky you are to experience basic human joys. Like using your hands to prepare a savory meal... and then eating it while talking and laughing with loved ones.

Simple joys. They mean everything!

* * * * * * *

We've been pretty thrilled about experiencing the 4th of July in our new neighborhood this year. From the first day we moved to this house, our neighbors have been describing to us just how much fun holidays are around here... and just how involved we are expected to be, as residents on the street.

"We hope you know what you've signed on for," laughed our awesome neighbors Dan* and Nancy* across the street.

"Our block takes holidays very, very seriously. The parade is going to go right past our houses and everyone on the block will decorate. For the 4th of July you'll be asked to contribute money, time and/or baked goods."

"Sure!" we grinned. "Why not?"

"It's so fantastic for the kids," they added. "Your little ones can walk or bicycle along with the parade and when it finishes up at the cul-de-sac there will be pony rides, face painting, tons of food AND a band!"

"Wow!"

We weren't actually overwhelmed by the idea of an uber-patriotic, fun-filled, loud and happy July 4th. In fact, it sounded right up our alley!

Over the past few weeks then, my husband and I have chatted happily about our plans.

"I'll fertilize and mow the lawn out front of the house so it looks really good," he decided. "We'll get everything all cleaned up.

"The kids and I will find flags and trimming for the house," I agreed. "We'll spruce up the exterior with some red, white and blue. I'll ask my sister for ideas, she's fantastic with holiday decorating."

"Mommy, can we put streamers on our bikes for the parade?" asked my younger son. "Please?"

We invited our parents. We got excited.

Everything seemed very Norman Rockwell...
Americana unfolding right in front of our apple pie eyes.

Yet family life being what it is ~ namely, unpredictable ~ things haven't quite worked out according to plan.

Lately, we've hosted some kind of unexpected, uninvited holiday guest - who knows exactly what. A virus? A mycoplasma pneumoniae? In the end, four out of five of our family members have ended up sneezing, exhausted and coughing like there's no tomorrow.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, since I've been taking low dose antibiotics and vitamins for four months, I am the last (wo)man standing. So far today is the only tired, achy day I've had - despite more than two weeks spent taking care of sick children and now a sick husband.

That poor guy though. He who *never* gets sick. The one that refuses to go to the dentist until he actually needs a root canal, because he won't admit pain or suffering into the spectrum of his sight; he who underwent a vasectomy yet still wouldn't take a single Vicodin...

This bug hit him hard, and he's pretty much down for the count. He trudged into our house around 3pm today after over a week of intense coughing and said, "Hon, I'm going to lay down."

You KNOW that guy has got to be feeling pretty lousy to do such a thing on the Sunday of his 4th of July weekend.

"Man," he groaned. "This is my favorite holiday of the year, too." Before night fell, he was sound asleep.

The rest of us looked at each other and knew that our evening plans had just flown out the window.

"Mommy, will we still have our babysitter tonight?" asked my elder son. "I've been looking forward to seeing her so much! Are you still going on your date?"

"Oh honey. I know you're disappointed. I'm disappointed too. No, I think we're going to have to cancel date night. Again. Your dad can't help it, he's just sick. Honestly, I think we're *all* a little under the weather today."

"Can we help you bake cookies then? For the parade?"

I looked at their eager, hopeful little faces. I felt exhausted myself, worn down. Ready to sleep or unwind in front of a movie. Not anxious to bake four dozen chocolate chip cookies.

"Please, Mom?"

Sigh.

"Well, it IS the 4th of July..." I began. "The neighborhood is counting on us, so I guess the show must go on."

"YAYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" they cheered.

Which is how it came to pass that for three hours tonight we baked a mountain of warm, chocolate-y cookies while laundering our patriotic clothes. Mixing flour, sugar, butter and chocolate chips. Talking and laughing about funny and silly things we've done for this holiday in past years. Sharing the story with my eldest boy about how much he loved fireworks as a one-year-old... and how he used to call them "Boom Booms".

Yes, there was no date night. No fun babysitter. No excitement or novelty. No fourth of July parties, or out-of-town friends to spend time with.

That said, looking at our heaping plates of homemade cookies and folding the children's freshly washed holiday attire for the parade tomorrow, I'm pretty happy with the way things worked out.

It's late, and I'm spent. My kids have been sound asleep for hours, and our home is fairly silent other than the hum of the electric dryer and occasional coughing coming from all three bedrooms. I'm remembering that we have a lot to be grateful for, on this special holiday. A lot of servicemen and women to thank, that's for sure.

We're so blessed to live in this beautiful, clean country with laws that protect our family, an outstanding and committed volunteer military to defend our rights, the opportunity to work, a warm and safe home to live in, and a wealth of family and friends to love. I'm also incredibly grateful for the physicians who care for my children and my husband when they need a little help to get well; so very thankful for the fresh and delicious food we are lucky enough to eat.

What a thrill to know that this year, I'll be sharing a cheeseburger and fries on July 4th with the people I love most.

There is a lot to be thankful for and -- if you're reading this, wherever you are -- I'm thankful for you too.

Happy 4th of July!









*Names changed to protect the privacy of the people in question

July 2, 2011 ~ Day 204 Why Did The Chicken Eat Two Jelly Beans?

I woke this morning to an eerily silent home.

While I did hear little voices in the background, they were neither laughing nor screeching as usual. "Daddy, we're awake," they called politely. "Mommy, we're awake. Please open the baby gate. We want to get out."

"Why are our kids so mellow this morning? Why are they asking us to open their gate?" I wondered dully... and then remembered.

Our eldest son ~ the usual opener of gates ~ was not at home in our house with us. Instead, he'd spent the night alone with my mother at her home twenty minutes away.

Where there should be three - playing, fussing, fighting and scampering - there were only two.

A dark, ugly little worry appeared in my gut and gnawed away at my conscience, as I wondered whether my son had slept well... whether he'd been frightened... whether he would be calmer today.

Turning to my husband I groaned. "Did we do the right thing?"

I still couldn't believe we'd banished him to grandma's house, despite the gravity of his repeated actions. How clearly I remembered pronouncing adamantly (and self-righteously) to my husband years before when our son was a baby, "I would *never* send my child away! I don't UNDERSTAND parents who do that kind of thing!"

Funny how life gives you a little taste of the things you've judged others for doing. As it turns out, the view looks a little different from the trenches.

"Don't worry about our oldest child," my husband assured me. "He's fine."

Yet our house was too quiet, too calm. His absence left a gaping hole in the day.

* * * * * * *

Not long after, the telephone rang.

"Hi dear, it's Mom."

"How are you? How's our little guy?"

"He was a perfect angel. He slept through the night without a single peep, woke and dressed himself this morning without coming to wake me up, and I found him downstairs quietly playing with blocks. He let me sleep in."

"Wow, that's so good to hear," I responded. "I'll be over to get him as soon as I've bathed his brother and sister.

"Great. I'll go ahead and make him a nice breakfast now."

I hurried... and once we were bundled into the car and on our way, I tried to breathe deeply.

"He slept well. He's eating. These things put together mean that the entire experience can't have been that bad for him. Maybe he'll even be happy to see us."

Yet when we arrived, I could tell right away that my son was NOT calm or a happy camper. He made funny faces at us. His voice was shrill. He raced after his little brother in a slightly crazy fashion. He was a little *too* boisterous... a little *too* buoyant.

For lack of a more descriptive, more appropriate word - my kid was clearly a bit slap happy.

I clenched my jaw, steeling myself for his inevitable emotional crash.

It came about an hour after pickup, when we were at the park. "Come on guys," I called out. "Your sister is getting tired. Let's go look at the boats in the harbor."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" he screamed. "I don't WANT to go look at boats. I don't LIKE boats."

It didn't take much genius to know that the meltdown had commenced.

"You know," I responded. "I'm sorry you don't like boats but we DO need to leave the park and go home now."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Ignoring the intensity of his yelling, I lifted his little sister up and carried her toward the parking lot with my younger son following fairly closely by my heels. (The younger guy was a tad punchy and reactive too, thanks mainly to the influence of his excitable brother... so it made for quite a chorus of cries.)

My children resembled frantic, angry Christmas carolers as they screeched their way along the side of the tennis courts.

* * * * * * *

By the time we arrived at home, twenty exhausting minutes later, I had only one mission: Get these children fed, get the baby to bed.

I began to cook macaroni and cheese, my eldest son's favorite, ignoring to the best of my ability the loud and tempestuous shouts of my children in the back yard. "If I can just get their tummies full," I reasoned, "they may chill out a little... and even if they don't, it will give me time to think calmly and non-reactively."

Within about forty minutes, I'd managed to feed both of my macaroni-lovers and put the little one down for her nap. My cheese-hating child, the younger boy, had been given a bowl of tomato soup which he promptly used as a swimming pool for a Thomas the Tank Engine tractor toy, carefully lifting and hauling loads of tomato soup which he then deposited on the table... forming a lovely, if wasteful, tomato pool.

In short, he refused to eat.

Soon then, he too was tucked into bed and ready for a nap.

Which left us there - just me and my older son.
In the kitchen, eating tomato soup and macaroni.
Staring each other down.

"You know Mom," he announced in a pristinely clear voice. "My brother wouldn't eat this tomato soup but *I* think it is dee-licious. I really love it."

"That's great honey."

"I mean, I really like this soup Mom. My brother didn't eat it. He played with his food. But I didn't. I didn't play with my food. I think it tastes SO good."

"Uh-hum..." I murmured, figuring out exactly where he was headed with his commentary.

"He isn't really a good eater," my son added. "You know, my brother is really picky."

"I see."

"But I'm not picky. I eat everything! I am a good eater."

"Yes."


I looked at my son, closely. He sat tall and straight backed at the kids table, too big for his miniature chair (yet unwilling to give it up, unwilling to admit that he has outgrown the table that fits his younger brother and sister). He was eying me fervently, as though willing me to catch his drift... WILLING me to affirm to him that HE was the better son. The superior child.

His anguish and ardent desire were almost palpable.

This boy child, this little man - made in my image and so sensitive just like me... I probably understand him better than either of the other children. I know his emotions, his hopes. His fears.

"What do I say to this?" I wondered silently. "How do I assure him?"

Suddenly, it seemed clear that I needed to tackle the subject head-on.


"Why are you mean to your brother?"

"Because he bothers me."

"Why does he bother you?"

"Because he whines and he always wants things his way, and he doesn't play my way."

"Do you like your brother?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you hit him?"

"My brain gets upset. My brain gets so frustrated."

"You know how to control that though. You have never hit or hurt ANY other child except your brother, and maybe once or twice, your sister. So why don't you control it with him?"

Silence.

"Do you think that we had your brother to replace you?"

"Yes." He stared at me fiercely.

"Why do you think that?"

Silence.

"Do you know that your dad and I love you?"

"Yes."

"Do you love yourself?"

"No."

"You don't love yourself, honey? Why not?"

"Because. My brother is like me but he is a very nice boy. I am a bad boy."

"No, that is NOT true!" I emphasized. "You are BOTH nice boys. You ARE a nice boy. Sometimes you make poor choices, but you are always a nice boy."

"No, I am a bad boy."

"Well, maybe you want to be bad. But I know you - and you're not."

Silence.

"Do you think that I love your brother more than I love you?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think that?"

"You are nice to him. You get mad at me."

"Do I get mad at you all the time? Or only when you've hurt your brother or sister?"

(Mumbling) "When I've hurt somebody."

"So does that mean I love them more than you?"

"No."

"I love you, your brother and your sister all the same. I love you differently from each other, because you are all very different kinds of people. But I love you the same amount."

"THAT'S WHY!" he burst out.
"THAT'S WHY I DO IT. THAT'S THE REASON."

"That's why you hit your brother? You mean you hurt him because you think I love him more?"

"YES."

"Oh honey. Don't you know how much I love you? I do so much for you, every day. I tell you so often how much you mean to me.

It's just that my job is to protect my kids. So if one of my kids hurts another one of my kids, I care for the hurt kid. If your brother was hurting YOU, *he* would be the one in trouble - not you."

He sat silently, looking away.

"Don't you remember all the good times we've spent together? Can you remember back far enough to before your brother was born, when it was just you and me? We had six good months of doing everything together. We were really close back then."

"I remember!" he cried. "I MISS IT."

"Well," I asked. "What do you miss specifically?"

"I miss doing things with just YOU. Nobody else. No brother. No sister. Just you."

"Do you want to do that kind of stuff again?"

"Yes."

"Like a mommy-son date?"

"Yes."

"And you think you can manage to be nicer to your brother if you have more of my attention just for you?"

"YES."

"So, let's do it. Let's have a weekly date - just you and me." Wracking my brain, I tried to think of when I could fit a few hours of quality time with my son that wouldn't get messed up with tutoring jobs or other family obligations.

"How about Saturday nights?" I asked. "Would you like to have dates with me on Saturday nights?"

"Yes!"

I mulled it over in my head. "You know," I added, "That makes a lot of sense. When your Dad and I go out, it's usually on a Sunday or Monday night.

Your little brother would love to have more time alone with just his daddy. They hardly ever spend time together without you or me... Why don't we have a weekly date where you and Mommy go out, your brother and your Daddy have their own special time, and we trade off who takes the baby girl?"

My son looked at me as though someone had just pulled the lid off of Heaven and let him look inside.

"I would love that Mommy. I want to have a date with you!"

"Why don't we start tonight?" I smiled. "I'll be home from tutoring by 6pm. Do you want to do something special with me when I get back?"

"Can we go somewhere?"

"Sure. Why don't you think about what you'd like to do and you can tell me about it when I finish tutoring?"

"Okay." He smiled and stood, unprompted, not only calm but actually sparkly and a bit bouncy. "I'm going to go take my nap now Mom. I'll see you tonight for our date."

As I watched him retreat toward the back of the house, I wondered in disbelief if it could really be THIS simple. Could I really make him THAT happy and calm, just by paying focused attention to him? Just by lavishing my attention squarely upon him?

* * * * * * *

Four hours later found me driving in our truck with my son strapped securely into the extra-cab back seat. "Where are we heading?"

"I want Mexican Food. Well, or Chinese Food. Actually, a hamburger would be great too."

"Well, there are three pretty good hamburger places just down the street from our house in the tourist section of town. Do you want to check those ones out?"

"YES!" he cheered.

We drove toward dinner.

"You know what I was thinking, Mom? I was thinking we should go DO something. We should go SOMEWHERE."

"Oh yeah? Where were you thinking of?"

"Well, like the PARK for example. We could go to the park!"

Not by coincidence, we happened to be driving past a very nice local park. Flicking on my turn signal without warning, I pulled suddenly into a space right in front of the park fence.

"Okay. Done." I smiled. "Let's go to the park."

"Really? YES!!!"

My son climbed out of the truck and stood next to me. "Will you tie my sweatshirt around my waist for me?"

"Sure, or I can just hold it for you."

"No, Mom. I want you to have your hands free so you can PLAY with me!"

"You mean like climb jungle gyms with you?"

"Yes!"

"Wow," I nodded. "I can't remember the last time I actually played and had fun at a park. I've been so busy watching you and your brother and sister."

"I want you to play with me tonight."

"Okay then, let's go play!"

For the better part of thirty minutes, we played. My son raced me up the play structure ladders, instructed me to go down twisting slides, had me climb the monkey bars. "This is how kids have fun," he encouraged me. I pushed him in the tire swing, we jumped on the flexible bridge.

There were no other children at the park at nearly 7pm on a Saturday night - just a bunch of adult guys playing pickup basketball. We had the run of the area ourselves.

"Do you want to go and play on the toddler play gym?" he asked. "I love that one too."

"Sure, why not? As long as I don't break any of the equipment because I am so heavy."

We walked across the park to the two year old area, with its red fire truck and two story wooden house. "Climb up here with me, Mom!" he called.

"Okay," I replied and crawled carefully up the tiny ladder. "Wow, you guys have a nice view up here." From his side I could see the Sun setting over the ocean.

"Yeah," he agreed - "And do you want to know what is really cool Mom?"

"What's that, honey?"

"Check this out." He led me over toward a strange looking hole in the side of the playhouse, a hole which opened onto a sort of megaphone. "If you talk into this thing, they can hear your voice all over the park!"

"Really?" I smiled, having heard he and his brother project their voices through this megaphone-like contraption on many, many occasions. "That's SO cool!"

"Talk into it Mom! You'll see!"

"Hello? Hello? This is your Mother speaking. I love you. Can you hear me?"

He giggled. "I can make it MUCH louder than you, Mom. Wanna see?"

"Sure, I'd love to." I stepped aside.

A booming, giggling, boyish voice sounded over the playground:

"WHY DID THE CHICKEN EAT TWO JELLY BEANS????"

"Um..." I laughed out loud. "I don't know!"

"SO THAT IT COULD GET ALL OF THE EYEBALLS!!!!!!!!!!!" My son laughed so hard he almost had to sit down. "EYEBALLS!!!!!!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!"

"You are hilarious," I hugged him. "Chicken and Jelly Beans. That's really creative!"

"Hey Mom!"

"Yes?"

"Can I push you on the swings?"

"Sure, why not? And then, let's go get our hamburgers."

We climbed down from our sky perch in the top story of the wooden house and raced over to the swing set. I sat down, for the first time in at least six years, in a swing - all by myself. No baby in my lap. No child I had to watch out for or call out to. Just me.

I reached out my legs and then pumped them inward. I felt a firm push on my back.

"Here you go, Mom!" he cried. "I'll push you really high in the air! I'm really strong!"

"Yes, you are," I agreed. "You *are* very strong." My heart melted a little, for this man-child who yearns so much to grow up... yet also wants so intensely to be my baby.

"You are good at this," my son complimented. "Hey Mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can you take a turn pushing me now?"

"I would love to."

* * * * * * *

Passersby at the park this evening would not have guessed how powerful we were right then. To the untrained eye, we were merely a slightly disheveled thirty-five year old mother pushing her eager, nearly-six year old son on the swing at dinnertime. Smiling a lot. Laughing together.

They might never have guessed that this was the first time in four years I can remember pushing my son on a swing, without also having to push his little brother or sister at the same time. The very first time we have been to a park in all those years, just the two of us, simply to play. They surely could not have known that yesterday evening at this time, we were experiencing the height of disconnection, frustration and sorrow.

Yet, I knew.

He knew.

Together, we were renewing a bond and forming a precious memory that I'll cherish forever. My son in his red shirt with the yellow surfboard on the front pocket. His curling brown hair full of sand. Singing and smiling into the coming dusk, fully and totally happy. Me putting both hands out to catch him... then pushing gently and firmly to hoist him back into the air.

It is a dance, this parenting thing. We go backward. We go forward.

My boy yearns to let go of the chains holding him to the swingset, wishes he could take off from its rubber seat and really fly. Yet when gravity pulls him back to Earth, he rushes swiftly and unconsciously for my love and the comfort of steady hands on his back guiding him in a positive direction.

At last secure and joyous he thrills to the knowledge that ~ for now ~ I am not taking my eyes off of him for a second.

July 1, 2011 ~ Day 203 Over the River and Thru the Woods

At the moment my older son shoved my younger son and inadvertently smashed two wine glasses on the shelf at the thrift store, glass shards exploding every which way, I knew that things had gotten out of hand.

I didn't know though at that moment, somewhere around 2:00pm, how much worse our day would get before bedtime.

Right now I am typing this in a glazed over state, just cogent enough to find words to roughly approximate my sense of defeat.

My husband, equally exhausted and defeated, has retreated for the night to bed with a sour stomach.

I remember telling him at some point tonight that I wished more than anything we could just leave all of the stress behind and go smother our sorrows with Chinese food and cheesecake. He laughed appreciatively. Neither of us were joking.

I'm not really sure why today turned out as it did. You never really know, as a parent, which days are going to be beautiful and precious - and which days are going to humble you.

There are so many variables at play in the emotions and daily experiences of a single human child. We've discovered the hard way that when you mix the unique needs, experiences and sensitivities of three disparate children, it is almost impossible to predict how the wave will break.

Will our children love each other today? Will we come upon them giggling furtively together as they hatch a plan to build a fort or steal snacks from the kitchen?

Will our children hate each other today? Will we come upon them biting, scratching and screaming at each other ~ or worse, with one of them attacking the other as he cowers and sobs?

Some days are so beautiful as a parent, I feel that my heart could explode from the sheer joy of spending time in the company of such dear little people. Tonight my daughter handed her father a pretzel. "Thank you, honey," he smiled.

"You wellocom Dada, I LUyooo," she beamed from ear to ear.

That was one of the joyful times.

Other parenting moments crush me down from the memory of the mother I once thought I would be to the reality of the flawed and often failing mother that I am.

This afternoon, after offering to pay for the glasses and then leaving the thrift store, I took my brood home. As we drove toward our neighborhood, I remembered that I needed to stop by a local swimming school to sign my kiddos up for lessons, since the first swim program this Summer didn't work out.

"This will just take a minute," I said, as I herded the three of them toward the front desk of the swim school.

But of course, it didn't take just a minute. Signing three kids up for swimming lessons requires filling out three separate forms, all of which have the exact same information with the exception of the student's name.

"Do you really need our home address three times?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Oh, okay."

As I raced through the forms, and whipped out my credit card, I could tell that tensions were rising between my boys. Their banter had gotten louder; their laughter and shrieking more strident. They were hanging upside down off of a metal hand railing.

"I'm so sorry about that," I apologized to the woman registering us.

"It's okay, we're used to it."

At last, I'd signed off on the final dotted line and worked out their schedule. It seemed as though we'd be on our way relatively unscathed. "Thanks for your time and help," I said to the woman and went to hoist my daughter into my arms to carry her back to the car...

...when I turned the corner of the counter to find my elder son punching my younger son forcefully onto the ground.

Punching. Not a shove, or a light love tap. A solid hit to the cheekbone strong enough to knock a sturdy 36 lb boy to the ground. Where he hit his head on the cement floor. Hard.

There isn't any way to sugar coat it.
That's just what happened.

By the time I could say either son's name, the damage had been done. My younger son lay on the ground dizzy, with one very pink cheek and tears streaming out of his eyes.

"Please wait for me out front," I almost whispered to the elder son.

"Oh wow, does your little boy need ice for his head?" The front desk woman asked.

"No thank you. I appreciate it though."

And that was that. It took over a minute for my younger son to stand up. Ten minutes for me to drive us home. Much longer to figure out what the heck to do about it.

At first I tried hard to frame the situation from the perspective of our play therapist. "Maybe he was hungry," I reasoned with myself. "He could have been tired or overstimulated."

"It was still violent behavior!" came back the reply from my inner Mother Bear. "Violence is unacceptable!"

"I need to take responsibility for my own participation in our dynamic," I asserted. "I should have paid better attention to their cues. I should have seen that coming."

"How can you simultaneously anticipate violent misbehavior AND look for the best in your children?" said the Mother Bear. "If you're looking for the best in the people you love, you're going to assume that they are capable of being loving, peaceful and controlling their anger."

"But he's only five!"

Mother Bear lost that round. "What kind of a human being do I hope to raise..." I asked myself. "I want to raise a man who knows his own triggers and can take good care of himself physically and emotionally so that he can be independent and happy."

With that in mind, I chose to take the route of instruction rather than punishment. I spoke seriously to my son about the grave nature of what he had done, and let him know that his father and I would be discussing an appropriate consequence... but still made him a sandwich. Then when he had finished eating, I sent him (yes, a five year old) to nap.

"You're going to feel so much better once you've had a little rest, buddy," I assured him. "In the future, we're going to try to stay more aware of whether you're hungry, tired, have a lot of energy to get out, or aren't feeling that great. The more we know what triggers you to feel aggressive, the better we'll both be at figuring out the problem before it gets out of hand."

He slept, deeply, for two hours.

My husband came home from work. I shared with him the events of our day, and he listened supportively. He was also upset, but controlled in his emotion when speaking to our son.

"Your Mommy is trying to figure out WHY you did that to your brother," he said to our son. "But I want you to know that hitting is never okay, for any reason."

"Okay," our son sniffled.

"Tonight you get the chance to really take care of your brother and make him feel better," we added. "You can help make his dinner, get him a drink if he is thirsty, pick out his pajamas and read him a story before bedtime."

(All of this, a strategy we had learned from our play therapist.)

* * * * * * *

Fast forward. 7pm. Our sons were outside, watering a sunflower plant. They had eaten dinner. They were well rested. They'd been playing nicely. Suddenly we heard sounds of discord and squabble.

"Oh no," I sighed.

"I'll get this one," my husband assured me and headed out to see what the commotion was all about. Suddenly I heard my husband yelling too (a total rarity).

"Stop that!!! LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE!!! I said STOP!"

Racing out I found, yet again, our younger son clutching his face and trying to get off of the ground.

"What happened?" I asked breathlessly.

"Our son is in big trouble with me. He hit his brother. Again."

* * * * * * * *

You never know exactly what your breaking point is going to be as a parent until it actually happens. One million lousy things can happen and somehow you muddle through without sweating too hard. Then something happens that may have happened before - maybe even a lot of other times - but somehow this is the time that busts you wide open.

For whatever reason, this was my busted open moment.

"Get your things," I said calmly to our elder son. "You're not staying here tonight."

"WHAT????" he asked. "Where am I going?"

"Violence is not tolerated in this house," I said. "We love you very much, but tonight you cannot be near your brother any more. You are going to your grandmother's house, and straight to bed."

"I agree," affirmed my husband. "Your Mommy is right and you need to learn that you can't treat your siblings this way."

He sobbed. "I don't want to go. I am going to miss my family."

"We will miss you too, but for tonight, I think we all need some space from each other."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I will call your grandmother first thing in the morning. If she tells me that you have been kind and well mannered, we will come to get you right away."

"Okay." He quieted down and sat deep in thought along the drive, yawning occasionally. We did not speak much.

As we approached my mother's house, I finally spoke. "Being part of a family is about treating each other with respect and kindness. You do not have to love your brother or sister. You don't even have to like them, although of course we hope that you will. (Your brother and sister definitely love you.)

However, you *do* need to treat your brother and sister with respect and gentle behavior. They look up to you and learn from watching you. We expect you to be nice to them and show them in a positive way what it means to be a family."

"I know," he nodded.

* * * * * * *

Tucked into bed in clean pajamas with a sippy cup of water, I left my son in a safe and loving environment this evening. He fell to sleep with his grandmother just steps away down the hall, and since she's an incredibly warm and kind grandmother, I'm okay with that.

Still, note the key words there: I left my son.

This is a difficult thing for any mother to do, under all circumstances.
Turns out, it's even harder to do when the circumstances are unhappy.

I know that my child is safe, loved and warm at this moment. I know that he is sleeping peacefully amid fluffy down comforters and checked on by the precious woman who raised and nurtured me over the past 35 years. I know she will call me in a heartbeat if he needs us for any reason.

Still, our house seems too quiet at this moment and my heart hurts.

Is this what we have come to? Keeping the peace through enforced separation?

Our son is safe at grandma's house tonight but our family unit feels a little lost in the woods without him. We've always told our kids that 'home' is anywhere that the five of us are together. How can this truly be home, with one of our crucial members banished?

We need to find our way back over this winding river...
We need to find our way Home.