So. We need some funny up in here. It’s time. I hope my Facebook friends forgive me for posting this picture twice. But it seems exactly what this blog needs. Some help. A helpful hand, if you will.
All I needed was a chin strap for a baseball helmet. I knew exactly where I would find it in Dick’s — so I marched right over to the baseball section with my kids trailing behind. I was less than five minutes into my quick shopping pit-stop when I heard my seven year old yell: “Mom!!!” I turned around to see what he was pointing at and this is how I found my youngest child:
My five year old fell today. According to my husband and my excited seven year (who liked to re-enact the entire scene over and over at my feet), he just tripped running out of a room, and fell. No biggee. Except that he really hurt his finger and it started to swell and he refused to curl it into a fist. So, off to the E.R. we went. A few x-rays and one new splint later, my five year old is officially the proud owner of a slightly fractured finger, right near the knuckle (hence the fancy splint).
This hasn’t been his summer. He has only recently been told he won’t have to get a skin graft on his foot after this happened on the 4th of July. And, since he’s healed so well, he may be allowed to swim this weekend for the first time since then.
(The splint can be taken off to swim. I asked.)
The burn wasn’t his only brush with danger either. The other day he came inside to calmly inform me that there was a snake under his swing. And there was. A water moccasin. I don’t know how he saw it, it looked like a tree root to me. But he did, and survived that possibility of a very serious (if not, lalalalala, I don’t like to think about it, lalalala, potentially fatal) snake bite.
It’s been a strange summer for me with him. I have been worried about him a lot. I’m not sure if it’s burn PTSD (see above), or snake fears, or preparing him for Kindergarten, or what, but I’ve had these recurring nightmares involving only him. Night after night, we lose him, or he gets kidnapped, or he is trapped at the top of a high-rise building in childcare with gun-wielding terrorists in the lobby who just cut off the power to the elevators and exploded the staircases (that was only two nights ago).
I’ve been worried about him. Really stressing out.
But, strangely enough, then this happens… and I’m totally fine about it. Completely.
Because as far as I’m concerned, as long as my child can still skip, and laugh, and sing Justin Beiber songs on the papery examining table tonight, and whine, and tell me he is “so sad” when he doesn’t get toys from stores, and hit his brother with his splint when I’m not looking, and make believe on the back porch chatting away with an old R/C car up to his ear like a phone… if he can still do all of those things, he’s fine. He’s fantastic even.
After years of grounding our boys’ beds safely on the floor, we’ve done it. We bunked them.
See? Don’t they look happy?
Yep. Well. I thought I might share the news scrawl running through my head ever since we’ve done so.
Someone is going to flip over the top bunk and crash to the floor and break their arm (just like my friend’s little girl did) earning themselves a compound fracture (just like she did).
BOTH boys are going to flip over the top bunk and each earn a compound fracture (just like she did).
Someone will jump from the top, snag their shirt, and choke.
Someone will jump on the top bunk and crash through to the bottom, smashing very dangerous, puncturing plywood onto the person below.
Someone will jump on the top bunk, somehow dislodge the wooden dowels keeping each leg secure and unhinge the screwed-in ladder, causing the entire top bed to collapse on the person below. The outcome is not good. (And this is the one I keep coming back to because I like to torture myself like that.)
The whole damn thing will tip over and crash on top of both of them.
Someone will push the other off the top bunk and make the falling victim earn that same compound fracture mentioned above and then the “pusher” will live the rest of his days with deep-rooted guilt as the “pushee” suffers from major nerve and bone damage for the rest of his damn life.
The one sleeping on the top bunk will get too cold from the A/C vent directly above him in the ceiling.
What. What?
All of this could happen. It COULD.
(And if I forgot something, don’t you DARE remind me what it was. I have enough anxiety already invested in this insane mind torture.)
You’re still staring at me like I’m nuts.
Well. I’m betting there’s a fair share of you wondering how I could think up such horrors, exactly. What is WRONG with me? If you’re thinking that, then I might assume that you aren’t a parent. Because this is what happens ALL THE TIME when you are parent (or since I’ve become a parent). I think of the worst possible outcomes all the time for my children. It’s kind of what I just do…
Diving baseball catches become concussions or random stick impalements.
Climbing trees become compound fractures (a favorite, it seems).
Swinging hoses = smashed teeth.
Roller skating = bumped heads and brain bleeds
Summer camp field trips = lost child (yep, I put my cell phone number in their pocket and I thought that was a pretty damn smart idea, so pipe down…)
Pools = stitches from sides of pools, cracked heads on bottoms of pools, and worse.
I could go on and on.
Maybe it’s something moms like me do to protect themselves. We GO THERE so that in case is does, we are mentally and emotionally prepared. Because it DOESGOTHERE. More often than you might realise.
Ok, you’re still staring at me like I’m nuts. Well, then you’re a parent like my husband, or just one of those people who just doesn’t get wound around the axle like I do. Life is filled with risks. Shit happens. We can’t protect them from everything. What will be, will be. It’s not worth worrying about. Get over it and relax.
I know.
They LOVE their beds stacked (so F-ing precariously, OMG) like that. They really do. And the room has opened up so there’s more space to play. And they giggle and send stuffed animals up and down to each other and play games. It’s really great. It is.
So I’ll just keep the panicking to myself. (Oh. Oops. I mean OUTLOUD in front of talking people in front of my FACE.)
Because, really, if I think a bunk bed is frightening, how the HELL am I ever going to let EITHER of them drive away in a car? NOT strapped into a well-inspected five point harness, driven by moi? …HOW?
My kids are being watched this summer by their Dad. And now they look like this.
I could probably end this post here. Yep, with Mohawks to show for it, Dad is in charge all right.
But wait. There’s more.
You see, it has been such a 180 for this household. After being home with my boys for 8 years, suddenly I’m the one working all day and my husband has taken on the boys. He’s a college coach and, while he still has to go into work during the summer, he can set them loose in the indoor gym or drop them at swimming lessons on campus. It’s not perfect, he’s pulling his hair out trying to balance everything, but he’s doing it.
And the boys are better off for it.
I read this article the other day about how good roughhousing is for kids. And I see the logic, I do. But I don’t “get it”. When my kids wrestle and yell and pile-drive one another in the carpet, I freak. They laugh and scream and consider it sport while I holler at them to JUST QUIT IT. I look at them like they are insane. I tell them to get ahold of themselves, to CALM DOWN for crying out loud, to get outside IMMEDIATELY. “What is WRONG with you?” I ask. And I probably have a look of such disgust on my face while I shuffle them in a giggling pile out the door. And then I turn around and sigh at the destruction left in their wake. What. The. Hell.
So, now that my husband is home, what does HE do when the pile-driving commences? Usually, he ignores it. Or laughs. Or joins in. Or, if they interrupt him too much, he tells them to get outside too. But he never looks at them like they are wild, unnatural beasts… like I do.
When I come home in the evenings, I find everyone getting along. One pack of boys in three sizes. They are quietly laughing about silly things and seem relaxed into the evening. And (unlike myself at 5:30 pm after a full day of boy-dom), my husband doesn’t seem all that harried. I suspect the majority of their crazies have probably already been expelled. But no more mess than the usual upheaval betrays the madness that probably occurred in my living room only hours before.
So, we must ask. With three boys and then… me… which one of these things is not like the others?
I don’t GET rough-housing. But maybe if I did, maybe if I stopped worrying who was going to crash into the coffee table and split their head open, maybe if I moved with the insanity more often than fight it — it would actually be easier on all of us? A “can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” kind of thing?
Still. I don’t get it. But they do. And they truly seem better off for it, with Dad at the helm setting an example for whatever male-ness they hope to be.
And what do I do? Duck and cover and ask that they NOT jump on the bed while I paint my toes.
And hand out smooshy, lovey hugs when the days is done and they are weary from thrusting out their bony chests and verging on whatever it is they will become.
My son loves baseball. No, he really loves baseball. He has stacks of hardback books about MLB baseball history, players, ballparks and everything in between. He pages through it all slowly, carefully, absorbing each little bit. He also likes to hack into my father’s MLB account and pour over online box scores. Then he grabs his wiffle ball bat and ball, heads outdoors and replays it all in the backyard. He watches games whenever we’ll let him. Our DVR is filled with MLB games from the weeks before. And during the off season, I’ve even caught him completely focused on some black and white World Series game from the 50s. Really?
“Mom, this is awesome.”
Ok… *shrug*
He’s been like this about baseball for a couple years. But before that it was Star Wars (he knew every actor’s name or puppeteer and who played what voice and what happened in every single scene). Before that it was the digestive system (somewhere I have three year old video of him explaining the small intestine) and before that it was planets (some of his first words were from the solar system).
Anyway. Back to baseball.
So I decided to sit down with him this afternoon just to see what he knew and get it on film. Not surprisingly, his baseball knowledge was endless. He could have probably gone on for hours. Really.
I’m not sure what to say about it all. I just hope he funnels all this energy and focus into curing cancer or finding an alternative energy source or something someday. Because he certainly doesn’t know his times tables as well as he knows THIS stuff.
Anyway, gather your baseball fans and take a look. They will appreciate this.
And if you don’t really get baseball, that’s ok. You’ll get the idea just from the first minute or so.
And my apologies if this is a little “my kid is so amazing, you all MUST come see, and watch me beam with pride”. I love him. He loves this. So I want to hold him up over my head and tell him that whatever he loves is so very awesome. That’s all.
Somehow, while he waited for his Garbage Can sundae at Applebees tonight (his restaurant choice entirely) - he was still. My birthday boy turned five today, and (ask anyone) this child is never still. But he was. For a quick moment. Leaning up against his dad. Staring out the window at the cars passing by. Considering something. He was still.
Five. So much older than four.
…And I WON’T let that blow my mind.
Because I remember saying once a long while back that when my youngest turned five, I would have deserpate, heartbroken empty nest issues and THAT would be when my babies were officially not babies and a enormous part of my parenting world would shift permanently off its axis and change course forever.
But it’s happened. And here I sit, unscathed and at peace about it, really. I’m just not going there. Nope. Why be glum, after all? There’s too much to look forward to. Plenty of chaotic, uncharted parenting moments ahead. So much to finally be able to do together. All kinds of growing and learning and being a little boy still left in him.
We have sundaes coming, after all.
So, here he is. Very still. Very wonderful. And five.
This past Saturday, we arrived at baseball at 7:50am. As in 7:50am in the morning. Color me not so chipper or chatty that time of day. But early hours don’t matter to a pack of boys. And while I settled my sleepy limbs onto the metal bleachers, I watched and wondered.
My seven year old had walked up to the dug out with his baseball bag slung over his shoulder. Two or three boys were there too. Gear was dropped and they all exchanged a quick glance. Now, I’m not sure if little boys are psychic, or have some electric charge when they meet – exploding into something far greater than their own singular power – because not one second had passed before they all took off. Running, screaming, streaking by, hollering who was it and where base is. Boys from a cross-section of schools, from varying neighborhoods, all seem to know the unwritten rules of how to run, chase, and expel that thrumming charge trapped in their limbs.
First thing in morning, or late in the evening as the street lights come on, boys do this. They meet, connect, and explode. No discussion, no concerns, no awkward name exchanges. Why bother.
Let’s. Just. Run.
And boys who actually do know each other well seem to double, maybe triple, their charge together. Add their emotional joy into that connection and stand back. The wired circuit they make crackles and pops, hugs become room-wrecking wrestles and declarations of love bubble out with yelps about who has the biggest “stinky head”.
Is it any surprise that my own energy flickers and threatens to blink out? They drain power, expand and light up the world with their moment of unharnessed, stripped down, unrelenting force.
Boys are daunting and dazzling. Overwhelming me with their output. Almost impossible to gather up and contain.
There is no walking. Jumping, skipping, leaping, spinning and so much running. But walking? No.
Curbs can’t be left unbalanced on. Railings must be hung from. Stairs jumped off. Trash cans hidden behind. Brothers tackled. And grass, rolled in.
Still, mothers must have some vague polar attraction. Because they do follow along in a jumbled, unorganized, frenzied pack. Maybe it’s fruit snacks in our purses or promises of snuggles when no one is looking, but they still come along and attempt a roughly translated version of minding.
So when their breaker trips and their limbs finally power down in the late hours, I breathe and hope they sleep enough in preparation of another flood of current the next day. But their quiet, sleeping bodies folded into knees and elbows beneath a cool sheet keep me there. These boys, with so much potential and power, maintain my own momentum. My attempts to insulate their charge are laughable. As I abate, they surge. My negative to their positive. So we connect and move through our days – pulling, pushing and moving the other along. Our circuits are complete.
Never deny the awesomeness of a good bag of hand-me-downs for reasons exactly like this one.
Ok so it’s a little small but he won’t take it off. And I am totally fine with that too.
Oh and before you start Googling where to get one, I’m pretty sure it is hand made (I’ll find out it’s back story and update later). The sweatshirt is Hanes but the rest looks lovingly hand sewn.
Well, really, I like to think of it being more like a comfortable however carefully contained room. And it is my job to make sure the walls in that room – lined with the softest but sturdiest padding – do their trick. It’s my job to make sure there are no escape hatches in the corners or loose floorboards below or air vents that they can sneak through. I watch them and keep them and, as they run up against the walls time and time again, I am smugly reassured that I am doing my job as a parent.
Ok, ok. So they’re not living in a REAL padded room. And yes, I’m trying out another wacky kind of parenting analogy. But I think if you hear me out, you might consider the benefits of parenting with padded walls. If you don’t already. In fact, your walls might be a whole lot sturdier than mine. Which wouldn’t surprise me at all. Shoot, while I spout away up on this soapbox, my walls might be absolutely riddled with holes. It’s totally possible.
Here is where I am going with this.
After almost 8 years, two boys and endless days and weeks and months at home doing this whole child-rearing thing over and over and over again, it has come to my attention that the key to parenting is about setting boundaries.
No big shocker, right?
But I mean boundaries for everything. Everywhere. I have found that my children will run up against every possible edge to find out just how far I will let them go.
I can’t run in the road – but what about high-wire walking on the curb NEXT to the road?
I can’t hit my brother with a bat – but what if I just tap him with it annoyingly until he screams with rage?
I can’t grab that toy out of my friend’s hands – but what if I take it when he’s not looking?
I can’t run out of my bedroom repeatedly at bedtime – but what if I dance in my bed until I fall asleep in an exhausted heap?
And then there’s what happens when the boundary is crossed. What then? What if my child does up and whack his brother with that bat? Hard. And then looks over at me like “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”
What then?
Well. Consequences. So they know exactly where they crossed that line.
I do Time Outs. The whole “consistent, stay in one spot, timed, talk about it, apologize and hug it out after wards” thing. And if I follow through every time, it does work. It’s taken many agonizing repeat efforts and frothed, flailing tantrums to get it to work, but now it does.
But for me, those Time Outs are establishing boundaries. Or padded walls. Soft walls. So if they run up against them, they won’t get hurt, but they will know they are there.
And here’s the crazy part. Once my four year old has realized he can’t hit his brother with a bat, he kind of relaxes. He settles in to play because he knows just how far he can go. At least, that’s how he processes it.
Because here’s my theory – well my theory for my boys at least. Kids aren’t born knowing what is acceptable and what isn’t. In fact, the entire world is a mystery and it’s a little bit unnerving. So if they don’t know how far they can take something, they will keep going until someone who loves them pulls them out of the road or prevents them from clobbering their brothers. Limits help them find their footing: this is good, this is bad. Ok. Now that I know, I can just play.
But hold on a minute.
Let’s not get carried away either.
JUST because we set up these boundaries doesn’t mean all kid exploration is off limits. Because it seems setting these boundaries is more of an art than a science. Some things are worth setting limits for. Others, no way, let them go.
Uh-oh. Gray area. Yep. Well. That’s parenting for you.
So, that puddle out front? That’s all muddy and gross and we keep making them side-step it each time we leave for school? Well, how about when they come home from school we let them jump in it. Just this one time. And tell them its a fun treat and to GO FOR IT. Jump and get muddy and make the water splash as high and far as possible. Supervised, however wild, unfettered exploration (and often times exploring in a way that WE wouldn’t, so resist the urge to control that moment) is so so SO important.
Yes. It means more work for us. Yes, we will have to bathe them. Yes, all those clothes go right into the washer. Yes, they might want to do it again and we might have to say no, not this time and listen to their whines as we compromise a time when we can do it again. It’s a hassle to make accommodations once in awhile.
But parenting is hard work. Duh.
In fact, maintaining those padded walls on a daily basis is really really REALLY hard work. Just because they knew once not to hit their brother with a bat, and they don’t do it for months on end, doesn’t mean they won’t try it again. Just because you got them to stay in their beds at bedtime doesn’t mean they won’t try to sneak out over and over again months later.
Sorry baby boy. Here we go back to bed. Yes, you are tired. No, you don’t need to play with your trains at 9pm. No, your crying will not sway me. Yes, I do love you. No, you can not have something to eat. To bed. Now.
You know what though? It is beyond tiring. It wears me down. It SUCKS to be the bad guy all the frigging time. I really just want to let them run rampant and relax and not have to DEAL and be such an *ugh* *groan* “mom” about every single little thing. I mean, get over it already. Damn.
But the long term result of not dealing is constant chaos and their exhaustion while they perpetually test us and then our own exhaustion trying to make the problem go away in various desperate however creative quick-fix ways.
…..
I don’t know.
The more I write this post, the more of an uber-controlling prison warden I seem. And a “know-it-all” control-freak prison warden at that.
Because *newsflash* I don’t have all the answers. Just because I have it figured out THIS week, doesn’t mean I will have a flipping clue next week. Just because something works for my kids certainly doesn’t mean it works for anyone else.
Oh and what about when they are 16 and breaking curfew and telling me what a loser I am and ignoring every single expectation and boundary we’ve so carefully maintained? My friends, I have the sneaking suspicion that they will escape these walls, all the while flipping off the whole establishment on their way out the door. They will. And then it will be up to them to decide if they ever want these boundaries back in anyway again.
And I will have to just sit back and watch and not have any say at all.
Move over kid. It seems it is *I* who is in dire need of these four padded walls more than anyone else. Perhaps the inmates have been running the asylum all this time after all.
*strapping on my straight jacket*
I think my kid just got out an air vent. With a bat. And he’s headed straight for his brother. Who is standing in the middle of the road. At 10pm. On a week night.
I love it when kids climb trees. I am fascinated by their irrepressible urge to reach and climb and find their own spot high above it all. To get up there and change their perspective on the world. To see, really see, what all this crazy coming and going looks like from way way up, further up than Mommy or Daddy. I loved climbing trees and I love love love that my seven year old does too.
(That said, my brain has already recreated a hundred different ways he slips, catches his pants and snaps his leg on the fall down… but let’s not ruin this moment with the usual parental anxiety attacks… mmmkay?)
I was making dinner tonight when I looked out the window and saw him up there again. He was as far up as he dared to go, staring out towards the late evening sun, maybe trying to catch it set over the houses across the street. I grabbed my camera, ran out there and this is what I got.
Because seriously people. I love kids climbing trees. It’s how it should be, you know?
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