Scared

I saw an old friend walking to rehab the other day.
At least I hope that is where she was going.
I'd seen her at an event for our kids just a few days before.
She told me she'd been in a bad place but now she's found Jesus.
She got down on her knees, she said. She prayed.
I watched her as she walked away. The tears flowed behind my sun glasses.
I don't doubt her faith. But I've known two too many addicts.
I think of the billboard I pass on the highway every monrning - a little girl blows bubbles with the caption: When you were young did you dream of becoming an addict?
I don't know what makes a person choose one path and another take the opposite.
 My fear of the future reaches crescendo as my boys run toward me oblivious to my mental swirl.
 They throw out their wants and needs in chant-like staccato:
  I'm hungry.
Hold me, hold me.
I don't want to go home now.
 Is it possible to keep your kids safe?
When do you start talking about this what-if?
What do you say?
 I have a physical urge to grab my boys and tell them scared-straight stories they cannot possibly understand at 4 and 8.
I'm jarred  from my thoughts when my friend comes back to where I stand.
I only did it one time, she says.
You can't understand it because you haven't been through it.
Do you know anyone this happened to?
Yeah, I do.
What happened?
They're dead.

Cleaning house when there is no party

I like to think I set a good a example for my boys.
But sometimes, I think I'm falling down on the job.
It was early on Saturday when the cleaning muse struck. An organic urge to organize and discard broken toys, clothes, and whatever else was in my way, seemed right.
I dumped toy boxes, swept, polished, and ironed linens.
I was so frenzied that when I caught a glimpse of my fishwife-like appearance, I wondered briefly who the maniac was in the ill-fitting sweatshirt and stringy, clipped-up hairdo reflecting off the window.
I was brought down to Earth by my fever-saddled 4-year-old.
D, glassy-eyed and looking a little like Cindy-Lou Who with her blanket, caught me when I was on the last room - the kitchen.
The Windex bottle was cocked like a revolver in my hand.
 "Mommy, why you cleanin'? We havin' a party or somethin'?"
My silence hung mid air.
D waited.
He hunched his little shoulders as though I had neglected to inform him it was so-and-so's birthday and there will be cake, lots of  it.
"No. We're not having a party, D. Don't you like having a clean house?"
He stared.
"Can I have some juice, please?"
Nothing more was said aloud.
 But the dialogue in my head opened like a faucet on full blast.
My child thinks I only clean when I have a party?
Is it any wonder they don't clean their rooms?
Look at their mother!
Children learn by example...
You can't get mad when they leave their juice boxes on the Thomas-the-Train table when you leave your flat Diet Coke on your nightstand.
Good God! Am I a fraud?
F rescues me from my mental flogging.
"Hey Mom! Can you build us a train track and play with us?"
Step away from the Windex, said the voice in my head.
There are tracks to design. Cleaning can wait for the next party.

Santa's got my back

"Mom, how does Santa see you? Does he have a telescope?"
This is what D wants to know on our way home from Bertucci's.
I am sitting in the backseat with the boys while Mark and my mom are up front.
"Sure..." I say and then hold my breath waiting for F to poke holes in my theory.
F's at the age where Santa could go either way. The magic is on borrowed time.
He says nothing though and his little brother has more questions.
"Does Santa have a dog?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe."
We start to sing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" at the tops of our lungs.
"Does Santa see you when you cry?"
"Do you still get presents if your cry?"
I tell him yes.
It is OK to cry even though, technically, it is not what the song says.
I am ready for the "Santa threat" and all its useful behavior modification benefits that come with the winter season, however. I am not too proud to throw it out there...to use Santa when the brotherly fighting has hit the annoying crescendo or a bedroom needs some cleaning.
Uh Uh Uh, Santa's watching...
Oh yes that is a great XYZ toy...you'll have to put it on your list for Santa...
Getting out of stores seems less stressful with Santa on your side.
You don't always have to be the bad guy when you can play the jolly-old-elf card.
It is easy believe.

The "bad" girls in my area

The question was innocent enough.
 "Mom, did you know there are bad girls in our area?"
What do you mean "bad" girls?
It didn't hit me that he meant bad girls.
My son thought it meant they were in jail. But it turns out that during a visit at Grandma and Grandpa's house, a pop-up message came up while he, with grandpa in the chair next to him ,was on the PBS Kids web site. (Just for the record, my inlaws are not surfing porn but happen to be victims of internet naivete and an adult son living at home.)
Was there a picture? I ask.
No...Just words, he said.
Still, he wanted to know why there were bad girls in our area.
I told him there are bad people everywhere. Because seriously, what are you supposed to tell your 8-year-old about "bad girls" or boys for that matter.
This I know is just the beginning for me. I don't want to have these conversations. I know they are coming and the timing seems forced by a warped society that seems to expose kids to adult circumstances at younger and younger ages. Sex or inferences to it were just on the Disney Channel this morning for God's sake.
Maybe I need to go back to Barney the purple dinosaur or the Wiggles...a time when life was simple and yes, a tad annoying. But I'll take captain feathersword 24/7 over the bad girls in my area.
I went to a party at a friend of friend of friend's home recently. It was a benefit really, sponsored by Planned Parenthood on how to talk to children truthfully in age appropriate ways about their changing bodies and ultimately sexuality.
I went to get a head start but it seems preparing for the conversation at 8 is actually not a stretch but right on time.
I bought a book.
I'm looking for learning opportunties to present itself and then I hope I won't chicken out.

Burps overfloweth

I'm taking the plunge to write this blog. I've been kicking it around in my head for several months. It started with my friend Bea saying, "I just can't believe you have two boys. It is so funny."

My maternal circumstances could be funny for several reasons, I suppose. But I think Bea was getting at the fact that I am a stereotypical girl's girl. Entering the world of boys and just trying to navigate never mind lead is a challenge. Sometimes I find myself thinking and even googling whether there are books on how to manage.

Take burping for instance.

I don't get the attraction.

But D is in love with this croaking guttural sound that seems to come from his tiny toes and up out of his body like something in a horror movie.

"What? It just came up..." he says with a sly, half grin, when I shoot him the best "aggravated mom" pinched-face look I can muster.

I have tried different tactics to wean him from his affection for burping. Most make me question my sanity because of the things I hear myself say.

"D, we don't do that in a restaurant." Which,of course people, do.

Or then I try to cover, not so much for D but for my own embarrassment.

"D!" I say loudly and for the benefit of other restaurant patrons in the nearby booth. "Say excuse me and let's have good manners."

D replies: "EGG-CUSE ME!' in a tone louder than his burp.

At preschool pick up one day, burping was in full swing. Dwas doing it...his friend was doing it.

Instead of sternly saying knock it off....which doesn't work either....I say:

"D I am not willing for you to burp like this here. You can burp in your playroom when you get home."

He burps again.

"D where can you burp?"

Let me stop this now because it's sad and a designated burping area doesn't seem to work either.

A friend told me I need to ignore him and his burping and go about my life.

On the ride home...burp burp burp. I grip the steering wheel harder but say nothing.

When I open his car door.......BURP........I say nothing.

"Mom, hey mom, did you hear me?"

No, I say.

"I just burped," he said.

Really?

Hmmm. I must have missed that one.

He burped again to make sure I heard him.