Entries Tagged 'Parenting' ↓

Even larger than life and clocking in at the 97th percentile for his size, my sweet 4 year old isn’t exactly a risk taker. Sure, sure, he’ll jump on my couches until I holler at him not to. But when he finally does get off the couch, he doesn’t jump off – he sits carefully and then stands before running off to cause havoc elsewhere.

He doesn’t like fast slides. He doesn’t jump from most heights. He never wants me to push him too high on the swing. And he certainly won’t get on any semi-fast rides at Busch Gardens.

No way.

He thinks the hill we drive up and down on the drive home from school is a roller coaster. I’m not joking. He even puts his hands up and yells “Weeeeeeeee!!!!!….” So thrilling. Clearly.

My wild child.

So when I signed him up for gymnastics, I assumed this would be a challenge for him. He would have to jump off things. He would have to tumble and feel a little rush of adrenaline and trust that he was safe. He would have to consider the risks of falling and get past them. And when he saw the facility, he was excited to do it. But when I saw the height he’d have to jump off or the slide he would need to go down, I wasn’t so sure.

Yeah, well, with me locked up on an observation deck, behind a glass pane – he did it. He did it fearlessly. He did it proudly. He did without any of my coaxing at all.

I was shocked. And proud. So proud.

And then later introspective.

What is with that? What is with my kids not doing things for me? What is with their nerves and demands that they can’t do it, no way, and that was final.

And then doing it for someone else?

It was his first teacher who finally sealed the deal with potty training. Not me.

It was his father who finally got him to put his face in the water and keep it there. Not me.

It was this gymnastic teacher, who he knew for 15 minutes, who got him to jump off a big red square and balance himself high up on a bar with his arms locked. Not me.

No way.

And it is moments like these which remind me of the importance, the sheer significance, the enormous value other adults, teachers and family members have on my children’s lives.

Because here’s a news flash: No matter how much I think I know best as their mother, I can NOT teach them everything. Not by myself.

No way.

They respond differently to other adults. They have different expectations of themselves. They become different kids with other people. I am their mother and they can be my little babies when they are with me. I am their safe place. Its ok to show vulnerability with me. But for new people, interesting people, different people, challenging people – my children see something new. And they suddenly expect greatness from themselves.

I can love them so completely and entirely – but I can’t fulfill their learning to it’s entirety.

No way.

And I know this might be very obvious to most readers. I know this is a naive realisation. And if its any comfort, its not the first time I’ve realized this. But its just another reminder to let them go. Shove them out of that nest and let them fall and fall and be a little scared and even if I don’t think they will be brave enough to land on their feet, everyone else does. And they do. And I am left amazed once again.

I adore and thank every teacher, adult, coach and family member who has more confidence in my children than I do. You are changing my children. You are making them more than I could ever make them.

Thank you.

Mothering is a mind-blowing experience. Kind of like that hill I drive up and down on the way home from school. Weeeeeee!!!!!!

But will I be any less surprised the next time my children do something for another adult with confidence and flair – something that they swore they could never do, would never ever do, for me?

No way.

The day wasn’t going as planned. We had meant to go bowling. But after arriving to a local alley filled to capacity with senior citizens in the middle of a tournament, our plans changed. So after a couple vanilla milkshakes bought to stopper disappointed little boy tears, we found ourselves at the library. My youngest wandered over to the toys in the corner and my seven year old found himself next to me at a table with a stack of baseball reference books.

So we sat there awhile. Enjoying the cool and the calm inside the library.

And that’s when I looked over and stared at my son.

Bent over his books, he was lost in their words. His face still, thinking. His eyes beautiful and brown, liquid and lashed. A button nose; smooth, sweet skin. New over-sized teeth this way and that; cherry lifesaver lips biting, moving, grinning. Newly cut hair, light brown and so much like his father’s. And an enormous smile under crinkled eyes revealing his old soul, as if he’d been smiling for centuries and had perfected its art.

And staring as I was, I held my breath and willed myself not to fold him into my lap. A friend once described my son as being a little bit like a bird on a wire. When he settles next to you, you dare not disturb him in case he flies away. And while I didn’t fear that he would flee, I couldn’t startle this moment of still beauty.

My boy is amazing.

I am sure every parent stares at their child this way and comes to the very same conclusion. Of course they do. They have unearthed their own wonder of the world and are quite certain that there could be nothing more amazing. Ever. In the history of the universe. The end.

I also know that losing yourself in your child’s perfection is, at its core, a reflection of a parent’s own vanity too. But I couldn’t help it.

It blows my mind that I could have anything to do with something so fantastic. Really. Again considering myself in my child reveals even further vanity but forgive that and just humor me.

This boy came out of me. Me. Me?

He’s too perfect. Too exact and just so.Too much more than anything else.

I could hardly swing a B in math. I can’t see past my nose without my contacts. I slouch, I talk over people, I have a very bad habit of feeling sorry for myself. I never “applied myself enough” at school. And I believed the word “gullible” had been taken out of the of the dictionary for a very long time.

But I am still half responsible for THIS?

Impossible.

So I stared. I don’t think he noticed. He stayed put. Reading. Sharing a quick fact now and again.

And I waited. And watched.

Until his wonderful, bubbling bull in a china shop brother finally leaped up into my lap. He patted my cheeks and wound an arm around my neck and stage whispered about some Elmo toy over there in the corner. My youngest boy is a wonder in his own right. Pink cheeked, effused with glee, blue eyes alight, his body humming with motion. He shines joy and wonder and drama into every crack and crevice of any room. I find myself needing to step a few paces back at times – he is bright, beaming and often very overwhelming. He weighs down the wire and shamelessly radiates glory all around.

But when I looked back to my eldest, he had flown off into the stacks. His chair empty, the books gone. Eventually he peeked out and laughed at his brother. And then re-emerged, asking if we could go to the playground.

Our moment was over.

But my soul took flight and my heart soared. These moments remind me what I’m actually doing everyday. While I spend lots of time feeling sorry for myself (see above) about Groundhog Day and the challenges of entertaining little boys during the summer (uh muh guh, I need a vaca…), its moments like these that slap some sense into me. Maybe getting me to apply myself as a parent just a little bit more. Because low and behold, I am kind of responsible for guiding along the two most amazing things I will ever have any part in creating. And that’s kind of a big deal. So at attention. Long summer days or not, I’ve got some parenting to do.

I’m in the middle of a very busy few days. I am parenting not just two but three wonderfully wild boys. They are on the go and constant and playing and pushing and “it’s MY turn now” and hungry and scattering and jumping and moving and trailing shoes and toys and wrappers and the rest.

So forgive the quiet here while I do my best to maintain the wild in my home.

But I should warn you. It’s summer time after all. The kids aren’t in school. Camps are here and there. “I’m bored” threatens regularly. We’re at the pool. We’re meeting friends. We’re on the go. We’re readying ourselves for our family vacation.

Contrary to some popular assumption, summers are not a time when families relax. Moms don’t find any much alone time at all. Summer means “game on”. It’s fun and I love being with my boys for sure but let’s just say I lower my personal expectations down many many notches.

(Not that they were very high to start with. So now we’re hovering at around no expectations. But I can’t throw in the towel entirely. That would be giving up. And we moms just don’t give UP on ourselves, right? Yeah. So. Anyway.)

So this is a pic I took on the go this morning at the zoo. We ran from splash ground to splash ground keeping cool and burning off another day of summertime energy.

If you haven’t seen me post in awhile, just jump back to this post and you’ll remember why. But I suspect that if you’re a parent right now you aren’t even checking in that much anyway. Because you’re probably doing about the same thing.

(And by the way, this “quick” post took the better part of an afternoon to write. For all of the reasons I’ve listed above.)

I remember seven.

I remember plastic bobbled ponytails and faded iron on t-shirts and socks with colored bands around my calves.

I remember dancing with my friend in front of her record player, the Bee Gees pumping night fever, night fever, we know how to do it. And collapsing into bean bags chairs, gulping down Kool Aid out of sticky McDonald’s glasses.

I remember roller skating, crunching over sandy sidewalks, rolling around and around the playground while my brother pushed his cars in the sandbox.

I remember cramming into the back of my parent’s station wagon with friends, a faded green swimsuit, powdered rubber swim caps, piling and pushing each other out and lining up in front of a freezing swimming pool.

I remember testing out a quick kiss with a boy named Matt under the jungle gym and wondering what the big deal was.

I remember speeding through the neighborhood on a banana seat bike with glittery orange and pink fringe whipping in the wind from the tips of my handlebars.

I remember car trips and train trips and camping with my family. I remember Disneyland and climbing trees and learning how to dive under waves at the ocean. I remember figuring out how to wash my own hair and standing on a chair backed up to the sink helping my mother wash dishes. I remember asking if driving a car was fun and what it felt like to be tall. I remember believing in the Easter Bunny and Santa, kind of.

I remember being seven.

And now my oldest child is turning seven.

I know memories are being created and carefully slotted into his mind everyday. And I know I am charged with tending to his childhood, tilling his experiences, allowing him to grow and be and explore and eventually remember it all. Hopefully fondly.

But in a mind blowing, “this is the meaning of life” kind of way, my seven does not seem that long ago. Only a few years back even. The taste of Kool Aid and feel of ponytails and fun of climbing trees and trust and wonderment and identity of seven only just happened. It seems.

Yet now here’s his seven. His childhood has arrived.

This small boy who I gave birth to on a rainy May evening is now experiencing his world in ways that will create the person he will become. And while fighting off my own self indulgent tendencies to insist that I am still a child in fact and any child of mine could not possibly be… seven. While I’m doing plenty of that, I hold tight and steady myself. It’s on me to make sure that his seven counts. That these years are good years that he will look back on and laugh and wonder and ask who remembers Wii and the 2010 Tampa Rays and Little League and chocolate milk after school and popcorn during Friday night movies and swimming for hours at the local swimming pool.

His seven is right here, right now.

But my seven is still here too, reminding me what it means, what really matters, and insisting that I cherish all of what seven should be about.

I wonder. Has he ever heard the Bee Gees cranked at full volume? It may be time that he does.

This is a warning to all you parents who think that your pride has any hope of remaining intact during the course of your child’s upbringing . Because heed my words: they will do everything they can to seek and destroy what little bit of dignity you have left. I know this sounds like some sort of conspiracy theory. Because I’m certainly not accusing our children of doing it intentionally.

But they are out to get us.

Before they finally skip off into the sunset of adulthood, expect to be horrified, mortified, humiliated and flat out humbled on multiple occasions, in varying scenarios, in every location – most always public.

You probably already know what I’m talking about. You probably have your own laundry list of mortifying moments  to share. If not? Well. Let me share a few of mine.

It’s baby poop on your pants without realizing it, and loud conversations about your privates in the public restroom stall, and climbing on you, hooking their foot and pulling your bathing suit off in the pool, and reaching up from the grocery cart and grabbing your chest to “honk, honk” you in the check out lane, and opening the restroom door and walking out before you’re done, and pointing out the “reeeally really big fat lady” on the bus (full disclosure, that was me at three), and screaming how much they hate their food when your new friend made them dinner, and never ever ever saying hello or good-bye or please or thank you no matter how many times you insist that they do, or announcing the play by play of exactly what you’re doing while holed up in another public restroom.

(Clearly, the public restroom has been a source of much humiliation.)

They are honest. They are saying and doing what they experience. Etiquette and social niceties and even basic manners just don’t come naturally to preschoolers. We try desperately to encourage this instinct, and I think (hope?) it comes eventually. But until then, expect to be booby-trapped at any moment, where your pride falls through a trap door and into the pit of your stomach as you realize your kid has found and unwrapped a tampon (previously zipped away in your purse) and is swinging it for all the customers in the check out line to enjoy (full disclosure: my friend’s experience, not mine).

These moments. They happen all the time. Seared into your memory, convincing your ego you should never set foot in that particular store, friend’s home, or public restroom (so many of those) again.

But these moments also force you to stand nose to nose with your ego and tell yourself to get the hell over it.

Like when you are getting your kids ready for a pool party and trying to smear as much SPF onto your wriggling child as you can and while you’re distracted wrestling him, another smaller child happens to stuff something down the back of your sundress. And you aren’t sure what it was so you ignore it but make a mental note to check your dress after you’re done with this (“SIT STILL!!!”) and then you leave without checking but remember you need cash so you stop at the busy corner ATM. And while waiting in line you glance over at your reflection in the window and notice something not quite right. Oh ok. Now you know what got stuffed down your sundress. A pair of your underpants. Which happen to be sticking out the back of your sundress, sticking out like a little hoodie or cape, but clearly pink underpants, yours, sticking out and flapping in the breeze for everyone in the ATM line to see.

(What did I do? I snapped them off and balled them into my hand and made my transaction as if nothing ever happened. And, no surprise here, I didn’t make eye contact with a soul as I stomped back to the care. And stuffed them into the glove box. Where they remained until yesterday when I remembered to get them out and stuff them into my purse when I dropped off my car for an oil change. But it’s a big purse and I have to dig around to find my wallet to pay for said oil change. So I’m pretty sure the Kia guy at the front desk got a good look see at them too. Yay, Hanes Her Way, in pink, is everybody happy now???)

Parenting requires a very large dose of self-deprecation. And humor. And resignation that your dignity means nothing in a restroom stall as long as every little one got a pee pee in the potty and are entirely wiped and hands were washed.

Onward. Who cares. Pride swallowed. I’m over it. Pink panties stuffed where ever, so be it. Thanks and have a nice day.

My son loves baseball. He loves it so much in fact that I feel remiss as a mother and a blogger for not having mentioned this fact in detail here before. It is an enormous, entirely captivating, thoroughly significant part of his life, his thinking, his playing, his focus, his every day purpose.

You think I’m exaggerating.

My six year old has a battered, dog eared, ripped and taped coffee table book about ballparks that my mother gave him for his last birthday. It is now in three pieces, it’s binding completely unraveled. And he reminds me that it is out of date. Where is the new Yankee Stadium? Where is the new Nationals ballpark? When will they reprint it with the updates? I don’t know. He keeps paging through though, carefully organizing the pages that have slipped out, memorizing every picture and statistic.

Somehow, he has pilfered my father’s MLB.com login and password. And every morning, after spooning up his cereal and haphazardly pulling his uniform on, he runs over to the PC and checks last night’s scores. He watches replays. He pulls up teams. He checks old games and stats and player information. He calls me in to see a play. “Mom! Check out this walk off home run!”

In the backseat of my car, there are two copies of Sports Illustrated – worn, weary and coverless. But they have all of the 2010 MLB stats and player information. He reads them on his way home from school every single day.

We have a pitch-back positioned up against our backyard’s back woods and a home plate lying there in the grass. First base lies up against the fence of the empty house next door. (The fence is our “Green Monster”, the abandoned yard is our “Sandlot” – just replace the dog in the movie with snakes, rabbits and armadillos.) Second base is in front of my dining room window. Third base lies in front of the back porch. If he doesn’t have school, my six year old pulls open the slider and runs out to our backyard ball field before the sun has even peeked up over the trees. And then, one after the other, he throws tennis balls into the air and cracks them up over the house. Over and over and over. And after each hit, he talks and cheers and yells the play by play to himself as he rounds the bases. Over and over and over.

There is also a “Mommy base”, where my folding lounge chair is positioned in left field. My three year old always makes a stop there as he rounds the bases. You know, just for a quick snuggle and chatty recap about the game in play. My six year old does not stop however. There is no “Mommy base” in the MLB.

On weekend evenings, he begs. “Just one more inning, Mommy. Just one more. Please.” And so our nights are filled with MLB baseball, no matter the team. Repetitive pitches, fouls, outs, man scratching, commentators mentioning historic facts as filler, spitting, swinging, staring, nothing happens. He remains focused while my husband and I wander away to make dinner. And suddenly there is a double play, the inning is over. He jumps up and down and races around the house and gives my husband and I high fives while we simmer veggies on the stove. What just happened? He is happy to reenact it on the hard wood floor – dives, catches, slides, it’s the most exciting thing in the whole wide world.

Do you know where the oldest ballpark in the country is? Do you know the entire line-up for the Tampa Bay Rays and the Boston Red Sox? Do you know the oldest team in the country? Do you know who won the first world series? I don’t. But my son does.

Do you know how much space a full length MLB game takes up on a DVR? He records games every day. And we quietly erase them a few days after that.

Guess where he’s celebrating his 7th birthday? Predictably, in the parking lot of the Trop before a Rays game. Baseball cupcakes, friends with their gloves, sneaking down to the edge of the field to watch warm ups, climbing up to nosebleed seats to watch the game, Lets Go Rays!

We just finished our Little League season where he played on a local coach pitch team. Proudly. He would practice before his games and perfect his slides on the dining room floor. He remained stoically “baseball ready” in the outfield. He dove and rolled for any catch that he could, certainly re-enacting some highlight or another. When ready to hit, he would twirl his bat before the pitch – also something he had obviously seen somewhere before. In the dugout he clung to the fence, staring, watching, jumping in place nervously. He counted the plays, disagreed with calls (later, while being tucked into bed), slid into bases, dove, swung, ran, tagged and tried so so hard. He wasn’t the best player and he wasn’t the squeakiest wheel – but he adored every single moment.

I just signed him up from baseball summer camp. And once school is back in session, there will be Fall Ball too. Again.

It’s a whole new world for me. And I want to be entirely into it with him – but I tapped out of sports about as fast as it took a well aimed kickball to knock the glasses off my wee first grade face many decades ago. I didn’t know the difference between a hit and a run until this Little League season. And is there a difference between a “double” and a “double play”? I’m pretty sure there is.

But I’m trying. And adoring his passion and irrepressible glee for it. And screaming “Way to go baby!!!” from behind the chain link fence at the ball park. And searching for foul balls in our snake infested “Sandlot”. And pitching (no matter how often I’m labeled a “belly itcher” rather than an actual pitcher). And counting up his gear and shaking dirt out of his cleats and washing his uniform and slowing the cart down through the baseball aisle every single time. And sitting through inning after inning, with him snuggled at my side, hanging on his translated play by play.

I’m really trying. And loving it. And always always baseball ready for my wonderful boy.

What the hell are Silly Bands?

I had no idea. I guess I had vaguely seen brightly colored kinked plastic bracelets on kids in passing at Little League, at the grocery store, just around. I thought they were just some new kind of jelly bracelet. And something girls were into. I have two boys who have zero preference about what they wear EVER. So bracelets just weren’t on my radar screen.

Plus my six year old is kind of a serious, by the book, I want to do my own thing kind of kid. Peer pressure has yet to sway him too much.

But recently he has been untethering his independence. And shrugging on the language of a grown up kid.

“Mom that is so awesome, did you see that play? So cool. Dude.”

And I’ve been seeing him goof off in the dug out and wrestle his friends to the ground at the park and yell out the open car window at friends: “Hey! Ryan! Matthew G.! Hey you guys!!! Over here!”

This is nothing like my timid, skirt clinger who hid under a table for his first two months of preschool.

And this is a good thing.

But the other day, my boy watched a pack of kinky braceleted kids walk by. He turned and looked up at me.

“Mom. You know those Silly Bands?”

“Those what?”

“Silly Bands. …They’re cool.”

“Oh yeah?”

He had grabbed my attention. Because in my mind, my sweet boy was perpetually hiding under the world’s table, yet to really peer out. His teachers describe him as very quiet. A good boy. Bright, straight As, certainly the least of their concerns. But my husband and I always worry about how it all goes down with his peers. We fret over his “cool” factor. And were we doing anything at all to encourage or maintain it?

So these Silly Bands. They are indeed a new version of jelly bracelets but apparently every one of his friends wear them at school. And when you take them off, they make shapes. And sometimes glow in the dark. They’re cool. I guess.

“Do you want some too?”

“Yeah.”

So after dropping him off at school yesterday, I pulled up to Walgreens. Their digital billboard outside blinked that they had just received a new shipment of Silly Bands. Huh. Am I the LAST person to know about these things?

I walked in. I couldn’t find them. I walked up to the twice my aged cashier, half dozing on his stool. “I’m looking for these… um…” and started touching my wrists. Before I could spit out the word “bracelet”, he pointed me to a bin at his right.

“Silly Bands. Oh I know all about those. Fastest selling things in the store.”

Even the guy two times my age at Walgreens was more current than I am. Ok then. I grabbed two packs.

And while the “letter” ones I had picked out apparently aren’t as cool as the animals or other shaped ones, my six year old carefully put each colored band on. He practiced walked around the house, staring down at his wrists. He kept stopping, taking them off, arranging them in rows, and putting them back on. We made a special ziploc bag for them. We talked about which ones the other kids had. And this morning, he put them all back on. Coolness checked and rechecked, he stomped out the door, backpack bouncing behind him. And I caught him glance down at his wrists one more time before he was gone.

I should know better. I remember jelly bracelets and slap bands and garbage pail kids and sticker albums. I remember how badly I wanted to be able to have some reference of cool in first grade. I remember wanting to “get it”.

So while I’m not rushing out buying every Wii game the other kids have or electronic whatever just so my kid maintains his cool, I think investing a few bucks in some strange little plastic bracelets so my kid feels like he can be part of something is absolutely worth it.

Silly Bands. Cool kid. Happy mom.

I have dentist issues. I’ve had root canals and teeth trauma and cavities and then no funding to deal with whats waiting to be drilled and sucked and hurt some more. I despise the drill. I despise horrid dental insurance. I despise myself for not flossing better. Simply put, dentists have consistently triggered cold sweats, hot flashes and nightmares for my entire adult life.

But just because I have dentist issues doesn’t mean my children should.

Isn’t it ironic how your children so often have you facing your greatest fears?

My two boys happen to have teeth. And yes, as fate would have it, they need to see a dentist. So after hearing about a fabulous pediatric dentist in the Tampa area, I made appointments. My six year old had been for a cleaning there a year or so ago and I was amazed by how well he did. Sure, they are out of network and cost and arm and a leg. But they are just so gentle there. And come hell or high water, my boys aren’t going to hate the dentist the way I do. Deep breaths, let’s sign them up. Because I’m a good Mommy like that.

So I marched them both in yesterday for cleanings. Of course, they did very well. How could they not? Super sweet hygienists carefully peered into their mouths while they wore headphones and watched movies on monitors suspended from the ceiling. They were given bubble gum tasting things and prize coins for doing a good job. And it seems Patch Adams himself is their dentist. Corny as hell, he blew up glove balloons and made them laugh while going over their x-rays with me.

Oh yeah. Real world. X-rays. My six year old had two cavities. They were in permanent molars. They needed fillings. Oh my God, my baby.

So I ushered them out the door with smiles on their faces and new toothbrush gear under their arms. A smile for all to see was on mine too. But there was also a lump in my throat. How would I tell my boy that he had to get fillings and that it was no big deal? The dentist assured me they had their “ways” (nitrous oxide, gels) to keep the pain to a minimum, but I wasn’t convinced. Drills and higher dental bills for my child’s pain. It was all horrible.

Thanks to a cancellation (yeah, thanks a lot), my six year old was able to get in this morning to have his first cavitiy filled. On the way there, we had chats about holes in enamel and fillings and turning his nerves off and wearing a mask. He seemed facinated at best. Truly, he was hardly fazed. No dentist issues what so ever. He amazed me.

While he played in the waiting room, my heart thudded. Every once in awhile, I folded him into my arms and asked him if he had any questions about today. Nope. Can I go play that Spongebob video game again? Wow. Really. No issues. None. They were all mine to enjoy.

So in we went. He picked a grape smell for the nitrous oxide. He laid back and they switched the ceiling monitor over to Cartoon Network for him. He breathed in. His ankles were crossed, trusting them entirely. Surely, I wouldn’t bring him anywhere that would hurt him. Surely.

I chatted with the wonderfully kind dentist who showed me his x rays. She reminded me of a mom from some 80s sitcom, I wasn’t sure which. I eyed my child’s nitrous oxide. Did that come in a grape flavored Mommy size? My heart was pounding.

Remember a few paragraphs ago when I said that children make parents face their greatest fears? I was not leaving my boy’s side. So. I got to see all the drilling, and pushing, and popping, and sucking, and metal rings, and the very long metal syringes they used. Long, shiny, sharp, scary metal syringes. Stuck deep into my child’s mouth. Thanks to the laughing gas, he never flinched. He never even squeezed my hand. I never squeezed his, but it took everything in me not to. Through all of it, I just focused over their gloved hands at my son’s one visible brown lashed eye watching TV or watching them or sometimes watching me. I smiled calmly. I stroked his hand slowly.

(It’s all good baby. Nothing to see here. That horrid high pitched “wheeeeeeeeeee” drilling sound is a good thing. It’s helping you. I have you here doing this because it will fix you. I would never put you in harms way. You’re doing so so great.)

“wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”

Sucking, snapping, popping.

And suddenly it was over. They leaned him up, now hopped up on pure oxygen. He did great, they said. What a fabulous patient. And he did do great. His numb lip hardly fazed him. He had no reaction to the nitrous oxide. And while sucking on a smoothie a half hour later, he claimed he never felt a thing - and I believe him.

We go back for round two in a week or so.

More sucking, snapping, popping, wheeeeeeeeeeeeee….

I still have dentist issues. In fact, seeing my little boy under-go all of that up close and personal didn’t exactly extinguish any of my denstist issues in the slightest. And I expect that many more rounds of these types of visits or future dental emergencies or possible braces will thoroughly fuel my issues’ fire. But for now, he is safe from having any of those issues. And that’s the entire point.

So while I never got any nitrous oxide in grape flavor today, I did get a small bottle of white wine in Pinot Grigio flavor. It’s chilling now. Wheeeeee.

So I’m on Spring Break with these two awesome guys. Super cute. Am totally psyched. They are all over me too. And we’ve gone to the beach and watched movies and I swear they are so crazy adorable.     

So lucky right?

Yeah when they aren’t fighting over Easter candy and chasing each other around with baseball bats or pulling apart every piece of board game paraphernalia and spreading it all over their bedroom floor.

I’m on spring break with my kids. And I do love it because I MISS them when they are at school. And I am loving the break from the two hours of school commute too. And they are kind of sort’ve even sleeping in! (Sure they are taking for-ev-er to get to bed, but sleeping IN! That’s huge!)

However. I am sure you’ll be shocked to hear that I can not get a THING done.

Even as I write this I am hearing:

“It’s my turn on the computer!!!”

“I’m hungry.” “I’m hungry too!!!” “Waffles!” “Yeah me too!”

“Why does he always get HIS show on.”

“I don’t like my toys anymore…”

The natives are far beyond restless. I need to go do something with them. NOW. And I want to do something with them. But much to many people surprises, I do actually have a few responsibilities towards things other than my children. So balancing it this week will simply be a flat out joke.

As if I’m the only mother trying to figure this out. It’s fine. I’ll get stuff done. It will happen.

“Where’s my waffle!!!”

It will.

But I’m just here to explain myself. Because, seriously, I’ve got a ton to post about including an AMAZING give away coming up. Amazing, I swear. You all will be entering like crazy people.

Because it has something to do with what I am typing on right now.

But.

“Did you know that Hillop Park was built in 1903 and the New York Yankees used to play there and then they turned that into the Polo Grounds?”

Holy distraction, people.

“Mommy!!! There are ghosties in my bed! And I’ve gotta hole in my pama-jas and my coins keep falling out!!!!!!!!!!!! MOMMY!!!!!”

(I’m just typing what I’m hearing. I swear to you.)

“A cockroach just climbed out of the baby book! MOM!!!!”

Why are they in the baby books? What the hell are cockroaches doing in there?? EW!

I gotta go. But will be back.

Think giveaway. AN AWESOME GIVEAWAY. Soon. As soon as I can get a handle on all this crazy wild Spring Break fun.

(Cue circus music, toss me some juggling balls and slap a red nose on my face.)

Let me go deal. I’ll be back. Please stand by.

I declared Sunday a Pajama Day. It was pouring rain, we didn’t need groceries, so we stayed in. And while cuddled together on the couch under a blanket in our pajamas, my six year old and I played on my husband’s iphone. He has an app on there that is something like Boggle. A random collection of letters are displayed on a grid and the player taps connected letters to make as many words as they can in a limited amount of time. He’s as good as I am: Dog. God. Wet. Stew. Scold. Cold. Weep. Pew. We kept making words and racking up the points. A fun innocent use of a Sunday afternoon, no?

During one particular round, he found a word first. He tapped out three connected letters:

S…E…X.

…..!!!!!

Insert my garbled, surprised laugh here.

“Um hon, do you even know what that means???”

He just giggled back at me. And kept punching out words.

And what did this very brilliant, oh so intuitive mother do? Nothing. I kept on playing too. And I stuck to a favorite parenting standby: ignore the obvious and maybe it will go away.

But of course I haven’t stopped thinking about it. He knows the word “sex”.

Granted, knowing the word and understanding the word are two different things. But he’s SIX! How does he know this word!?

What, was I born on the moon? He can read. Sex and the word sex is woven into our mainstream culture everywhere we go. And my kid happens to have one of those steel trap minds for words. He read very early, he aces spelling tests, he has always soaked in much more around him than he lets on.

I would bet if I asked him to spell the word tampon he’d get it right.

But would he know what it is? …Would he???

I’m thinking.

I don’t know. They’re sitting right there in my bathroom. They come with instructions after all…

Oh dear Lord. I am not ready for this. He’s SIX!

There is a part of me that wants to say something. You know, something very cool and collected like “If you ever want to know what the word sex means, let me know and we can talk about it.”

Ugh, no. NO! He’s six! Just because he knows this word, doesn’t mean he wants to understand its intricacies or all of its “ins and outs”. So to speak. He’s too young still. He just knew the word, that’s all. I mean I know we’re supposed to talk to our kids about sex early and – don’t get me wrong – I WOULD talk to him about it if he asked. I just feel like… he’s a wee innocent boy. He really isn’t ready for this, no more than I am.

*wringing my hands*

Yep. I’ll leave it be. For now. Just a couple more years. We’ll revisit this topic no later than eight. Yeah that’s about when you should kind of sort of know where a baby comes from right? That’s about when kids should have more than a vague idea that “mommies and daddies make them”. …I think.

(Cue flashback sequence: I was eight years old and over at a friend’s house. She and I were innocently playing Barbies on her bedroom floor when her older sister pranced in. Her sister had just started menstruating and, deeming herself a new expert on all topics below the belt, she decided to tell us allll about it. Later that afternoon, I remember walking home in stupefied haze, kicking stones, shaking my head the whole way. Of course I had to come face to face with those guilty of such deeds: my parents. So when I sat at dinner and they passed me the peas, what was my reaction? I let them have it. I spat at them “How could you??? How could you do… that???? That’s just… DISGUSTING!” Granted, I’m still not entirely convinced that they actually did do that. The stork was most likely involved with my brother and I – just in this one instance. But I digress.)

The lesson learned here is that these six year old eyes and ears are absorbing the world around them. (A shocking realization, I know.) And we can’t take for granted what they are sifting out or what they deem as “must know information” vs. “stuff grown ups worry about”. We can’t expect them to make that distinction. I have to be ready and I have to do what I can to introduce this crazy world at an appropriate speed.

That sounds responsible and about what a parent should do, right?

Now to actually apply that practically. To make sure my kid learns and sees and hears just about what he can handle without being cut off from the world or without protecting him too much…

Um. Yeah.

Is there an app for that?