I was just thinking back to how insanely crazy this summer has been. Even friends are inquiring as to whether this is a usual phenomena or have I just temporarily lost sight of my sanity. Clearly, my sanity was no where to be seen when these whirlwind trips were planned and, no, this will NOT become the norm for future summers.
A few moments later, I was ensconced in bed with middle son Simon trying to calm him down enough for sleep. Apparently, my oldest child, a.k.a husband Shelby, decided to pull out the ol’ Sega Saturn and introduce the children to the video game “Earthworm Jim.” Needless to say this wasn’t a calm game played to the strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Thanks, honey. Anyway, the light on the fish tank went out so the kids are using a small neon Coca-Cola sign for a nightlight which I swear could be used to land small prop planes. Even in this small amount of light, I have determined that my children and their room could be used for a remake of Sanford and Son. I swear, George and Lamont could walk in at any moment and I just keep waiting for that theme music, “Whacka, whacka, whaa, whaa, whaa, whaa, wha; whaa whaa whaaaa-whaaa…”
As I was lying there in the soft luminescence, I watch the pet gerbil, Jack, run around his cage – up and down the wall, on and off the landing, in and out of the wheel. Wait a minute, I resemble that rodent. It seems that this little rat is the epitome of my life this summer. But why? I’m so busy running around that I can’t see the blessings before me – my kids.
This past weekend, I schlepped my family across Texas, once again, to Fort Hood. I was attending a military survivors’ seminar put on by an amazing group called, T.A.P.S., or Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors. These amazing people support the surviving family members of those brave men and women who died while on active duty in this country’s armed forces. Whether the loved one was killed in action, died in an accident, due to illness, or suicide; this group is there.
Just a short history here. My brother wandered after high school until he went rogue and enlisted in the Army (my entire family, both sides, are Navy). After basic he was stationed in Germany with the 16th Engineering Battalion and was called up for duty in Kosovo. While there he became ill and ignored it until it became debilitating. After a visit to a field hospital and a quick flight back to Landstuhl AFB where he underwent surgery, he found he had stage 4 testicular cancer. He was med-evac’ed to Walter Reed Army Hospital where he underwent extensive chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. The girl that he had somewhat been dating flew up to take care of him and they wound up getting married. After he went into remission and went active again, he was stationed with the 46th Engineering Battalion out of Ft. Polk, LA so his new wife could be near her family. Marital troubles ensued, his unit was deployed to Iraq and he couldn’t go (active duty personnel must be cancer free for 5 years before their next deployment) and he became depressed. He was placed in a civilian mental health institution under suicide watch where he took his own life.
So fast forward to this past weekend. This seminar was an amazingly cathartic experience. Children have a special track called the “Good Grief Camp” where they are teamed up with an active duty service man or woman as well as work with therapists and counselors. There is entertainment each night and on the closing day there is a balloon release where survivors can attach notes to the departed. Oldest biological child Christopher wrote a note to Uncle Frank and we released them together before the family slideshow. There were tears and laughter, pain and joy, loneliness and comfort. But at the end of each day, all I wanted to do was hug my children and my husband. When I finally saw them, I was so overwhelmed by love that I don’t even have the words to describe – look, you guys know me and I’m NEVER without words so this must have been a biggy!
Sometimes I think, in our role as parents, we can’t see the forest for the trees. Of course, we love our children but sometimes the day-to-day facilitation of life gets in the way of really appreciating what we have. Play dates, carpools, dentist appointments, PTO, homework, camp, you name it – we get so mired in what we have to do, where we have to go, and how we can fit everything in to the day that we forget to stop for a moment and say a prayer of thanks for that with which we are blessed.
Perhaps this summer is just the beginning of what our future holds or maybe it is an anomaly. Maybe this is the beginning of the end for this particular era. It is written in Ecclesiastes, “To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven.” Maybe this is a preview of my time to let go and let my children grow. What ever it may be, it is a reminder that I have been blessed. Blessed with life, blessed with a love who is my husband, blessed with children. Blessed to be an average mom!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Temperament Traits OR Who are you and what have you done with my children?
I have always been fascinated by birth order, familial temperaments, etc. It is amazing to me how siblings, who come from the same gene pool, can be so amazingly different. Lately, I have also found that these same small people’s personalities can morph from one cute cuddly cherub in one moment into some one-eyed-one-horned-flyin’-purple people-eater the next.
The school where I work is closed for its annual 2 week summer break so I have been with the children around the clock. The baby-sitter, a.k.a the nanny, is also off for her annual 2 week break from my heathens. (Mental note to self: this woman needs a HUGE raise.) This afternoon, while watching the recycle truck with youngest Alex, we saw our neighbor who has a 2 month old. Of course, Alex, being the social being that all 2-almost-3 year olds are, announced, “I greet him.” After visiting with him for a while, my earlier thoughts are totally reinforced. The baby is now sleeping for 4-6 hours at a time in what my friend, Cindy, calls the potted plant stage. You can put them in one place, much like, well, a potted plant, and they stay there. They don’t DO anything. My children have outgrown that phase and currently resemble the life sized Venus Flytrap in “The Little Shop of Horrors.” I swear I just heard the phrase, “Feed me, Seymore!” come from someone’s mouth.
Another thing that I am confounded about is their physical resilience. As many of you may know, Alex had a fun-filled visit to the E.R. to superglue the gash to his forehead he assumed after tripping and hitting a shelf. His bounce-back fortitude (and my well planned seating arrangement next to the nurses’ station) managed to get us out and back in action in under 4 hours. Yesterday, middle child Simon, fractured his finger while playing Wii tennis. I know, no, I’m not kidding. He was following through with a forehand shot, perfect form I might add, when his right ring finger came into contact, rather forcefully, with a point on the entertainment center. The finger, on both sides, turned a heinous purple in a matter of moments regardless of the ice we immediately applied. Of course, I got yelled at for “hurting” his finger while applying the ice and was informed that he was fine and needed to get back to finish the game. Seriously?!?! Who was this person? I told oldest Christopher that he would spend the remainder of the summer enveloped in bubblewrap because I simply couldn’t take any more and he was the only one left who hadn’t expended a co-pay.
Really – I clearly remember the births of each of my children. Okay, so they all cried upon delivery and maybe I should have taken note of this for days to come, but these aren’t the same small beings to whom I gave birth. They were small, wrapped in blankets, and they smelled delicious! They cooed, looked into my eyes with awe and devotion, and slept in my arms. What the hell happened?
After all the drama with Simon’s finger, youngest Alex was running around with a small rubber Hotwheels car tire in his mouth. When I finally cornered him and put my hand to his mouth to spit it out, he looked at me, smiled, and gulped – rather loudly. He swallowed it on purpose! While trying to watch a movie last night, middle child Simon felt compelled to comment on almost every single scene, take polls, and add suggestions. Might I add that the movie was one that every member of our family had seen at least half a dozen times? He totally suffers from middle-child syndrome and I swear he is going to bust out with “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!” sometime soon.
Sometimes I wonder what I did differently that made them the way they are. Did I spend enough “quality time” with them? By the way, what is “quality time” anyway? I know we all have heard the adage of “It’s the quality of the time and not the quantity of time we spend with our children.” Clearly this statement was made by a mother who was suffering from mommy-guilt at trying to figure out how to bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan, along with baking cupcakes at 11:00 p.m. for a child’s class party, wash clothes, and be the sexy vixen her spouse married before he forgot how to participate in household management.
Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was genetics, and G-d’s will. Lord knows, my children’s personalities all resemble some blood relative of either mine or my husband. That alone scares the bejeebers out of me. I also have to say that all my well-founded opinions of child rearing I had before I actually had children have leapt out the window. Every statement that started with, “When I have children, they will/will never…” has come back to bite me in the you-know-what big time. Maybe it was the curse that all mothers’ put on their offspring when they utter those infamous words: “I hope you have a child just like you when you grow up!”
So here I am at the end of the day. Confounded and confused. Exhausted and defeated. Yet, at the same time, I feel so fortunate to witness this utter madness day in and day out. I still don’t have any more answers to the big parenting questions today than I did the day they each were born. I still get a kick out of each new twist. Okay, so initially I’m not so receptive but I eventually get it that they are finding their ways. They are learning who, with my assistance and guidance, they are in this continuum of life. While they might not listen during the first, third, fifth, etc., times I talk; when I see one of them helping a stranger, or greeting a neighbor, I realize the importance of my role. THIS, is what I signed up for…
The school where I work is closed for its annual 2 week summer break so I have been with the children around the clock. The baby-sitter, a.k.a the nanny, is also off for her annual 2 week break from my heathens. (Mental note to self: this woman needs a HUGE raise.) This afternoon, while watching the recycle truck with youngest Alex, we saw our neighbor who has a 2 month old. Of course, Alex, being the social being that all 2-almost-3 year olds are, announced, “I greet him.” After visiting with him for a while, my earlier thoughts are totally reinforced. The baby is now sleeping for 4-6 hours at a time in what my friend, Cindy, calls the potted plant stage. You can put them in one place, much like, well, a potted plant, and they stay there. They don’t DO anything. My children have outgrown that phase and currently resemble the life sized Venus Flytrap in “The Little Shop of Horrors.” I swear I just heard the phrase, “Feed me, Seymore!” come from someone’s mouth.
Another thing that I am confounded about is their physical resilience. As many of you may know, Alex had a fun-filled visit to the E.R. to superglue the gash to his forehead he assumed after tripping and hitting a shelf. His bounce-back fortitude (and my well planned seating arrangement next to the nurses’ station) managed to get us out and back in action in under 4 hours. Yesterday, middle child Simon, fractured his finger while playing Wii tennis. I know, no, I’m not kidding. He was following through with a forehand shot, perfect form I might add, when his right ring finger came into contact, rather forcefully, with a point on the entertainment center. The finger, on both sides, turned a heinous purple in a matter of moments regardless of the ice we immediately applied. Of course, I got yelled at for “hurting” his finger while applying the ice and was informed that he was fine and needed to get back to finish the game. Seriously?!?! Who was this person? I told oldest Christopher that he would spend the remainder of the summer enveloped in bubblewrap because I simply couldn’t take any more and he was the only one left who hadn’t expended a co-pay.
Really – I clearly remember the births of each of my children. Okay, so they all cried upon delivery and maybe I should have taken note of this for days to come, but these aren’t the same small beings to whom I gave birth. They were small, wrapped in blankets, and they smelled delicious! They cooed, looked into my eyes with awe and devotion, and slept in my arms. What the hell happened?
After all the drama with Simon’s finger, youngest Alex was running around with a small rubber Hotwheels car tire in his mouth. When I finally cornered him and put my hand to his mouth to spit it out, he looked at me, smiled, and gulped – rather loudly. He swallowed it on purpose! While trying to watch a movie last night, middle child Simon felt compelled to comment on almost every single scene, take polls, and add suggestions. Might I add that the movie was one that every member of our family had seen at least half a dozen times? He totally suffers from middle-child syndrome and I swear he is going to bust out with “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!” sometime soon.
Sometimes I wonder what I did differently that made them the way they are. Did I spend enough “quality time” with them? By the way, what is “quality time” anyway? I know we all have heard the adage of “It’s the quality of the time and not the quantity of time we spend with our children.” Clearly this statement was made by a mother who was suffering from mommy-guilt at trying to figure out how to bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan, along with baking cupcakes at 11:00 p.m. for a child’s class party, wash clothes, and be the sexy vixen her spouse married before he forgot how to participate in household management.
Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was genetics, and G-d’s will. Lord knows, my children’s personalities all resemble some blood relative of either mine or my husband. That alone scares the bejeebers out of me. I also have to say that all my well-founded opinions of child rearing I had before I actually had children have leapt out the window. Every statement that started with, “When I have children, they will/will never…” has come back to bite me in the you-know-what big time. Maybe it was the curse that all mothers’ put on their offspring when they utter those infamous words: “I hope you have a child just like you when you grow up!”
So here I am at the end of the day. Confounded and confused. Exhausted and defeated. Yet, at the same time, I feel so fortunate to witness this utter madness day in and day out. I still don’t have any more answers to the big parenting questions today than I did the day they each were born. I still get a kick out of each new twist. Okay, so initially I’m not so receptive but I eventually get it that they are finding their ways. They are learning who, with my assistance and guidance, they are in this continuum of life. While they might not listen during the first, third, fifth, etc., times I talk; when I see one of them helping a stranger, or greeting a neighbor, I realize the importance of my role. THIS, is what I signed up for…
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Role reversals
I was sitting here reading some of the replies to my Facebook entry and pondering parenthood. After a particularly trying afternoon, I asked if anyone knew the Blue Book value on an 11 and 7 year old so I could have a fair “Buy Now” price when I posted them on e-Bay. Of course, most parents responded with an “LOL!” or wanted to see if I could include their children’s ages in the quest for a price. There were a few of my friends who responded to my call with the word “priceless.” I have to say those particular people have not passed this way in a while, and, with all due respect, have clearly forgotten this time in their lives. But it did start me thinking – hold on, clearly the roller coaster is about to take off from the platform…
I remember as a kid playing a certain role in our familial structure. There was my maternal grandmother who played a large role in my upbringing. There was my father who, at the time, was an alcoholic with mercurial temperament when and if he was home. My mother was wrapped up with the day-to-day living within a dysfunctional family and taking care of my brother – the baby – and working as a teacher. I’ve already described my brother and then there was me. We had other relatives scattered around who we saw on the occasional holidays. And as time marched on, we all had our roles.
But something changed once I had children. I don’t mean the fact that over the past eleven years I’ve had more night time visitors than Dolly Parton’s character in “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” or the fact that I can no longer sneeze without peeing my pants. I’m talking about a whole, personality altering, place along the time continuum, relocation. Somehow I have become the grown up – that alone should scare the bejeebers out of somebody. Isn’t anyone up there in the heavens watching for this kind of stuff?!?!
I remember back even as little as five years ago, when my mother was here in Oklahoma taking care of her aunt. She still had a spring in her step and, well, I just can’t seem to put it into words, but, something. But in those five years, she suffered and overcame breast cancer, a couple of falls, and life. I have to say, though, that if she would have had to deal my three and their antics over the past few days all by her self, she probably would have committed hari-kari!
So now what? My mother has a hard time hearing me and tells me the same stories over and over, again, ad nauseum. I hear myself saying the same things my mother and grandmother said – “I swear, if you don’t stop touching your brother I’m going to stop this car and leave you here!” (As you all know, I would NEVER really do that. Although my husband was telling me about the comedian who described the three seconds of peace that all parents cling to between the time in which he or she gets everyone buckled in, doors shut, and the dreaded time to come in which the parent must open his or her own door and get into the car with said offsprings.)
This morning, my mother had these frozen breakfast type taco things that she tried to offer to everyone. It soon became the running joke between me and oldest son Christopher. While it was at one time a bonding moment between me and my son (ANY time today that someone irritated us, we asked the other “Do you want a taco?”), it was also a sad vision of things to come. At what point does the wheel of life turn and those in a position of caring become the one who is cared for? Will my children have the same arguments with me that I have with my mother? Will they pray for the same patience with me for which I hope for with my mother? Hopefully, they will love me and put up with me as much as I do with my own mom.
Just so we don’t end things here on a downer, I have to say we ended up having a great day. We spent the afternoon at the local waterpark/pool. This place is great – splash pool for little ones, wade-in pool, two water slides, and lazy river. We all got to swim, get some sun, and enjoy Dippin’ Dots (I hate these people – over-priced balls of ice cream, really? Why couldn’t I have thought of this?). As we were collecting our stuff from the lockers, youngest Alex decided he had had enough. I’m packing our bag as I begin to notice that everyone around us is chuckling. I whirled around in time to see Alex stripping out of his bathing suit. I got him wrapped in a towel and into the car without the police being called for lewd conduct. My hope is that his spirit and sense of adventure continue even as the roles reverse.
I remember as a kid playing a certain role in our familial structure. There was my maternal grandmother who played a large role in my upbringing. There was my father who, at the time, was an alcoholic with mercurial temperament when and if he was home. My mother was wrapped up with the day-to-day living within a dysfunctional family and taking care of my brother – the baby – and working as a teacher. I’ve already described my brother and then there was me. We had other relatives scattered around who we saw on the occasional holidays. And as time marched on, we all had our roles.
But something changed once I had children. I don’t mean the fact that over the past eleven years I’ve had more night time visitors than Dolly Parton’s character in “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” or the fact that I can no longer sneeze without peeing my pants. I’m talking about a whole, personality altering, place along the time continuum, relocation. Somehow I have become the grown up – that alone should scare the bejeebers out of somebody. Isn’t anyone up there in the heavens watching for this kind of stuff?!?!
I remember back even as little as five years ago, when my mother was here in Oklahoma taking care of her aunt. She still had a spring in her step and, well, I just can’t seem to put it into words, but, something. But in those five years, she suffered and overcame breast cancer, a couple of falls, and life. I have to say, though, that if she would have had to deal my three and their antics over the past few days all by her self, she probably would have committed hari-kari!
So now what? My mother has a hard time hearing me and tells me the same stories over and over, again, ad nauseum. I hear myself saying the same things my mother and grandmother said – “I swear, if you don’t stop touching your brother I’m going to stop this car and leave you here!” (As you all know, I would NEVER really do that. Although my husband was telling me about the comedian who described the three seconds of peace that all parents cling to between the time in which he or she gets everyone buckled in, doors shut, and the dreaded time to come in which the parent must open his or her own door and get into the car with said offsprings.)
This morning, my mother had these frozen breakfast type taco things that she tried to offer to everyone. It soon became the running joke between me and oldest son Christopher. While it was at one time a bonding moment between me and my son (ANY time today that someone irritated us, we asked the other “Do you want a taco?”), it was also a sad vision of things to come. At what point does the wheel of life turn and those in a position of caring become the one who is cared for? Will my children have the same arguments with me that I have with my mother? Will they pray for the same patience with me for which I hope for with my mother? Hopefully, they will love me and put up with me as much as I do with my own mom.
Just so we don’t end things here on a downer, I have to say we ended up having a great day. We spent the afternoon at the local waterpark/pool. This place is great – splash pool for little ones, wade-in pool, two water slides, and lazy river. We all got to swim, get some sun, and enjoy Dippin’ Dots (I hate these people – over-priced balls of ice cream, really? Why couldn’t I have thought of this?). As we were collecting our stuff from the lockers, youngest Alex decided he had had enough. I’m packing our bag as I begin to notice that everyone around us is chuckling. I whirled around in time to see Alex stripping out of his bathing suit. I got him wrapped in a towel and into the car without the police being called for lewd conduct. My hope is that his spirit and sense of adventure continue even as the roles reverse.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Resilience in Life – The Silly Putty Kind
I keep thinking about silly putty. Maybe it is the encounter our cat had with it (see the blog from June to get the gist of our war with this gooey substance) or maybe I just equate it with childhood which we know is full of resilient moments. I mean, think about it. You can break it in half and it rejoins the other half as if nothing happened. You can mash it flat as a pancake and then roll it into a ball that will bounce around the room like a ricocheting bullet in a Wiley Coyote cartoon. You know, on second thought, we were at Natural Bridge Caverns today, and that would have been a hoot. Just think – a ball of Silly Putty put into action somewhere down in the caves. Must put that on my list of things to ponder. Oh seriously, I’ve been there several times and there aren’t any plans to excavate any further so, unless this little charade does damage to the caves, this is worthy of getting banned from the park. I know, this is an “a-ha” moment into why my children are they way they are but, come on, you know you’d love to see this…
Any way, resilience. We started this insane week with oldest son Christopher at Boy Scout camp. Apparently, we missed quite a few communications regarding some of the activities that were going to be happening, particularly some bizarre ritual called the “Death March.” This is part of the Wilderness Survival Merit Badge that Scouts can earn when they learn what to do when lost in the wilderness that culminates when dropped off on the side of a mountain with a compass, some twine, and a pocket knife to show what they have learned. I’m totally exaggerating here but you get the gist. The person in charge was sorely lacking in communication and leadership skills for this event – so much so that we wound up having a rather animated conversation over the phone as to which end of the donkey he could be classified. I have to take a moment here to pay homage to Christopher’s home troop leader, Steve Shapiro. If he was here right now, I would hug him. I never truly appreciated his constant communication until now, when I didn’t have any. Steve is truly a gem among people who work with children. I have to say it is because of his organizational skills and hard work that Christopher made it through this week and still wants to continue with Scouts. Although, with the recent torrential rains and heat, I can’t fathom why anyone would want to sleep outdoors in July. Must be a boy thing.
In the midst of the phone calls of “Please, I want to come home,” I got to take youngest Alexander to the E.R. While sitting down to an impromptu lunch meeting with my boss, I hear my cell phone ringing from down the hall – not once, but twice. I simply KNOW it is from my house and that it doesn’t bode well. Isn’t amazing how your senses become so acutely honed once you become a parent. Anyway, upon calling the house, Cecilia answers with, “It’s Alex. He fell. I’ve stopped the bleeding.” Well, that was all it took. I was out of my office faster than Seattle Slew on his last leg of the Triple Crown. Just for a point of reference, Cecilia was almost finished with her training to become a pediatric nurse when her family moved to the US. If she calls, she means business and I move. No questions asked. Thankfully, she applied an arnica salve and the bleeding stopped. I have to say that anyone who even remotely comes into contact with children needs this stuff. I’m not talking about the gel you can find at GNC. I mean the kind that is in the authentic Mexican products section at Foodarama – this stuff stops bleeding, bruises, and, I would be willing to bet, vampires. Long story short, a $125 ER copay and a three hour wait later, we’ve Dermablended his wound together (he tripped, hit the edge of a shelve, and cut a ¾” slit in his forehead). The next day, Indiana Jones Jr. is back in action.
Now my turn. I know I don’t really count because I’m the parent, but, wah, too bad. I come home from work last night just to pack up the car and get as close as possible to pick up Christopher from camp at the crack-o-dawn this morning. Meanwhile, I have this new class I’m taking – Developing and implementing teams and groups. One would think that I would be rather adept at this in light of my familial standings. Lord knows I deal with group dynamics on a daily basis. “Mom, he has on my Indiana Jones shirt!” “Honey, it doesn’t fit you anymore.” “I don’t care. He can’t wear it.” are common war themes throughout my days. But apparently, grown ups are even worse. They have free will. What is supposed to be a small group session turns into me playing on the web site all alone. What turns into a group assignments, turns into one person not showing up at all, another decides she doesn’t want to play, and one, well, not too sure. I feel like I’m on the playground again!
Fast-forward to tonight. Christopher is home albeit smelly and muddy. A tip to pass along to any parent who might have a Scout up and coming – after a camping trip, don’t bring the trunk inside – unpack it on the porch. Trust me, I’m singing the praises of the person who told me this (love you, Amy!) and you’ll thank me too. There are just some smells you never forget. Alexander is back to jumping off the chair while humming the theme song to Indiana Jones. He did bump his head on the pillow on the floor and looked up at me as if to ask why it hurt. Seriously? What is wrong with this child? Shelby suggested a helmet. And here I am all assignments submitted. Guess what? While at some point during this past week, right up until a few hours ago, there was a time when I wasn’t sure any of us would make it. I was sure our particular endeavors would drive us over the proverbial edge. But we all made it through, none the worse for wear.
I have to think back to a person who crossed my path. She seriously believed that it was her job to ensure that her children never experienced a moment of unhappiness. Phffftttt. Wouldn’t her kids would be miserable in my house! Seriously though, as parents, we need to help our children, and sometimes ourselves, see that disappointment happens. Things are hard; they aren’t always the way we want them. However, at the end of the day, as my grandmothers used to say, the things that don’t kill us, make us stronger. While that may be a little extreme today considering we don’t have small pox or Nazis, the ideal is still the same. Christopher made it through stormy weather, Alexander made it through a split head, and I made it through difficult people. At the end of the day, we all went to Blockbuster and rented “The Tooth Fairy” and had sushi/Kid’s Cuisine/chicken nuggets depending on the age group. We were all okay. We all had become Silly Putty.
Any way, resilience. We started this insane week with oldest son Christopher at Boy Scout camp. Apparently, we missed quite a few communications regarding some of the activities that were going to be happening, particularly some bizarre ritual called the “Death March.” This is part of the Wilderness Survival Merit Badge that Scouts can earn when they learn what to do when lost in the wilderness that culminates when dropped off on the side of a mountain with a compass, some twine, and a pocket knife to show what they have learned. I’m totally exaggerating here but you get the gist. The person in charge was sorely lacking in communication and leadership skills for this event – so much so that we wound up having a rather animated conversation over the phone as to which end of the donkey he could be classified. I have to take a moment here to pay homage to Christopher’s home troop leader, Steve Shapiro. If he was here right now, I would hug him. I never truly appreciated his constant communication until now, when I didn’t have any. Steve is truly a gem among people who work with children. I have to say it is because of his organizational skills and hard work that Christopher made it through this week and still wants to continue with Scouts. Although, with the recent torrential rains and heat, I can’t fathom why anyone would want to sleep outdoors in July. Must be a boy thing.
In the midst of the phone calls of “Please, I want to come home,” I got to take youngest Alexander to the E.R. While sitting down to an impromptu lunch meeting with my boss, I hear my cell phone ringing from down the hall – not once, but twice. I simply KNOW it is from my house and that it doesn’t bode well. Isn’t amazing how your senses become so acutely honed once you become a parent. Anyway, upon calling the house, Cecilia answers with, “It’s Alex. He fell. I’ve stopped the bleeding.” Well, that was all it took. I was out of my office faster than Seattle Slew on his last leg of the Triple Crown. Just for a point of reference, Cecilia was almost finished with her training to become a pediatric nurse when her family moved to the US. If she calls, she means business and I move. No questions asked. Thankfully, she applied an arnica salve and the bleeding stopped. I have to say that anyone who even remotely comes into contact with children needs this stuff. I’m not talking about the gel you can find at GNC. I mean the kind that is in the authentic Mexican products section at Foodarama – this stuff stops bleeding, bruises, and, I would be willing to bet, vampires. Long story short, a $125 ER copay and a three hour wait later, we’ve Dermablended his wound together (he tripped, hit the edge of a shelve, and cut a ¾” slit in his forehead). The next day, Indiana Jones Jr. is back in action.
Now my turn. I know I don’t really count because I’m the parent, but, wah, too bad. I come home from work last night just to pack up the car and get as close as possible to pick up Christopher from camp at the crack-o-dawn this morning. Meanwhile, I have this new class I’m taking – Developing and implementing teams and groups. One would think that I would be rather adept at this in light of my familial standings. Lord knows I deal with group dynamics on a daily basis. “Mom, he has on my Indiana Jones shirt!” “Honey, it doesn’t fit you anymore.” “I don’t care. He can’t wear it.” are common war themes throughout my days. But apparently, grown ups are even worse. They have free will. What is supposed to be a small group session turns into me playing on the web site all alone. What turns into a group assignments, turns into one person not showing up at all, another decides she doesn’t want to play, and one, well, not too sure. I feel like I’m on the playground again!
Fast-forward to tonight. Christopher is home albeit smelly and muddy. A tip to pass along to any parent who might have a Scout up and coming – after a camping trip, don’t bring the trunk inside – unpack it on the porch. Trust me, I’m singing the praises of the person who told me this (love you, Amy!) and you’ll thank me too. There are just some smells you never forget. Alexander is back to jumping off the chair while humming the theme song to Indiana Jones. He did bump his head on the pillow on the floor and looked up at me as if to ask why it hurt. Seriously? What is wrong with this child? Shelby suggested a helmet. And here I am all assignments submitted. Guess what? While at some point during this past week, right up until a few hours ago, there was a time when I wasn’t sure any of us would make it. I was sure our particular endeavors would drive us over the proverbial edge. But we all made it through, none the worse for wear.
I have to think back to a person who crossed my path. She seriously believed that it was her job to ensure that her children never experienced a moment of unhappiness. Phffftttt. Wouldn’t her kids would be miserable in my house! Seriously though, as parents, we need to help our children, and sometimes ourselves, see that disappointment happens. Things are hard; they aren’t always the way we want them. However, at the end of the day, as my grandmothers used to say, the things that don’t kill us, make us stronger. While that may be a little extreme today considering we don’t have small pox or Nazis, the ideal is still the same. Christopher made it through stormy weather, Alexander made it through a split head, and I made it through difficult people. At the end of the day, we all went to Blockbuster and rented “The Tooth Fairy” and had sushi/Kid’s Cuisine/chicken nuggets depending on the age group. We were all okay. We all had become Silly Putty.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Dedicated to my brother, Spc. Frank E. Stokes.So today was trek 3 across the I-10 corridor to take oldest son Christopher to Boy Scout Camp. Another 3 ½ hour trip was the culmination of a frustrating attempt to actually get all the information needed to get him there. This is not his regular troop but what they call a “maverick” troop of kids who, for whatever reason, couldn’t make their troop’s organized summer camping trip but still wanted to camp this summer. Let me say this type of mentality completely eludes me – why anyone would voluntarily sleep in a TENT without AC in July in Texas is beyond me, but I digress… After sharing notes with other Scouting mothers, this disorganization is nothing new. I asked hubby Shelby if a prerequisite for Scouting was having to be completely unorganized to which he responded, “No, but it helps.”
It must be a Y-chromosome thing. A woman would have had everything planned and executed within 3 days, a bundt cake made and served as you drove in, and cots set up complete with blanket turned down and mint on the pillow. Shelby disagreed – he seems to think it has something to do with my obsessive compulsive tendency to have a place for everything and everything in its place. Pffttt, what does he know – by the way, honey, your shoes go in the closet. He brought up a good point though, this organization, like many others regardless of size, is comprised of volunteers. These volunteers come in all shapes, sizes, degrees of involvement, and degrees of irritation. Regardless of what we think they should be doing, they are there. On the front lines, helping our children grow and learn. They are making a difference.
As we were making the trip, I had the chance to marvel at how handsome Christopher looked in his uniform. Boy Scouts must wear their Class A uniform when traveling to and from official events. Much of this has to do with respect for the organization and the role of Scouting. It also has to do with the idea of being part of something larger than one’s self. This group of young men and their leaders reminded me of another group of volunteers – the men and women of our Armed Forces. I remember the first time my brother came home from basic training in his uniform. I also remember watching him board a train in fatigues in Paris where we met for a vacation before he was deployed to Kosovo – the last time I ever saw him in the vibrant way I remember him to this day. I will also never forget the day we buried him in full dress uniform in an official military ceremony complete with 21 gun salute. My brother wasn’t the first in my family to give his life for his country – we have family members still entombed within the sunken USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor.
Before we left, we had dinner with our neighbors last night. It was an early Independence Day celebration as well as a small, intimate 40th birthday party for the man of the house. The topic of much discussion was the ban of all fireworks within the city of Houston. Where they had come from, fireworks were allowed. Well, we “repeated-parents-of-the-year” award winners, felt compelled to inform them that we broke the law every year and actually had sparklers and a small arsenal of low level sparking, popping, screeching type fireworks. After all, we could easily blame said fireworks on the kids. They would get off with a misdemeanor charge that would disappear off their record at 17. Just kidding!
But seriously, what has happened to the all-American past time of kids with sparklers on the 4th of July? My husband wanted to post something on Facebook to the effect that if we can’t let our kids have sparklers then the terrorists have already won the battle. I suggested that there were too many key words that Homeland Security would pick up with that post so that might not be the best choice of words. Lord knows I need help with the day-to-day raising of our kids and I don’t think that would happen from maximum security prison. I didn’t even want to think of the fact it would probably land him on the “no fly” list at the airports.
Where else can our children safely see the “rockets red glare” and “bombs bursting in air” that make up our national anthem? We are suddenly torn between being law-abiding role models for our children and wanting to share our traditions and values of patriotism. We volunteer to teach our children about loyalty and national pride. But it goes far beyond one day and the few things we teach them on that day. We want them to learn trust, honesty, obedience, faithfulness, and honor. Hhmm, this is starting to sound like something from Scouts. Perhaps, even in the midst of their disorganization, there is a goal. A goal that is sadly missing from many young people and their organizations today. The same goal that is still present in our service men and women across the globe – one of service and dedication.
I know I’m probably rambling from sheer exhaustion, but I think I’ve changed my mind about the Scouts. Yes, dear, I am admitting I was wrong. Why do men find that so amusing? While the Scouts may seem disorganized in the way that only the madwoman from Shiloh could understand, they are teaching our country’s young men something that is slowly diminishing from society. And it closely resembles those hallmarks of the same brave men and women who have gone before us and will go ahead of us to ensure that we have the choice to partake in such insanity as Scouts.
Thank you to all those who teach and lead our young men and women. Thank you to all those who serve our country. May you all sleep well, stay safe, and return home to those that love you best.
Happy 4th of July!
It must be a Y-chromosome thing. A woman would have had everything planned and executed within 3 days, a bundt cake made and served as you drove in, and cots set up complete with blanket turned down and mint on the pillow. Shelby disagreed – he seems to think it has something to do with my obsessive compulsive tendency to have a place for everything and everything in its place. Pffttt, what does he know – by the way, honey, your shoes go in the closet. He brought up a good point though, this organization, like many others regardless of size, is comprised of volunteers. These volunteers come in all shapes, sizes, degrees of involvement, and degrees of irritation. Regardless of what we think they should be doing, they are there. On the front lines, helping our children grow and learn. They are making a difference.
As we were making the trip, I had the chance to marvel at how handsome Christopher looked in his uniform. Boy Scouts must wear their Class A uniform when traveling to and from official events. Much of this has to do with respect for the organization and the role of Scouting. It also has to do with the idea of being part of something larger than one’s self. This group of young men and their leaders reminded me of another group of volunteers – the men and women of our Armed Forces. I remember the first time my brother came home from basic training in his uniform. I also remember watching him board a train in fatigues in Paris where we met for a vacation before he was deployed to Kosovo – the last time I ever saw him in the vibrant way I remember him to this day. I will also never forget the day we buried him in full dress uniform in an official military ceremony complete with 21 gun salute. My brother wasn’t the first in my family to give his life for his country – we have family members still entombed within the sunken USS Arizona in Pearl Harbor.
Before we left, we had dinner with our neighbors last night. It was an early Independence Day celebration as well as a small, intimate 40th birthday party for the man of the house. The topic of much discussion was the ban of all fireworks within the city of Houston. Where they had come from, fireworks were allowed. Well, we “repeated-parents-of-the-year” award winners, felt compelled to inform them that we broke the law every year and actually had sparklers and a small arsenal of low level sparking, popping, screeching type fireworks. After all, we could easily blame said fireworks on the kids. They would get off with a misdemeanor charge that would disappear off their record at 17. Just kidding!
But seriously, what has happened to the all-American past time of kids with sparklers on the 4th of July? My husband wanted to post something on Facebook to the effect that if we can’t let our kids have sparklers then the terrorists have already won the battle. I suggested that there were too many key words that Homeland Security would pick up with that post so that might not be the best choice of words. Lord knows I need help with the day-to-day raising of our kids and I don’t think that would happen from maximum security prison. I didn’t even want to think of the fact it would probably land him on the “no fly” list at the airports.
Where else can our children safely see the “rockets red glare” and “bombs bursting in air” that make up our national anthem? We are suddenly torn between being law-abiding role models for our children and wanting to share our traditions and values of patriotism. We volunteer to teach our children about loyalty and national pride. But it goes far beyond one day and the few things we teach them on that day. We want them to learn trust, honesty, obedience, faithfulness, and honor. Hhmm, this is starting to sound like something from Scouts. Perhaps, even in the midst of their disorganization, there is a goal. A goal that is sadly missing from many young people and their organizations today. The same goal that is still present in our service men and women across the globe – one of service and dedication.
I know I’m probably rambling from sheer exhaustion, but I think I’ve changed my mind about the Scouts. Yes, dear, I am admitting I was wrong. Why do men find that so amusing? While the Scouts may seem disorganized in the way that only the madwoman from Shiloh could understand, they are teaching our country’s young men something that is slowly diminishing from society. And it closely resembles those hallmarks of the same brave men and women who have gone before us and will go ahead of us to ensure that we have the choice to partake in such insanity as Scouts.
Thank you to all those who teach and lead our young men and women. Thank you to all those who serve our country. May you all sleep well, stay safe, and return home to those that love you best.
Happy 4th of July!
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