Challenges

I used to write more. 

I used to write more about the kids.

When they were small, the stories were funny and easy. Now, as they are teens, I'm writing less. 

The stories are theirs to share. I'm hesitant to do so. They have heartbreak and happiness. They have stress and fun. 

But they are on social media now. I am leery of sharing. It is their story. No longer is it only mine. 

That's bittersweet, but it is life. I'll share as I can, when I can. 

So, how's she doing? How are you doing?

I think I hear those questions about once a week. 

Back in August, we drove our oldest two states away, unpacked all of her essential needs for life, set up her room, hugged her hard, and then we drove away. 

 

"How's she doing?"

She's doing fine. We get random text messages during the week: "How do you clean up Tide that has leaked overnight?" Has been my favorite so far. 

If she's been homesick, she hides it well. I think she's probably too busy to be homesick: Her program of study is pretty intense, and she's in the marching band. She barely sleeps. 

"How are you doing?"

I'm fine. I think some parents have some sort of big existential crisis after they send a kid to college. 

That has not been me. 

She was so busy with school, band and work her senior year, we barely saw her. In many ways, that year gave us time and space to be used to her upcoming departure. 

That's not to say I didn't cry as we drove away. (I did.) It was strange not having her walk through the door at 10 p.m. each night with angst about her food service job. 

I still ask for a table for five at restaurants, which exasperates my husband, and cracks the other two kids up. 

But ultimately, she's fine. I'm fine. 

That's how it should be. You raise them to leave the nest. That's your job. 

Then you push them out, let them go, and watch them fly. 

Trust me

Last night, my son and I were locked in battle.

He wanted to bail on the softball photography session that his sister was in and head around to the other side of the complex to play on the playground.

I would not let him go.

"Why not?" he said. "Don't you trust me?"

Good question.

It got me thinking: Why didn't I let him go?

I told him it is because he's had multiple broken bones this past year, including a broken wrist obtained on those very same monkey bars. I did not want to be so far away, just in case. There were two buildings between us and the playground. I had no line of sight.

But that wasn't the only reason.

I trust him, to a point. However, he is a boy, a pre-teen boy, and that age group isn't known for its stellar decision-making skills. Yes, I might have let his older sister go at the same age, but she was (and is) a mature kid for her age. Is he? Sometimes, but not always. Am I being reverse-sexist? Maybe.

There is a bigger issue: I don't trust society at large. Not alone with my kids.

I know there are other parents over there, many of whom I know and who would bring him to me if he were hurt. I still can't let him out of my sight.

I'm too scared to let him go.

Several years ago, the son of a person whom I know was abducted in broad daylight while walking home from his bus stop. It was my hometown. The stop is on my old bus route home. I could picture the exact area when the story hit the news.

It is an incredibly rural area. Everyone knows everyone.

If kidnapping can happen there, it can happen anywhere.

That story ended as well as it could have, thanks to a sharp-eyed teen and excellent police work.

But....

It has made me forever over-cautious with my children. I need to see them if I am with them. It is a completely irrational thing. The chances of stranger abduction are slim. My kids know the rules of what to do.

And yet.

I don't trust. I can't. Not yet.

I'm going to have to learn to let go, because I can't watch them forever. So maybe next time I'll let him go to the playground. And I'll try to trust. A bit.

The Clothes Fairy

We refer to my mother-in-law as The Clothes Fairy. She likes to shop, has an uncanny ability to find insane deals, and has impeccable taste.

Every time my in-laws visit, The Clothes Fairy appears with bags in tow for the kids. I am grateful. I like shopping for myself. The kids, not so much.

My in-laws visited this weekend.

Tonight, the youngest appeared with scissors, asking for help to clip a tag from a new pair of shorts.

My spouse: "Oh, look, The Clothes Fairy must have visited."

The youngest: "Yes, she's the one that brought all of the clothes!"

My spouse and I, in unison: "Who." (Can you tell we are both editors?)

The youngest, with exasperated sigh: "Your MOM, that's who!"

A reflection on a decade

Ten years ago, I was working from home. I'd had on-and-off contractions all day, but they were a tease, getting my hopes up only to stall out the minute the ten minutes of resting was up.

I plopped on the couch and started editing the legal journal (shout outs to Cindy and Lona here!). At some point in the middle of a Supreme Court opinion on takings, I dozed off. I woke up at 5, decided I'd get up, start dinner in the kitchen, and finish editing.

My water broke as soon as I stood up.

Those pregnancy manuals (I'm looking at you, "What to Expect") that say your water rarely breaks haven't met me. Mine breaks every time, in a hellacious mess, and then the contractions *really* start.

I called my husband, who then was promptly pulled over on Caton Farm Road by a cop. Thus begins the story of our son's birth, with a frantic husband waving at the cop, a kindergartener in the car ready to tell the cop all about her new sibling to come, and my frantic walk through the neighborhood to find someone to watch her, because our people weren't answering their phone and we had no relatives nearby.

Ten years ago at 8 p.m., I caved and took pitocin when labor stalled AGAIN. Plus, the Cubs game on TV was awful and I wanted out of L&D before the game ended (joking, joking).

Our son was born soon after. He was chunky. He was a good eater, unlike his sister.

He was a charmer. Still is.

Ten years later, I'm looking at my witty little dude, who pops out with the strangest things. He listens intently to Nina Totenberg on NPR, to the point that my editing a legal journal was a help in parenting.

He is a hoot. He loves sports. Loves basketball, which has resulted in an injury that has sidelined him to playing the Wii versions for now. He enjoys tormenting his sisters, both younger and older. Often with puns. Bad ones. He is his father's son.

Ten years later, I'm slowly regaining my stamina and body. I managed to run two miles at a 12:30 pace in 80+ heat today. I brag, a bit, because I remember those first few days ten years ago, when I would have sworn I'd never maintain my sanity, much less get my body back in some semblance of shape.

Nothing is forever. Not the lack of sleep. Not the newborn smell. Not the ten-year-old wiseacre sitting across from me.

Enjoy the moments.

Three years left

That seems melodramatic, and yet it is completely true.

I have three years left with my eldest.

I was sitting at the band concert two weeks ago, suffering through three different bands' worth of music. Then we hit the A1 band, mostly juniors and seniors. They honored the seniors who were receiving scholarships.

One's earned the right to attend the Eastman School of Music. I started to tear up, and I don't even know the young woman.

It got worse. The eldest's band director has a 26-year tradition of playing "Stars and Stripes Forever" as the last song for the seniors. Each one stood up, walked to the front of the stage. They played their best. This included the seniors who didn't ever make A1 band; they came up from seats specially placed nearby.

I was crying. Seriously crying. I barely know most of those kids. The clarinetist I know best, because she eased the way for the eldest as a freshman this year.

My first thought: I have to bring a box of tissues three years from now, because I am not going to make it.

My second thought: Dear God. I only have three more years.

My friends who have been through this already have warned me that the high school years go so fast.

It is easy to forget that, as you struggle to get through each week with band, soccer, Scouts, church, obligations. You miss the forest for the trees.

In my years as her mom, I've fretted about this, and this, and this.

In retrospect, they weren't that big of a deal.

Three years. I'm going to try and make the most of them before she grows up, goes to college, and leaves us to become her own person.

They grow too quickly

So, today, I was chatting with a friend whose baby is six months old. She couldn't believe how quickly time passed. I couldn't either. It seemed like just yesterday she went on maternity leave.

It seemed like just yesterday that my baby was scooting across the room, crawling like crazy.

Then I chatted with another friend who bought our son's train table. Her son is much younger, and he and his sister have been playing with it nonstop. It did nothing but gather dust in our house.

I sobbed as I packed it up. I could remember the day we gave it to our son. He was 2. He was so very, very happy. He had the cutest golden curls, which he promptly got caught in the mechanical Thomas the Tank Engine.

Most of my friends have younger children. My oldest is now 14. She was fretting because a boy she likes at high school didn't send her anything for Valentine's Day. Knowing how young, brainy, slightly geeky freshmen boys are, we reminded her that he probably didn't even think of such a thing.

When did that happen? When did my baby start caring about BOYS?

I am so not ready to lose my babies. Can't I just keep them small? Please?

The difference a year makes

So, one year ago we moved from Missouri to Texas.

To say our teen daughter was upset, full of angst, and depressed really doesn't cover it. She was pleading for us to stay even after the house was sold, the car and moving van loaded, and we were driving through Oklahoma.

One year ago this weekend, we packed her scared -- though she'll never admit that -- sad self into a church van and waved goodbye. It was a retreat/camp for young teens, and we figured that would be the easiest way for her to make friends. She hated us for doing it.

I worried and fretted the entire time she was gone, by the way. Would she make friends? Would she sulk the entire time? Would she get hurt?

She was radiant upon return. Not only did she make friends, she climbed some insanely high cliff, grabbed a brass ring, and rappelled down. She was one of a very few who did that.

It was the first time she had smiled in weeks.

This year, one year later, she stuffed her bags again. She checked in, was immediately hugged by her friend Mary, and then bounded off to help. All smiles from the start.

Amazing the difference a year makes.