Mom-dern Vignettes

With a preteen, every morning is like having amnesia from the previous day. I wake up refreshed, ready to make this morning’s school run better than the last. Less hectic. Less aggravating. Less, you know, freaking crazy. I have erased the previous morning’s nonsense from memory to ensure a more productive and pleasant transition from home to school.

Sigh.

Stewie, who is five and still ponders my demise, is up at 545 AM with me. Two peas in a pod having breakfast, chatting, and completing his homework in the stoic quiet. Aww, so sweet, so blissful.

Malcolm, my son in the middle, is now nine and a creative ball of slow deliberate energy. He wakes at 615 exactly and needs a hug. He spends 625 – 645 deciding what to wear, even though his school has uniforms. 645 to 7, he debates what to eat and from 7 – 725 he eats the same bowl of oatmeal with honey and a banana by using the smallest wooden spoon possible. Then, brushes his teeth and begins begging me to let him start the car. Annoyingly predictable. And irritatingly, my mini-Me.

And then there is Wheels.

I slink toward his door at 630. The beige, waffled carpet slips silently under my unmanicured toes in the soft morning light of dawn. A golden glow emanates from under his 6 panel white door, calling to me like a necessary evil. It looms. It taunts. It holds the secret, the key to my the success of the morning. An omen… he was up late reading. Great.

I peer at the slender doorknob contemplating life, joy, death and whether my daily lot of patience is standing firmly at FULL. At twelve years old, I just never know which Wheels I am going to get in the morning. An effervescent breeze of energy lifting everyone delightfully to the car, or, a tornado weaving a specific trail of destruction, usually focused at one person, twisting and turning his aim to spew the most damage and worst of all… make us late.

I hold my breath, grab the handle with firm determination, close my eyes and affirm, Today, we are having a great morning!

I knock three times and enter.

“Morning honey. It’s time to wake up. We have one hour until we leave, let’s’ roll out and do this!” I radiate with the softest, silkiest, kindest voice I can muster.

Crickets.

“Bubba, it’s time honey.”

“Geez mom, I KNOW! Why do you have to be sooooo loud?”

His groan sends a passionate wave of Oh hell no, sweeping up my legs to my speeding heart, but is silenced by an overly extended smile combined with a high pitch, “Oh I am sorry honey, breakfast is ready… “

I quickly turn for escape when I hear the murmur of “Oh yeah, I have homework, sorry.”

My turn reverses itself in a not slow, but let’s say restrained motion. My neck cricks forward, level with my shoulders and my face turns heavily to the left exposing my right ear fully to his voice. Jaw tight, brows furrows, I quiver ” ‘Scuse me?”

“Stop mom. It’s no big deal. Math. I’ll do it on the way.”

My skin tightens, lifting my eyes, jaw; the instant mom facelift. Calm, positive. Remain.

“Ok hon. See you downstairs.”

645. Still not down stairs.

655. I stand at the bottom and gently remind, “Only 35 minutes till we leave. OK?”

“Yeah I know, I know! I get it, Geez,” he says stomping down the stairs with a passing, “My gosh a million times, I had to get dressed!”

As we walk into the kitchen, I noticed his level of dressed was questionable. Oh, it was all there; navy pants, white shirt, light blue button up, navy wool sweater, black socks and shoes. But, it wasn’t dressed. His light blue button up was pulled so far through his sweater’s V-neck you could see its shoulder. Untucked, obviously, a given. One of his pant legs was fully tucked into his black socks like some version of a 90s rapper, and while one shoe was on, he carried the other.

He sat at the table and caught my stare. Is my face disgusted? Confused? Quick, no eye contact?

“What? What is wrong now?” he asked.

I knew I had taken a wrong turn into this tornado’s path and it was looking to eat me. I wasn’t going down that road, “Oh nothing… nothing, you’re good. Just eat.”

Thankfully, he ate his Cheerios and cold eggs in silence.

715. The transfer from house to car begins. Stewie and Malcolm grab their bags, hug Dad, and head to the car. Boom, seamless. Bubba searches for him gym kit, gym shoes, bag, book, just remembers he hair hair that needs fixed, and OH CRAP deodorant.

With the hopes of truly assisting in the madness I was avoiding, I walk back up the stair to the Seventh Realm and ask if I can help.

“Yeah, could you print my homework?” he nonchalantly asks.

My neck shoots forward again, ear exposed, ” ‘Scuse me?”

“Mom seriously, I couldn’t get it to print.”

At 735, my only option was to breathe. Assignment. Breathe. Ignore assigned 3 days ago. Breath. Print. Breath. Grab clip board. Breathe. Usher to him to the car.

750.

For 40 minutes, the dismal wind brew across the moor, as the drizzle dripped desperately across the Land Rovers’s windshield, mimicking the despair in the car. Utterances of I hate math, she doesn’t do distances, and ugh so pointless echoed from the passenger seat growing louder in volume and cadence as school approached closer, closer. Paper crumpled, hands slammed, and pencils were tossed to the floor. All inquires for help from myself and Malcolm were rebuffed.

The last ones to drop off, of course, the boys scattered out of the car. We made it. No blow outs. No screaming. Not too much fury.

With no one around, I jumped out and hugged Bubba with all my might encouraging, “It gets easier kid. It feels crazy now, but, you just gotta make it through being a teen.” I lift his face to mine, Gosh, when did he get so tall, and whispered, “I love you.”

He smiled and clumped off toward class. As the car revved, I noticed his homework laying face down in passenger seat. Panic shot through me as I searched for him. He and Malcolm were just about to head into the courtyard when I honked, motioning to wait.

I pulled up next to them, window down and holding his homework.

“Hey Boo, you forgot this!”

“I am not taking it!”

Neck and face immediately reverberated back into ‘scuse me mode, “What? Why?”

“Look, I didn’t finish and it is never collected any way… nope, not doing it, NOT taking it,” he screamed, arms flailing and punctuating.

Chin slamming back into my neck, my face melted into contorted shock. Undeterminable head shakes and incessant eye blinks over powered my calm as I searched for appropriate words. Our eyes met. A tranquil fury settles within. Bubba knew he crossed the line way behind him.

Leaning out the window, hand still holding his work. Shaking.

“Oh by God yes you are,” I throw my arm out waving the paper,” You are going to take this into class, turn it in or complete it. Whatever! If you don’t take this paper right now… I will march straight to Mr. Briggs and slam it on his desk with the strength of the universe behind me… in front of your friends. Got it kid? You want that?”

“Fine.”

Slouching he reached for his work when I noticed a slight glint in his smirky eyes.

Pulling it back at the last second I retorted, “And if you take this paper and throw it in the trash as soon as you get to class… I will find out.”

His inexperienced, preteen eyes grew like saucers and rolled in acknowledgment of my wisdom.

“God Mom, why are you so crazy?” he moaned.

Hmm, that makes the two of us.

There is little in the world of parenting that strikes more fear into your core than “Hey mom, a girl gave me her phone number! Awesome, right?”

No. That is not awesome.

I admit, Wheels is going to have no problem catching a girl’s attention and heart.  He is tall, 4 foot 5 at seven, blonde hair and stormy blue eyes, but it is his effervescent, extroverted personality that will seal the deal. He is sporty, wild even, a man in his own world and game for anyone to join his ranks. Yet, the kid oozes chivalry, poise, and total intrigue and interest for the opposite sex.

When he was two, he would lean his body against the grocery cart, chin tilted down, cheek on full display, and with his eyes slightly closed and sideways, his sweet little voice would soulfully peep to the cashier, “Give me a kiss!?”  Shocked laughter, but the cashiers knew, he had that twinkle.

Ever since preschool, little girls constantly chased and punched him on the playground. Upon entering Kindergarten, when the girl/drama ratio exploded, we had to have a long discussion about the complexities of girl behavior; them vying for his attention through violence and screaming in packs,  that it was ok to say “no get off me!”, and if they don’t, you can hold their arms off of you while you call for the teacher, but never hit a girl.

He understood, but they were confusing.

I had solace in that notion.  Girls are great, but crazy.  Girls give me attention and that’s great, but still crazy.

That same year, our family traveled to visit friends abroad, and we met up with my husband’s friends in a pub.  One of them had a vivacious, outgoing red headed flame of a two year old girl, who grabbed Wheels’ attention and he never looked back.  The rest of the afternoon he held her hand while she stepped down the single step, or “caught” her while she pretend fell into his arms; him always looking shocked that she fell and she, staring into his blue eyes, would thank him and laugh as he helped her back up for another round.  It was the cutest display of a kid soap opera.

This single interlude, was the shift. The light bulb, which shone bright and illuminated the idea that not all girls are crazy, they can be fun and I like that. Thanks Luna.

Small interactions then became weird. His adorable teenage babysitter would hug him goodbye, and due to his height, his hands would land directly on her bum.  His granny would hug him to say good job, and due to his height, his head would land right in the middle of her large bosom. I would watch his eyes during these incidents, half closed and cheekily sideways.

After a few discussions on appropriate behavior and hand positioning, the sudden surge of interest has since been at peace.

Rushing to complete dinner before Stewie passed the threshold of too tired to eat, I heard Wheels’ proud declaration,  “Hey mom, a girl gave me her phone number! Awesome, right?”

Slow turn. Eye to eye, a fast high-pitched “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, she said I need to call her over the summer so I can go to her lemonade stand.  I have to call her.  I promised mom, she is super awesome,” fishing through his pocket he pulls out a folded wad, “See, here it is.  Don’t loose it.  You’ll want lemonade too, right?”

Spinning off to play, I opened the paper with a wince. There were ten digits scrawled on the paper, in no particular order.  Whew… inexperience is beautiful thing.

Of late, I have become a body language master, reminiscent of Mr. Miyagi, when it comes to my oldest son’s first grade teacher.  I begin pondering the subsequent interaction as soon as I depart my home, laden with my two younger boys, and walk down to our elementary school.  Running through my reminders at drop off, do your best, listen, no weird noises to make people laugh, respect your teacher, respect others especially since it kindness week, don’t make them ask you more than twice, and of course I love you with all my heart, and I prayed to my maker whoever she may be, Please let him have a good day.

Wheels is not a bad kid.   In fact, I find him to be pretty darn amazing.  He was born a hefty 21 1/2 inches and 9.2 lbs and has grown as an average of 3.5 inches per year since his first birthday. Yes, my first grader comes to the shoulder of this 5’7” gal!  Beyond that, from the beginning he has and is all go; walking at 9 months, running at 10, talking at 11 months and full on sentences at 13 months. He excels at activities with strict rules and boundaries, chess, violin, swimming, and flounders at team sports due to the fun, social interactions. Drawn towards older kids and the activities they played, everyone has always mistaken him as older, yet his maturity level is age appropriate.  However, the older kids could never keep up with his energy.  Wheels can run a Thoroughbred into the ground and hound it to get up and keep going.

Despite his incredible desire to learn (a museum takes us hours, he has to read every plaque), my husband and I decided to postpone kindergarten due to his summer birthday and squirrelly  nature.

For us, great decision.  For in that extra year he had not slowed down but slightly calmed down.  Kindergarten went well. He had a great teacher but she expressed concern with his inability to focus and control spontaneity.

Me too.

He plugged on and finished toward the top in reading and writing and surpassing in creativity, math and personality.

Fantastic!

*sigh* First grade.  How thou hath be a challenge.

Controlling oneself, no.  Listening to the teacher, yes after four reminders. Explodes into gym and runs mad, yes. Kind to others, yes.  Trouble completing writing assignments, yes.  Trouble completing math, no. Using his energy at inopportune times to be funny, yes. Inability to tell our friends no,  we all have had trouble with that at some point.

But nothing too bad really.  All work done, learning, participating. Right?

I turned the corner and let my other two animals loose on the playground and wait.  Standing nervously at the door, I try to sneak a peak through the tinted windows.  His teacher is awesome, but entirely too easy to read, she could never teacher high school!

I run through her wave series: (1)medium pace, fingers extended palm facing out, long stroke  = Happy, (2)slow pace, hand curled palm up, slightly choppy stroke = Good but tired, and (3) fast erratic pace and stroke palm half way facing the ground, head down = ugh bad.

I hold my breath as the designated 5th grader announces in her best hostess whine “Kindergarten and first grade walkers are now dis – miiIIISSED”.

The door flies open and I find his teacher. She comes out, waves and chill runs down my body.  It’s a new one: #4, holding Wheels’ hand with one hand, her free hand takes one swipe across the air, fast, close to her shoulder as if to say “screw it”. And the worst part, her eyes are locked with mine the whole time. Great.

I quickly scan where my other two are, one being a ninja warrior, the other trying to figure out how to climb up and down the curb. Nothing too deadly so I walked to Wheels and his teacher.

The rest is a blur, snippets of  Tell your mom, you were honest with me tell her.  Him refusing as he gazes into my crazed eyes, she proceeds with a menagerie of lied at lunch to use restroom, he and a friend, jumping off walls, swinging on doors, I feel my facial muscles contract pulling into my mom wrinkles, my eyes becoming like a wolves, following each other in stalls, clothes on,  WTF repeats in my mind, being silly, great kid, not making good friend decisions, not making good learning decisions, here to help but he has to help too. 

I voice my full support for the teacher. Reiterate the steps we are taking at home.  This will be addressed. Again, she expressed her affection for him and his sponge like desire to learn, but this new destructive behavior has to stop.

He got on his bike, and I said with an accusatory point “We will talk about this is an hour for I will loose it on you right now.” Yes, Mom.

In fact, I took four.

I waited for my back up support; my English husband’s calm, see all side to find a solution and move on, proper demeanor truly balances out my fear mongering, gangster Kentucky hick, straightforwardness.  Wheels recounted the story and I watched for my husband’s reaction.

Eyes closed head shaking, pierced lips as though preparing a kiss, my husband retorted, in a loud tone “WHAT?!” and went silent. That was it, Wheels blew Britian’s school etiquette mind. It was hard not to snicker.

Recovering, I laid out the privacy norms of the bathroom and how those are not new concepts, the severity and implications of following someone into a stall, adults go to jail for that and you could be kicked out of school, do we let you try to run on our walls?, I don’t care what your friend does, you are in control of your decisions and actions, you will face the consequences alone.

My heart went out to him. He was pale and tearing.  Truly upset at his new found responsibility and knowledge that actions can be interpreted in more than one way.

It was this moment that he inquired, “But how can going into a stall be seen as harmful?”

I calmly replied, “People expose their privates in stalls to use the restroom, it can be seen as pedophilia or attempted molestation.”

Blankness on his face told me I had crossed the great barrier of language proficiency, and his being too young could not keep up. I hung my head to gather how else to infer the seriousness.

My husband, who had remained mostly quiet grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around and without blinking said, “Bad people follow kids into restrooms sometimes and touch their privates or hurt them.  You do not want your actions, no matter what you meant, to be seen this way.”

Long live the King!

Wheels shrunk in size as he finally understood the true impact of his actions.  That he could actually get in trouble, big trouble.

We left it there, reminding him to expect a consequence for the upcoming weekend.

As parents, that is all we can do.  Provide them with honesty, try to teach them cause and effect, and hope upon hope they can control themselves enough to make the right decisions.

I hated growing up.  It sucked.  But as a parent, I hate watching it more.