From Baltimore to Boston

Stories - real and imagined - have always had power over me.

I crave them. I seek them out. 

Some stories have a way of getting under my skin and into my mind. They refuse to let go. I obsess over details: facts, maps, graphics, photographs. I run them over and over in my head, pondering the hows and whys.

It's not always a bad thing, but there are times when it threatens to undo me.


Last December, it was the children of Sandy Hook.

Today, it's the image of a dark-haired, eight year old running to meet his father. I haven't stopped thinking of him since I heard one of those killed in the Boston Marathon bombings was a little boy.

I've cut myself off from the news coverage, but I can't get his image out of my head.

As he walked back to his mother, did he grin and display his missing front teeth? Did he talk constantly of Ninjas? Revel in the joke of burps coming from the attic and not the basement?  Did he hug his mama twice every night - one regular and one extra tight?

Because there is another dark-haired, toothless eight-year-old boy who does all those things. I will be hugging him three times tonight - all extra tight.

Practice Makes Perfect (or close enough)

My youngest has been struggling in school. Homework has been an ugly, ugly battle.

Last night, his amazing step-mother helped him with most of it before I picked him up. I only had to help him with his science notebook. It went better than expected. In fact, it was the most pleasant homework time we've had all year.

Sitting side-by-side, as we put his papers back in his backpack, we had a brief heart-to-heart. We talked about school and why it's important. We talked about which of his behaviors upset me (1- when he's rude and 2 - when he refuses to try).

"But school is just so boring!"

Man, I've heard that before.

I told him about the coolest things I ever did in school. Things I knew he'd like: science experiments, field trips, special projects. But I told him (and I believe this is true) that I only got to be in the non-boring classes by working hard and being a good student. The goofy kids who refused to do their work and mouthed off to their teachers, continued in the "boring" classes.

No one wants a goofy kid mixing chemicals. I pantomimed an explosion and he laughed.

"Were you bored in school?" he asked.

"Uncle Brett and Aunt Molly were. They're really smart like you and Gabe."

"But were you?"

I paused.

"Matt, Mommy was a big dork. I wasn't very good at math, but I was good at other subjects because ALL I did was read. I didn't play sports or have many friends because I was too busy reading."

He put his arms around me and wiggled into my lap.

"I don't think you were ever a dork. And all that reading just made you a really good reader now."


And amidst the strife of the last week, we had a moment of sweetness.

Apologies to the Fat Guy

Matt is smart, energetic, compassionate and very very funny. He is also - and has been since birth - my most challenging child to parent.

Last week, we were having it out over a homework assignment. We were both tired, cranky and intolerant. One smart comment too many and I sent him to his room. As he stomped muttering down the hall, I hollered, "you keep this up and there's a fat guy in a red suit who won't be stopping here next week!"

He stopped dead in his tracks, spun around and stared at me in horror.

"You just called Santa fat! He's never going to come here now!" and he burst into tears.

Later, when we were making up (as we usually do), I told him I was sorry for calling Santa fat and I'd make sure I let the big guy know.

I thought that was the end of it, but that night as I was listening to their prayers, Matt ended with a very serious plea.

"Please tell Santa that Mommy is sorry for calling him fat. She's usually a very good girl."

Apparently, I was forgiven.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Merry Christmas from the three of us to you!

Drama

I have expounded on the joy of boys and how I'd rather deal with the occasional machismo and fart jokes than girlish drama.

I can be very silly.

Boys certainly have their own share of drama.

Just tonight, Matt got soap in his eye during his nightly shower. He was going blind. He might die. He couldn't possibly do his spelling homework. An hour later, he was still trying to milk his "injury" and as I tucked him into bed, I removed this from his head:

Questions

My boys are full of questions. Usually these questions are along the science lines. How are clouds made? Why are cat's tongues rough? What makes volcanoes erupt? And while science isn't my forte, I have the Internet at my fingertips and can look the answers up.

Last week, I got some much harder questions. Why don't you and daddy live together? What's a divorce? Was it because of me?

The last was a heart breaker, because I grew up with that question myself. For nearly forty years, I thought the answer was yes.

Our conversation was long and deep. Much deeper than I realized my little fellow thought. After we'd hugged and he bounced to the door towards his toys, he turned with a final worry.

"When you were married, you didn't like kiss my daddy every day, did you?"

"Yep," I said as seriously as I could. "Sometimes more than once."

"Oh my God. I can't handle that." And he beat a hasty retreat.

I Choose . . .

On top of moving, worrying about Granny, parenting two wily boys, grad school, traveling for work and work in general . . . did I leave something out?

I dated someone this fall.

That doesn't exactly fall within my theme of "day trips and adventures with smallish boys," because my boys weren't involved. But it's worth mentioning for two reasons: 1) I alluded to it in a previous post and 2) dating is always complicated and confusing, but especially so when you have kids.

In my case, I have first to find the rare man willing to tolerate me. Then that unique individual has to also love my boys. This leads to all sorts of hard to navigate issues.

Not the least of which, the big question all single, dating parents face: when do you introduce someone you're dating to your children? Certainly not right away. I know some who say never, but I think it depends. If things are going well, do you really want to get attached before you learn whether this person is compatible with your kids? What if he hates kids? What if your kids hate him (and call him a revolting slob like Gabe once did)? After a few weeks, if you're not willing to introduce him to your kids (or he's not willing to meet them), should that be telling you something?

So many factors. So many questions. I have very few answers.

Only twice in my six years of post-divorce dating have I introduced my (for lack of a better word) boyfriend to my boys.  The first time it went really well.  The guy adored them and for me, it was a point of infatuation.  I discovered nothing is sexier than a man who adores your kids. Alas, that alone does not hold a relationship together (there's more to that story, but I'm saving it for the book of dating disasters I'll write someday).

The second time went okay, but the guy also had a kid. Which in itself, was not a problem, until I saw the way he parented. Or rather didn't parent.

In the instance of full disclosure, I suppose there was a third time.  I dated a man whose kids I met casually before we started dating.  Regardless, with or without kids, it didn't work out.

That last sentence seems to be the theme of my dating experiences. 

Now, a few weeks off a break-up, I'm relieved my kids were never involved.  I'm also inclined to make broad dramatic statements about hiding under a rock and never dating again. But I'll refrain from that last part. I will, however, be on dating sabbatical.

A friend suggested my new motto be "choose booze over boys." I contemplated the idea, but decided to drown my sorrows in a new iPhone instead. It seemed healthier and I suspect in the end, cheaper.

At least with the iPhone, I won't have to pay for rehab.

I have really handsome fellows on my wallpaper.

Summertime Blues

I've really been struggling with working mom guilt.  Finding a balance between work and family is a struggle most working parents face. But for some reason, it's been especially hard for me this summer.

Perhaps it's just a seasonal thing. It's been eighteen years since I was a fulltime student, but I've never fully adjusted to not having summers off.  Now, that the boys are in their school years, I'd give anything to spend our summers together, day tripping, camping or splashing in the pool. 

To make matters worse, summer is the busiest time for me at work.  It's hard for me to take any time off.  And by the end of July, I feel myself getting grumpy and burnt out.

Matt hasn't helped.  Every weekday, as we head out the door to daycare, he wraps his arms around me and says, "I just want to stay with you."

I remind him of his friends, the fieldtrips, water days, and silly crafts.  He loves all those things, but shrugs and repeats his plea, "I want to be with you. I wish I could go to work with you."
 
I wish he could too.  He could make copies and fetch things off the printer.  He could get my coffee.  He could give me consoling hugs when folks miss my deadlines and hold projects up for months at a time.

He'd be bored out of his mind.

He'd start to whine and fidget and then look for trouble.  Next would come the arm pit farts and weird little noises boys are so good at making. Eventually, I would lose my patience and he would have his feelings hurt.  We'd both feel bad.

Perhaps the current set-up is the best one for now.

But I will re-commit to making the best of the time I do have with them.