"Of all of the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable"

Thank goodness for Plato--he puts it all into perspective you know?  My 10-year old son is an enigma wrapped in cranky jackass rolled in brainy-ness dipped in goofiness and finally layered with sweetness and light.  I'll throw in a heavy coating of conditional hearing loss while we are at it (although let's face it, they don't grow out of this trait). 

I've been told that's this is pretty normal for kids who are 10, with boys just being a bit 'more' of everything--I agree, with my definition of 'more' being the daily dose of performative drama that is the basis for all activities in their life--whether it is asking them to set the table, to come in for dinner or to remind them to not pass the pile of clean clothes on the stairs for the 57th time.  Every interaction at this point in their life comes with dramatically large interpretive body movements, vocalizations and handy props.  It's exhausting just to watch, much less engage.

There are days when I look at my husband and wonder where this angry dervish came from...who is this whiny, pissy boy stomping up the steps and slamming doors because I asked him to feed his cat.  Wait, he's back and he's dressed up at Hillary Wan Knobi and he's fighting for freedom everywhere until he knocks over a bunch of stuff with his light saber and stomps up the stairs, slamming his door because it wasn't his fault.  Wait, now he's playing his electric guitar singing about cows and world peace, until I compliment him and he's slamming his door and yelling about privacy.  Wait. He's offering to ride his bike with his sister...nope, that's over now too..something about her telling him what to do and yup, back up the stairs. So close..... Now he's mad because we want him to read instead of playing his DS...or is it the other way around, or because he can't have the 4th cookie, or because I made ________ for dinner instead of _________ or because he has to wait and watch the Pacific on Saturday or because I asked him about a girl, or his socks, or his underwear....

I asked him once if he every yells at me in his head to just "shut up Mom" and his answer was a sweetly phrased, "All the time Mom, all of the time."  I tell him I feel the same way and that we know this is a phase and that we love him and that we are never going to stop talking to him about emotions and choices and responsibility and family and.... I look at him and he at me and I know that he knows that I know that he's doing that thing inside his head again.   So I shut up.  And now it's me getting the 4th cookie cause I'm feeling like I like him a little less right now.  

And yet, everything is colored by the fact that he is my sweet, sweet baby--and I remember the joyful abandon of his first "big boy pee" (off the back porch, of course).  Of knowing that he is absolutely amazing with his sister and always has been.  That we love to fish together.  That he's funnier than shit most of the time.  He loves his pets deeply (don't ask about Greyback the Russian hamster).  And nice?  There hasn't been a sport he's played where a parent from the other side hasn't made a point of telling us what great sportsmanship our son has.  He loves talking to his Grandpas and Grandmas.  He is a keen reader like his mom and a poet/songwriter with phrasing that I cannot comprehend. He stands up for his friends at school, loves to talk about democracy and US history and even has set up a number of 'votes' in various classes about issues and races he's felt strongly about.  Like his Grandpa John, he's never met a stranger in his life.  Like his Dad he feels and thinks deeply and strongly. Like his Grandpa Marty he is a keen recorder of life through photos and video.  Like his Grandpa Dan he loves his sports and history and science shows on TV.  He is, I am proud to say, an amazing kid.

Even when I find his socks in the kitty litter box, his army men in the washing machine and that he's only worn one pair of underwear all week.  After all, he's 10. And a boy. Right?

Debating God(s) at Midnight

He had her at 'polytheistic'.

My husband sat on the edge of the bed at my request, as mine and my daughters' conversation had deteriorated to a series of "Nu-huhs" and "Uh-uhs".  He was attempting to clear up some confusion that he had caused earlier in the day about the historical reality of Christianity versus Judaism versus Buddhism. 

My part of the conversation started only a few minutes earlier when she turned over and asked to ask  '...just one more question'.  It had to do with the Holy Trinity and that God was a man, but then what were the other Gods, and so on and so forth.  I parsed her commentary and went with what I thought was easiest...that there were many religions in the world and they were all different and good, but that Christians/Cathloics believed that there was only one God. 

"Nu-huh...Daddy said Christians believe in many gods."

"Well," I said carefully.  "I think you might have heard him wrong, or be confused by his answer because that isn't right."

"Uh-huh" she said.  Now I was confused...was she Nuh-huh and I was Uh-huh. Or was it visa-versa.

"Dad!".  We'd go straight to the source.  Looking back, that was a bit of a mistake.

I explained the issue quickly and he, this loveable man of mine, launches into a discussion about the the difference between polytheistic and monotheistic and how religions throughout history had changed over time and that.....

She was, ironically, in heaven...this is what her questions in the deep dark were meant to do--commence a conversation that kept her intrigued until she tired out, typically far later than the rest of us.  I harrumphed and turned over and let them, my own little Colbert and Carell religious debating duo, go at it for a while.  She was crossing herself like crazy and talking about what "he" looks like because 'girl gods give her the creeps', oy vey. 

While they "chatted" I thought about it and I knew it was time to bring the books back out...you see, we are a blended faith family.  I am Catholic, my husband is Jewish. We each follow our faiths in our own way and we are together in trying to teach our children about each religion and those of the world. 

This results in lots of questions that we can't always answer, or in a situation where we (she says snarkily) don't answer the questions in a manner that is in any way helpful.  Polytheistic. Wtih a 7-year old. Really?! 

So, the two books that I think do the best at explaining the conundrum that is religion to children are  Old Turtle by Douglas Wood and What is God? by Etan Boritzer.   Old Turtle comes at it from a naturalistic fable point of view, with a wonderfully strong plea for universal acceptance.  What is God? does a fantastic job of explaining about the different belief systems, their similarities and differences, their persona, their 'books' and more.  Separately they are great and beautiful, with wonderful illustrations to boot.  Together, they are fantastic--especially if you want to ground your children in knowledge, but not close down their natural curiosity about such a vast subject.

Anyway, back to last night.  Finally, they wind down, we shut it down, and, with a combined heartfelt plea, beg for her to go to sleep! Kisses all around and then dark and quiet and cuddly, just the two of us again.

And then I heard her whisper, "I am smarter than you".

And then it was my turn to talk to God. Harrumph again

One Is NOT the Loneliest Number. Well It Is, But That Can Be A Good Thing

Being a "one of one" and "one of many" has been a constant struggle in my life.  Early on I grew to love the act of being alone.  You'd think being on a ranch miles from anyone and anywhere it would be easy, but with two brothers and two sisters and constant chores it was rare.  But I was driven and sneaky and found ways to slip away with snacks and books and discovered, as listed in an earlier installment, a number of great places on and around the Ranch where I could just be alone and quiet.  Angst or anger would drain away and then I could go back to the pentultimate "loud" family and play my role as loud and happy as the rest.

At college it was practically impossible--and then I grew to love the comraderie of a small but wonderful group of people who were able to see more than my periodic bullshit.

After college I found the quiet again...then lost it with a vengeance, thinking that I shouldn't like being by myself so often.  I found myself at places and with people when I really wanted to just be at home...and at times, I really should have listened to myself on that one. 

Looking back I married the perfect person--as he himself will often say to this day that he doesn't actually like people much, which is so wrong, because he is a charming and thoughtful conversationalist.  Pre-children we were close and cozy, very happy to be just the two of us.   

Now with two active children who Karma has vengefully decided are social animals (and with friends come their parents...who knew?!) and after we make time for us as a couple (which according to our counselor, we maybe shouldn't be in each other's pockets so much...what?!  I love his little pockets.), we sometimes find ourselves competing to see who can have that hour or two, or a real 1/2 day or (gasp) full day alone.  A-lone.  aLOne. Alllloooooonnne. 

Not only because we want the peace and quiet...although it definately is a part of it.  But because sometimes you need both the physical and emotional space to just get certain things done.  Not shopping or errands.  But real things--things that matter.  Personally, I do my best 'self-editinig' as I'm organizing the office or doing bills.  Walking through the house alone and fiddling with the bookshelves is when I'm best at figuring out why I'm on-edge for no apparent reason.  Dead-heading the flower garden without being asked to time this race or watch that amazing skateboard trick or answer whatever odd question popped into my daughters active brain is when I can plan the various household movements of the next month...getting it emotionally organized so to speak.  When I'm travelling, I love eating alone in a nice restaurant with a book and a place to make a list...this is when I create my own "big ideas for my life" list.  It is satisfying on many levels.

And, we are trying to teach this to our children.  Far past the age where any of their friends are forced to endure "quite time" it is something we try to do a couple of times per week--everybody needs to find a space, no electronics except music, and just "be".  It's easier for our son than our daughter--she fights it like she fights sleeping--but eventually she gets there and it's amazing.  The creativity or self-reflection we see later is a thing of beauty--and quite often hysterically funny.

I mention all of this because I ran across this article in the New York Times yesterday:  Embracing a Life of Solitude.  While they focus on the extreme cases--and the only young person mentioned quit for lack of women--you do get a sense of the pleasure these folks find in a life away.  And's for me, that's the key thing--a life or a moment or two away is a good thing--especially in today's overly connected world.  (I say this while mocking myself as I've got one eye on the damn Facebook chat bar where I have three people pinging me.)

Anyway, so while I don't have full day to myself until September 17, 2012 at 3:45,  I am looking forward to the 15 minute drive home, and Saturday morning from 9:45 to 10:30 when hubby will be out picking up the children from their sleepovers. I have big plans for myself then.  Big Plans.

Woe is Me (And Daughter)!

So, the other day our daughter was having one of "those" days...you know the one.  The one where you are not liking her much...nor she you.  The one where she's pushing her brother, crying on the cat, venting to the neighbors and crying to the sky all about how unfair her life is. 

Ha!  Unfair is having to listen to all that and not being able to mock her relentlessly.  Harsh?  Possibly.  But sheesh.  I tried the "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, guess I'll eat some worms" song while dancing goofily around her and all that got me was "It's not funny!" in a super-sonic screech that would make the Furies proud.

I tried another tact and offered to give her brother a wedgie (which would usually totally work), but she was dug in and just cried harder.

I offered to cuddle her but my first two mistakes backfired and everything went horribly, horribly wrong.

After a time out and chocolate for both of us, we sat down to chat.  I asked her why she was so upset that day...what about that day was so bad. 

"It's not today, Mom.  I'm just like this naturally."

Really?  I reminded her that for her actually these days were really few and far between

"Mom, I'm a wo-child," she told me, shaking her head like I was insufferably dense. 

"A Wo-Child?  What exactly is that?"

Giant sigh on her part.  "You know, the poem that tells all the kids what type of kid they are." 

Egads, I knew exactly what she was talking about. You see both my daughter and I were born on Wednesdays (I hadn't realized that until this conversation) and someone somewhere at her school they told her that this meant she was 'full of woe' and defined it for her as "mad and sad".  Personally, I like to tell them what I thought they were full of, but that's another day.

I regrouped and told her that I was born on a Wednesday as well and see, I wasn't full of 'woe'.  Another one of her glances had me re-grouping yet again.  

"You are what you want to be...just because a poem says you are 'full of woe' doesn't meant you are or that you have to be. And," as I pulled out my iPhone and did some quick research, "your Dad and brother are both Thursdays child (who have far to go)...do you think they are exactly alike?

That got us into a conversation about all of the ways they were NOT alike, which led to laughter and cuddling.  Of course, with our daughter, that's never the end of it.  That night, another bedtime conversation, she asked why she had to be 'full of woe' and not someone else. 

Trusty iPhone and Wikipedia research to the rescue and we learned that this poem, first recorded in A. E. Bray's Traditions of Devonshire in 1838, came from a long custom of fortune telling by days of birth. Quite the thing during that time in our culture.  We also learned that for a poem that isn't that popular, it has become quite the source for the artistic and literary set, found in everything from Beatles music to Star Trek episodes and more. 

Importantly to my daughter and I, we learned, that at some point in time Thursday and Saturday and exchanged fortunes, and Sunday had actually been Christmas Day and, drum roll please, Wednesday and Friday had also changed fortunes so, I read to her,  "...we had a pretty good chance of being "loving and giving".

"Jeesh", she said.  "they didn't get that right either."  Ouch!    So I asked which  we were supposed to be.  According to her, she is Thursday, her brother is Wednesday (duh), her dad is Friday and I'm Saturday.  

Well, what can I say...I was at least hoping for Tuesday!    

Wednesday's Child

Mondays child is fair of face,

Tuesdays child is full of grace,

Wednesdays child is full of woe,

Thursdays child has far to go,

Fridays child is loving and giving,

Saturdays child works hard for his living,

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

The Sound Of Music/MotherF*$#! I'm Awesome!

Music was not a big part of my life growing up...the generator (yes, a generator) wasn't on during the day and at night, it was busy with things like dishwashers and washing machines..so the radio or the record player (yes, a record player) wasn't in use a lot.  When it was on and not overloaded I listend to two things--Blondie and South Pacific...maybe I had a thing for blondes, who knows?

In high school I listend  to The Cars.  And I went to my first concert, Rick Springfield, when he played the Jackson County Fair where I was showing cattle in 4H. ("Jessie's Girl", sigh).  College was even more pathetic.  By the time I met my husband, way after college, I had 5 cassettes (yes, cassettes), the two I remember were the Counting Crows and Billy Joel, Glass Houses. I just didn't understand it's importance to and for people.

As mentioned here before, my husband is exact opposite of me, so he came into the relationship with a lot of knowledge, experiences, opinions and records/cassettes (hundreds, if not thousands)...I thought it was hot, but I also felt like a total loser because more than half the time, I had no clue what he was talking about...ahh...love.

But it was last night, laying down in the dark, trying to get my daughter to go to sleep, when I realized that for our kids, music is a constant.  In fact, it's hard to get away from in our house--from the Bose in the bedroom, to the iPods, to the big stereo downstairs, to the mobile iphone speaker stations that travel around the house, to the iPod boom boxes in each of our kids bedrooms....at any given time, there are 3 or 4 places in the house all with different music playing.  For someone who grew up 'quiet' it can be overwhelming.  As a parent, it can also be both wonderful and painful.

The wonderful comes from listening to my son falling asleep to the Beatles, Bob Marley, The Clash,  Ethan Lipton & The Ethan Lipton Orchestra, Coldplay, and a bunch of stuff I don't know (yeah, big surprise there); or listening to him play his electric guitars (he has 4) while he sings his own compositions ("Psychotherapy Sister" was an interesting tune).  He and his friends are doing ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down" for their schools talent competition...I just hope their hair and outfits dont' distract too much from the music. 

The wonderful also comes from late nights reading with my husband while listening (Richard Thompson, Alison Krauss and Robert Plant, "Please Read the Letter" ) car trips while singing (John Prine and Iris DeMent, "In Spite of Ourselves") and goofing around and dancing with the kids ("My Sharona" and anything by the Dropkick Murphys).

Regardless, it is amazing, and I can see it helping to form their personalities, and for my son especially, giving him a venue for venting as well as figuring--and providing a deep connection with his father.

So, while I've learned to love music, enjoying the spreading of my wings, so to speak, I was curious about it's role in people's lives.  As usual, to the bookstore I went.  Two books caught my eye and as I read them, my interest.  The first was Musicophilia:  Tales of Music and the Brain, by Oliver Sacks.  A great blend of musicology and science, Sacks uses his typical tales of others to highlight all of the different ways we are a musical species.  Some of the stories are simple, some are fantastical, but all relateable on some level.  It enforced for me just how important it is for kids to grow up with music in their lives.

The second book, The Music of Life by Hazrat Inayat Khan, is from the Sufi perspective and while I had to read many sections twice (I read too fast and was missing important things), and am typically very wary of religious/philosophical books, I found parts that made sense to me on both an emotional and rational level--the law of rhythm, the creative process and the emotional power of music.  I have no idea if whether it's correct, vis-a-vis Sufi teachings or any of that, but it was worth the read.

By the by, while searching, I also ran across another book, The Music of Life:  Biology Beyond the Genome, by Denis Noble.  Not about music specifically, he writes about the "symphonic interplay between genes, cells, organs, body, and environment".  I've only started it, but so far, it's keeping my interest...and I found the cover art beautiful.

Ahhh...so yes, I've covered the wonderful part.  Now onto the painful part.  Simple...my iPod on shuffle, I wasn't paying attention to what was on (we've all been there), until my children starting signing along with an artist called Spose and his great and funny (seriously) song, "I'm Awesome".  Yeah, it starts loud with a pretty big BAD word.  Which they loved, while my husband laughed and I cringed...yet another BPM (bad parenting moment). 

Sigh, you take the good with the bad and just hope the bad never leaves the house.

On Completing A Childhood Milestone: Bike Riding! (Whew)

One of the things that both my husband and I had been feelting extremely guilty about over the years was the fact that neither of our children knew how to ride bikes.  He is physically unable to teach them and I, it turns out, am a "bad bike riding teacher"...the only thing I was able to create were tears and frustrations.

So as spring came back to Texas this year, so too did the guilts about the bike riding issue.   But with a long weekend coming up, I was going to make it happen come hell or high water...no matter how bad it got, I wanted them to feel the rush of freedom that comes with riding a bike--I had it and loved it and they would too, dammit!

I didn't tell the kids this as I figured it would just create angst and drama throughout the week--I would instead create angst and drama for only one day by unveiling it on Friday morning:  "Tah-dah....we're starting the long weekend with pain and suffering...whoo hooo"!

With plan in hand I drove home on Monday to find my son riding his bike around our neighborhood like a pro!  Happiness warred with confusion...how did this happen?  Little did I know that we had a bike-riding teacher genius in the form of an 8-year old neighbor boy who, it turns out, spent 10 minutes with my son and got him not only up and going, but zooming around with a confidence that was inspiring.  As I watched him race around with a giant grin on his face I did a quick internal check and found (thankfully) no guilt or resentment about the fact that it hadn't been me who created this happiness and happily gave our neighbor a big high-five and oodles of compliments and thanks. 

Inside the house though, I found Mt. Vesuvius in the form of my daughter, raining hellfire down upon the resigned head of my husband.  It turns out that her bike tires were flat, there was no time left in the day to teach her how to ride and, according to her, "you all hate me and it's not fair".   After getting my husband out on a walk and spending some time listening and cuddling, we decided that we would attack it the next day.

And again I came home from work to find my daughter riding around grinning like the proverbial fool...the neighbor boy had struck again!  Happily.  I was voluble in praise for him as were my kids for their friend--he felt happy and confident and as my daughter said, peddling by, 'Mom I feel the free-est I've ever felt!". 

She then tried to high-five her brother and immediately they crashed into each other, falling over, with one grumbling and the other laughing, laughing, laughing.

Which reminded me of a book I had read about a decade ago sitting on a small stool in the children's section of a bookstore:  "The Epiplectic Bicycle" by the wondrously wierd Edward Gorey.  This is the story of brother and sister Embley and Yewbert who, after whacking each other with a croquet mallet, have a fraught adventure on the bike the book is named for. Time, chapters, ideas and phrases are all out of order, which makes for a surreal sense of freedom in this oddly uplifting tale.  I can remember feeling extremely happy for having found and read this book, leaving the book store with a big grin and a light step.  Exactly how my kids looked that evening as they came in for dinner, flushed from their exertions.  And exactly how my husband and I felt seeing our happy children and feeling quite giddy ourselves about their newfound abilities.

The bike, as my daughter intoned, "...is a wonderful thing".