Baby Steps

I remember when P was a baby, as much as I enjoyed each stage of his development, there was always an anticipation of the next thing.  When he crawled, I looked forward to when he would walk.  When he was walking, I couldn’t wait for him to start talking.  Now, I look back and wonder what in the world was my hurry?

Even on bad days when I have to suck back tears because P has said something so cutting that my feelings are bleeding or when I have to talk myself out of smacking the snot out of him, I still enjoy P.  He’s really a neat kid.  He’s got a funny sense of humor, and he has a sharp wit.  But I do find myself wishing time away, hoping that these tweeny years will pass quickly so that we can get out of this horrible place and move on to the next thing. 

Then I think about what the next thing is – teenagerdom – and I realize that I need to just stop, enjoy where we are and take these little baby steps through life that allow us to move at a natural pace.

Choices

I think part of my parenting issues stem from my ability – or inability – to make choices on the fly. So much of dealing with P involves reacting quickly to stuff that comes up. This morning he made a snotty comment to me on the way to school, and I was paralyzed within the knowledge that telling him to “f” off or calling him an a-hole (or worse) would not be appropriate or improve the situation. So, like I too-often do, I said nothing. P is going to think I’m a deaf idiot before he’s 18.

Mirror, Mirror

Okay, I know about genes and stuff.  I know that P looks like a mini-Sasquatch because my husband and I are both over 6-feet tall.  BUT, when personality comes into play, things get a little squishy.  For example, this morning I pointed out to P that we were running about ten minutes late, and he launched into a whole, “It’s not my fault,” riff.  I never said it was his fault.  I never accused him of lollygagging around the house when we needed to be getting into the car.  It was a combined effort of lateness, and I was merely pointing out our lateness so that he would move a little quicker.  He was loud, he was defensive, he was borderline teary, and, most of all, he was me.

If Jason comes home and says that the house is a mess, I immediately hear that I’m lazy.  If he isn’t crazy about the new recipe I try, I interpret it as a slam against my admittedly mediocre cooking skills.  P has apparently inherited that ugly, reactionary little gene because when he goes into that mode, he is just like his mama.

That should  make things easier, right?  Since I do it myself and since Jason has been dealing with me for over twenty years, we should both know how to handle it.  Clearly that doesn’t make a bit of difference, and we’re both left alternately bewildered, angry or upset by P’s outbursts of defensive self-righteousness. 

I don’t have a conclusion for today because I don’t know the answer other than I wish there was something else reflected in the mirror of myself when I look at P because what I see is something I really don’t like about myself, but I have to admit that it’s an accurate reflection.

Making Friends

P had a friend from school over to spend the night last night, and the two of them are running around outside as I write.  I never realized how much time and effort was involved on MY part to help P develop friendships.  Obviously, he has a ready-made crop of buddies in his classrooms at school, but in order to get to the advanced phone call, sleepover, and vacation-pal level, I have to get involved. 

There’s a lot to do that I never really thought about!  In my own defense, my parents had a philosophy of maintaining our home as a kind of oasis/refuge from their hectic workweeks, so my older brother and I didn’t have friends over much, and never to spend the night.  I don’t remember having a lot of activities outside of school with friends until high school when I could drive myself and manage my own stuff. 

So now I’m delving into new territory with P, and it’s a crash course.  P’s former BFF had him over to his house a lot (they have a pool AND every video game known to man AND a basketball net), but then he moved to a different school, so now we’re working on cultivating some new friends on our own turf.  Without revealing too much of my inner snob, I have to admit that there are kids that I really don’t want P to develop close friendships with.  Kids who are consistently on the detention list at school are clear candidates for school-friend only status in my mind.  There are others who, I must be honest here, just don’t have lifestyles that I’m ready for P to delve too deeply into.  The kid who has a gun collection, for example, and regales his classmates with stories of hunting and gutting deer and arterial spray from a recent kill is not bestie-material for P.  There’s also the kid whose parents’ political philosopy which they share – loudly – at every opportunity is so completely opposed to our family’s that I just don’t want P exposed to that kind of worldview until he’s older and can process such contradictions to his own family’s beliefs sensibly and sensitively. 

This weekend we are hosting a visit from W, and he’s defintely got potential.  I hope he and his family feel the same about P.  Even if things don’t develop, we’re all learning from the experience.  Some things that I have learned:  get a comfy air mattress (for those sleepover guests), have lots of boy-friendly food in the house that the kids can make themselves (think popcorn, Easy Mac and slice and bake cookies), stock a few extra toothbrushes and boxes of Band-Aids, have something planned for the younger brother and sister so that they won’t get their feelings hurt when they’re ignored or told outright to go away, accept that movies on demand – though pricey – are incredibly convenient, make sure that they’re not sneaking a laptop into the bedroom to troll the Internet without supervision, and, most of all, back off!  P and his friend W have been free-ranging for about twelve hours now and they’ve had a blast.  I need to remember that my role is just to monitor from a distance, maintain safety standards and provide opportunities for food and fun. 

It’s not an easy thing, making friends, but I think at the age of 40, I may actually be getting better at it!

6th Grade

P starting 6th grade was a little disconcerting to me.  Despite the fact that I’m knocking on 40, it’s still a little unbelievable to me that I’m the mother of a real-live middle-schooler.

My own 6th grade experiences were as far-removed from P’s as is possible.  P goes to a private Christian school where I work as the upper school principal.  I pretty much know everything that’s going on with him each and every day, and our days have a Little House on the Prairie quality to them (I mean that in a good way).  My experience, by contrast, was more akin to Lord of the Flies.  In the late 70′s, early 80′s, Tampa had not yet made the switch over to the “middle school” model.  Elementary school was kindergarten to fifth grade, junior high was 7th through 9th grade, and high school was tenth through twelfth grade.  The butt-crack in between elementary and junior high school was the 6th grade center.

Hundreds of ex-fifth graders from my neighborhood were bused to a 6th grade center all the way across town.  We were integrated with an assortment of kids from all over Tampa.  It was like gathering hippos, giraffes, zebras and gazelles from various parts of the zoo and putting them together in one habitat with the parting exhortation to, “make friends.”  Lions and hyenas in disguise emerged quickly, and I was exposed to all kinds of serendipitous lessons outside of the classroom.  I saw kids fighting, French kissing and smoking for the first time.  I heard a boy scream, “You’re just a Yankee whore” at a girl on the playground. Perhaps even more disturbing than the fact that he lobbed such an adult insult was the clarity with which she understood his meaning.

I survived, but I was definitely scarred.  P’s childhood is decidedly more innocent than mine.  As a result, my husband, Jason, and I try to get all of our kids out and about in the world on trips to get them acquainted with more than just the pedestrian goings-on of our little rural town and their admittedly G-rated school.  It’s hard to find a balance because I definitely don’t want any of them learning how to launch insults that would make a woman my age cringe, but I also don’t want them insulated, asking me at eighteen or nineteen years old what a “douche” is.   

I guess it’ll be years before I find out whether P attending the middle school where I work is a help or a hindrance to his development.  For now, we just go along and hope for the best!

Welcome to My Life

I look at the picture of P when he was eighteen months old, and I can feel his sturdy weight in my arms and smell that sweet aroma that is so distinctly toddler boy.  P is eleven, almost twelve, now.  Those days of hefting his little body where I needed it to be and pleasing him with a package of fruit snacks are long gone.  He’s almost as tall as me now, and nearly as heavy.  He has his own interests, his own pursuits, and his own opinions.  When he was a chubby little toddler, I could barely contain the desire to hug and smooch him all of the time.  Now, I have to fight the urge to smack him.

This is a record of P’s tweendom.  It’s an effort to survive with my sanity intact.  I hope that others with similar struggles will find comfort in knowing that they’re not alone.  I am one of those mothers who has wanted to dump her child on the side of the road to find his own way home, who has fought valiantly against the urge to scream “shut the hell up” right in the face of her own child, whose hand has itched with the almost impossible to resist urge to slap a smirk off of the face of my former baby.  If you are too, I welcome your responses.  If you know how to do it better – have been there and done that with no drama or trauma – have stories and memories of your “perfect” child as he or she went through that wasteland between eleven and thirteen…please go away as I have no use for you whatsoever.