A Whole Bunch of Agita

To say that things have been rather eventful in the Kern household lately would be quite an understatement.  First, we had major water damage in our kitchen.  A pipe leaked inside the wall between our kitchen and bathroom and seeped underneath the floor tile in the kitchen.  To get the water and rot out of there, we now have to gut our entire kitchen. To further complicate things, my father and two other family members died in the same week of unrelated circumstances.  It's to the point where we're all afraid to answer the phone for fear of learning that someone else has died.

So, in the midst of dealing with all of that, I've been busy calling our mortgage company every few days trying to convince them to release the first of our insurance claim funds.  Did you know that if you have a homeowner's claim, you have to send the insurance company's check to your mortgage company?  That's how it happens these days.  The mortgage company deposits the claims check into their own bank account and doles out the money to you in thirds.  This would be OK if they actually had a sense of urgency about getting the money to you so that you could complete the repairs.  Instead, they delay the entire process until you realize that you've been breathing mold for nearly two months while they’re still sitting on your money.

A lesson for young people:  be sure to buy your house in cash so you don't have to deal with these clowns.

You know that feeling where you're quite literally at the end of your rope and you don't know what to do?  You're so angry you could strangle someone, but at the same time, you could just as easily fall to the floor in a heap and cry for a week?  That's where I'm at.  The crazy could go either way.

Knowing that Dan and I are in a mighty fragile mental state right about now, I felt it my motherly duty to warn the kids that they'd better be on their best behaviors.

The other morning, while all three kids were together, I called a family meeting.

            "So, you guys know that things have been kind of tough around here lately for your dad and I, right?"

            "Yeah," they said in unison.

            "Well, I want you boys to be on your best behavior until we get through all of this family and kitchen stuff, OK? "   They nodded, but I wasn’t sure they really understood what I was saying.

            "That means you are not to wreck any vehicles.  You are not to get into trouble of any kind.  You are not to harm yourselves or anyone else.  You are not to get injured and need hospitalization.  I don't want to get a call from anyone's principal.  I don't want to get a call from any of your friends' parents.  I certainly don't want to get a call from a police officer.  You will go to school and work and home again without incident.  Do you understand?"

            "Yeah," they said, but quite somberly this time.

            "I hope you do, because if you guys do one thing to add to your father's and my stress levels, you are going to throw us right off the edge.  If that happens, you'll become orphans and you'll have to go live with some bearded woman with no teeth who has twenty-seven cats and only serves canned SPAM and peas for dinner.  You don't want that to happen, do you?"

They all assured me that they would do their best to keep out of trouble while their father and I sort this stuff out.

Well, almost all of them.  My son Matt got up from the table and grabbed his backpack to get ready to leave for school.  On his way out the door, he called out cheerily:

            "Bye, Mom!  I'm off to school to get detention, so expect a call from my principal.  On my way there, I'll be sure to run over as many people as possible and then wreck my truck.  I know how much you love insurance claims."

It's a good thing he moves a lot faster than I do.

One more lesson for young people:  don't have teenagers.  

An Out-of-this-World Connection

Recently, I decided to join the career-networking site, LinkedIn. I realize that I am probably the last person on Earth to do so, but hey – better late than never, right?

Because I am so new to the site, I am frequently emailed with suggestions of people with whom I may wish to connect. The faces are almost always familiar ones and follow a typical style: a professional-looking-yet-approachable photo, full name, and current impressive-sounding job title.

As I was reviewing the latest suggestions of people, I was shocked to find one that was different from all of the rest. There was no photo, no job title, and no current position. Just an odd gray head-shaped placeholder where a photo should go and a very familiar but unexpected name: William Kern.

The only William Kern I know, my father-in-law, died in May.

At first I thought that it must be some weird coincidence, that someone else must share his name. Then I saw the unusual email address and knew without a doubt that it was my father-in-law. It was Pop.

Several years ago, Pop wanted to be able to get online. Always an avid fisherman, he wanted Internet access so that he could research fishing, but he didn’t want to buy – or have to learn - a computer. At the time, there was this gadget called WebTV that could be hooked up to a television and a phone line so that you could send and receive email as well as surf the Internet right on your TV.

The dial-up connection was lousy and unpredictable, and you could only view text-based websites. Still, Pop loved his WebTV. He would spend hours reading fishing statistics, looking for information on where to fish, and hunting down gear that he wanted to buy. In fact, he used it so often that we could rarely reach him by telephone because his phone line was always connected to the WebTV.

WebTV also provided an escape from the loneliness he felt after his wife died. When he moved in with the woman who would become his second wife, he tried to bring the unit with him, but she wouldn’t allow it in her house. Her refusal abruptly halted Pop’s time on the Internet. The unit was discarded, the monthly fee for his Internet service was cancelled, and his email address was abandoned.

The last time Pop used WebTV was seven years ago, so how did he show up on LinkedIn? LinkedIn was probably not in existence back when Pop used WebTV, but even if it was, I am 100% positive that he was NOT a member. He was a self-employed carpenter for his entire life and not at all technology-savvy. No way would he have joined a professional networking site even if he could have.

After staring at the computer in disbelief for several minutes, I did the only thing that felt right in that moment.

I clicked the “Connect” button under his name.

Still Baking

(source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Facepalm)

I remember reading something several years ago that said that a child’s brain isn’t fully developed until they are twenty-three years old.  The article even referred to the child’s brain as being “half baked,” which made me imagine a cake that still had quite a while to go in the oven. 

At the time, my oldest son was well into his teen years.  He seemed to make one peculiar decision after another to the point where I wondered if I’d done something wrong.  What crucial parenting step did I miss?  Learning about half-baked brains made me feel so much better.  There wasn’t anything wrong with my son or my parenting.  His poor judgment was simply a normal part of adolescent brain development.  It gave me great comfort to know that he wouldn’t be flaky forever.

The other night, my middle son, fully in the midst of teenage half-bakedness, did a really stupid thing.  He thought it was a dandy idea to go off-road driving in a friend’s field at nighttime.  Who does this?  NO ONE does this because it’s a really stupid thing to do.  You can’t see any obstacles that may be in the field.  You can’t see any places where the field might drop off. 

He didn’t let me in on his plans or I’d have told him it was a really stupid thing to do… in the nicest possible way, of course.

So my kid with his half-baked brain went off-roading at night.  He didn’t see a huge drop-off in the field and as a result, significantly damaged his truck.  He was not hurt, fortunately, but his truck needs repairs that will likely be in the thousands-of-dollars range.  Since his father and I make him pay for his own vehicle repairs, this is going to be one painful and costly lesson.

When bad decisions like this happen, decisions that would’ve been obviously bad to any rational person, I tend to launch into hyper-parenting mode.  I feel compelled to think of every single stupid thing that he might want to attempt so that I can warn him about it: do not drive off cliffs; do not leap from tall buildings; do not lick the sharp edge of a steak knife.  You know – just like those ridiculous warnings that you often see on power tools.  In fact, whoever came up with the warning “do not use lawnmower to trim hedges” surely must have spent some time with a teenager.

Some of the best parenting advice I’ve ever received came from a friend of mine.  She said that when she gets crazy worrying about her kids, she remembers all of the stupid things that she did when she was a teenager.  Somehow she survived just fine in spite of it all.  She said she chooses to trust that whatever benevolent force in the universe kept her safe, that same loving force will also be there to protect and guide her own children.

I hope she’s right.  These offspring of mine are evidently going to need a LOT of protecting.

The Old Mom

As I write this, we are pretty much in the full swing of this back-to-school thing.  With almost two weeks under our collective belts, I feel as if we might survive...if the parenting gods smile on us, and I keep my act together as Bedtime Enforcer and Signer of Reading Logs. 

This is a tall order for me. Any appearance of having my act together is strictly an illusion.  I desperately want to be one of “those moms,” the ones who always seem to have it under control; the ones who actually bake for the bake sale; the ones whose children are always well-rested; the ones who don’t have to breath their anxiety into a paper bag while driving on field trips to Philadelphia. 

After the number of years I’ve spent raising children, I should have this parenting stuff down, but I don’t.  Still, each September presents a clean slate and another opportunity for me to try once again to get it right.

As part of their annual back-to-school ritual, my son's school hosts a welcoming event for parents of kindergarteners.  Parents meet for coffee after dropping their kids off for their first day of school.  That first day can be a stressful transition for both parents and children, and this gathering gives parents a chance to meet others within the school community. 

In my effort to be more engaged this year, I volunteered to work at this event.  I thought that I could be especially helpful since I’ve been a parent at the school for many years.  I knew that I could help put new parents at ease by answering any questions they might have about the school. 

The day of the event, I did my best to project a welcoming attitude toward the new parents by engaging them in conversation.  Inevitably, they would ask if I, too, had a child in kindergarten.  “No,” I’d respond.  “My youngest is in eighth grade and I have two who’ve already graduated from the school.” 

And then, without fail, they'd smile politely and move toward a different parent.

I couldn’t figure this out.  Why were they getting away from me as quickly as possible?  They were behaving as if I repulsed them, as if I hadn’t showered or something.  (I definitely showered.  See above desire to be one of “those moms.”  “Those moms” shower before going out in public.)

After enduring this rejection six or seven times, I asked one of the other volunteers if she had any idea why so many parents didn’t seem to want to talk to me.

            “Well,” she said.  “They just don’t have anything in common with you.”

            “In common?”  I asked.  “Am I that boring to talk to?”

            “No, it’s not that,” she said.  “It’s just that these parents want to meet other parents who have children in kindergarten.  You don’t have a child in kindergarten so they really can’t relate to you.”

She was probably right.  Eighth grade was a lifetime away from kindergarten. 

Then I did something I shouldn’t have done.  I thought about how long ago it’s been since my youngest son was in kindergarten (seven years.)  Then I thought about how long ago it’s been since my oldest son was in kindergarten (eighteen years.)  Then I did the math and realized that not only has that kindergarten ship sailed a very long time ago, I also realized that I am old enough to be the mother of most of the parents here.

Ouch.  When did I become the Old Mom?

I'm not sure when it happened, but  apparently it did (probably while I was hyperventilating my way through Philadelphia.)   Somehow I've crossed the point of being youthful and relevant and landed under some middle-aged cloak of invisibility.  I've gone from skinny jeans and lip gloss to hot flashes and sensible shoes. 

On a good day, I realize that being the Old Mom isn't all bad.  I've learned a ton of things that these young moms have yet to discover for themselves.  This Old Mom may move a little slower than the others but she knows that it’s wise to wear comfortable shoes on field trips.  This Old Mom has figured out that it’s pointless to try to get a kid to bed early the night before school.  The first day of school will totally wear them out and they will naturally go to sleep earlier.  This Old Mom knows that kindergarten isn’t the end of childhood, but rather the beginning.

Those other moms aren't there yet, and it’s not my place to rush them.  And while I won't be volunteering for any more kindergarten events, I will do my best to support my son's last year of middle school. 

Just don't ask me to do it perfectly.

School Daze

At our house, we are excitedly gearing up for the start of school.

Actually, I made that part up.  We're totally not excited at all.  In reality, we are limping along, still stuck in lazy summer mode.  We are greeting these weeks of back-to-school preparation with plenty of kicking and screaming.  No one is ready to get up early, deal with homework, and pack lunches.  And by "no one," I mean me.  

It feels as if we'd finally skidded across the finish-line to summer vacation and now, here we are, preparing to start all of that school busy-ness all over again.  I feel weary just thinking about it.

I remember when the kids were small.  To put it nicely, they drove me nuts.  Three weeks into summer vacation, I was ready to ship them off to the circus.  Their constant desire for entertainment was exhausting.  I remember thinking, can't they just go outside and play for two and a half months like we did when we were kids?

I'm always amazed at how quickly small children become bored.  Even with a room full of toys, pets, TV, books, bikes, and games, they still lament that there's nothing to do.  Now that they're older, my kids know better than to use the b-word around me.  If they forget, I'm quick to remind them that I haven't been bored since 1982.  I am SO not exaggerating either. 

Jobs, bills, laundry, cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring, food shopping, and yard work - if kids knew what was waiting for them once they grow up, they'd never utter the b-word during summer vacation again. 

That's why, after an entire summer of hearing their complaints that there wasn't anything to do, I couldn't wait for school to begin.  I back-to-school shopped like it was my job.  I nagged about summer reading logs.  I kept track of the days left until school on my calendar.  And when that magical day arrived?  I was more than happy to put them on the school bus and have the house to myself again.

These days?  Meh.  The end of summer feels completely different now that my kids are older.  Most noticeably, they're able to entertain themselves and don't require much from me.  No one needs me to make their lunch, change the TV channel, get out the sprinkler, or read them a story.  Two of them no longer need me to drive them anywhere. 

When we do spend time together, it's easy and relaxed.  We talk and joke and laugh.  We build camp fires and talk about internet memes.  We share movies and music and dreams.  In other words, we enjoy just being with one another. 

No way am I ready for this to end.

I know that we'll get ourselves together and be ready for school when the time comes.  For now, though, there's still some summer left.  These kids won't be kids forever, you know.

Heart Bruises

(image from www.empowermentnetwork.com)

In the years that I've been a mother, I've gotten plenty of practice at helping hurt kids feel better.  I've kissed dozens of boo-boos, applied countless bandages, and dried plenty of tears.  After a short while, the child stops crying and realizes he’s going to be just fine.  The injury, once so scary and painful, is soon forgotten and life returns to normal.

Hurts of the romantic kind are not so easy to heal.  As my boys grow older, I find that such hurts become increasingly inevitable.  No one can wander unscathed within the prickly but enticing land of love.  We can’t help getting stuck by a thorn or two, and when we do, it’s always painful and unexpected.

When it comes to heartache, I’m never quite sure what to do or say to my kids.  I mean, I know to be there for them if they want to talk, and to help them understand that one day, they really will feel OK again.  I know to remind them that they are still worthy people even if someone else says  they aren’t. 

I know to make sure that they eat a little something even if the sadness makes food seem uninteresting.  But beyond that, what?  None of this feels like enough when your child is hurting.  Even though I know that I can’t take the pain away and make it all better, all of my mama instincts drive me to at least try.

Then there’s the matter of the ex-girlfriend.  Whether she breaks up with him, or the other way around, I’m not quite sure of what to do next.  If their relationship has been a long one, and we’ve welcomed this girl into our family, I tend to feel as if I’ve been broken up with, too.  Am I expected to just abruptly halt any contact with her?  Turn off my feelings of affection?  If so, shouldn’t I say something to her before I do?  There’s no action that feels comfortable.  This is the kind of stuff that someone should include in those “What to Expect” parenting books.  

To make things even more difficult, sometimes I don’t agree with my kids’ choices.  Recently, my middle son dated a lovely girl we had both known since he was in kindergarten.  They went through elementary school together, and I knew her and her family well.  When he cavalierly announced to me that he’d broken up with her, I felt terrible.  I wanted to call her up, tell her all men are pond scum, and share a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream with her.  

What’s more, I felt bad that because of my son, two other parents had to pick up the pieces of their child’s broken heart.  I know what it feels like to be there, completely powerless, knowing that the only way it’s going to feel better is with time.  

As I navigate yet another break-up with one of my sons, I’m reminded of my own heartaches so many years ago.  While they were certainly painful, years of life experience allow me to reflect upon them differently.  I’m now able to view the people who’ve come and gone in my life with love and appreciation.  No one can spend time in our hearts without leaving a part of themselves behind.  Most times, those remnants are gentle lessons that propel us forward in ways that we can’t even imagine. 

My son is a long way from the love and appreciation part, and that’s OK.  For now, I’ll be here if he needs me, helping him to scoop up the broken pieces.

Just like one of us

Whether you're excited about it or not, you have to admit that news about Kate Middleton and Prince William's baby is everywhere. In spite of all the buzz about the royal birth, people I talk to tell me that they fail to see the relevance of “just another celebrity baby."

I think these folks are mistaken. This baby is much more than “just another celebrity.” Aside from the fact that he has the potential to grow up and rule a large portion of the world, his birth is significant for another reason: the lovely Duchess of Cambridge will be able to learn what us regular moms have known all along.

Babies are unbelievably messy.

 

No doubt the royal family has a nanny to help with the baby care, but there are still going to be times when Kate will be engaged in caring for her child all by herself. In at least one of those moments, you know she will be hit with a stream of pee from her infant son, most likely when she’s either half asleep or dressed up and ready to go out. This happens so often that I’m convinced babies plan it that way, as if it’s a mandatory instruction written on their Y chromosomes. And royal or not, pee is pee. It won’t take Kate long to realize that she’s got to keep those baby bits under wraps unless she wants to receive a surprise shower.

 

Even though you and I will never see the photos, you just know that at some point, her wee little prince is going to smear her face with strained bananas or pureed peas and projectile vomit all over her hair. She’s going to wake up one day, fix her hair and her face and think she looks pretty fine. Five minutes later, that little bugger is going to ruin it all with one sticky baby hand or a tiny but mighty gas bubble.

 

We probably won’t see the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep either, but my fellow moms and I will know that they’re there. Even if she has the nanny take the night shift, eventually the baby is going to be sick or teething or anxious and she will selflessly give up her own sleep to comfort him. What she won’t realize at first is that the lack of sleep thing will continue until the kids move out. Gone forever are the nights of deep, restful, gonna-take-a-stick-of-dynamite-to-wake-me-up sleep. When you’re responsible for another human being, you tend to sleep a lot lighter.

 

Then there’s the whole attention thing. Before Baby, Kate was the one upon whom everyone’s attention was focused. Even Prince William has been completely upstaged by his wife. Now, even beautiful and stylish Kate will be shoved out of the way by relatives and strangers alike, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the new babe.

 

While I feel a certain glee in knowing that Kate is going to experience the less-than-pleasant side of baby-rearing, I’m happy that she’ll also be able to experience its joys. For example, I know that she’s going to fall fiercely in love with that little boy. His pain will become hers, and his joy will be multiplied when viewed through her eyes. She will be, at all times, utterly exhausted and yet completely revitalized by this tiny little person now sharing her life. She will have moments of feeling as if she’s the worst mother ever and then much rarer moments of feeling as if she’s finally figured it all out. And just like mothers everywhere, she will worry that all of those moments are passing much too quickly. She will wonder if she’s done enough.

 

In just a short while, she will intimately know what it feels like to be someone’s mother, and she will be forever changed by that role.

 

Just like the rest of us.