They taste so much better than my photograph suggests!

Yesterday I mentioned bribery as a parenting tool. I’m sticking by that word. In the past, I would have used the word incentive. But, really, if it involves sugar of any kind it’s a bribe. Pure and simple.

I’ve always been one of those mothers who wouldn’t buy you a chocolate bar in the check-out line no matter how you howled and cried and lamented  ”you not a nice mommy!” And while I firmly believe in incentivizing—-my kid has always been a junior banker. If there’s not money in it for him, he can’t be bought. So, my incentives usually sound like, “If you don’t clean up that room, I’m going to take away your computer and  your candy privileges.” You see the subtle difference, right? In one, I’m bribing you to be good. In the other, I’m reminding you of your responsibilites and the consequences for not meeting them. Or, that’s the case when I’m not desperate.

That would make me a wise parent if my child wasn’t so oppositional. He can try the patience of a saint, and his mother is far from being one. Despite my well-intentioned parenting philosophy. Lately,(since he turned 13!!) no amount of incentivizing (threatening, hounding, preaching, lecturing: Oh yeah, those are all in my arsenal too!) can entice him to focus appropriately on his schoolwork.

This brings me to my end. He’s a smart kid, but so dang lazy. And while most people figure out by the time they’re his age that unsavory tasks are best done quickly, this child slowly pulls off the band-aid of schoolwork. He’s waiting me out. Watching to see if I explode. If he can just push me over the edge, then the focus shifts to conflict resolution, not doing his schoolwork. I swear, he’s a born lawyer!

So, yesterday, I beat him at his game and resorted to bribery. “If you get all your schoolwork done by 3. And that means your German, Math, History, and Programming, then we can bake. If you don’t, no baking for you!”

I’d hang my head in shame, except it worked. We made these incredible bars Kerri put up on her blog. We used dried cherries and almonds and subbed Smart Balance for margarine. Two words: Ah. Mazing.

We had a nice, conflict free day. He got his schoolwork done in a timely fashion. We spent some time together baking and talking. All of which is incentive enough for me to use bribery again very, very soon.

So, it’s a brand new year in these parts.

The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day. Never lose a holy curiosity. ~~Albert Einstein

It’s probably because I’m the mother of just one, but in many respects, my new years start in December. I mark time by the birth of this child. Only 6.5 lbs at birth, he was large and robust for a 5 week premature boy. He’s been a fighter since the beginning—I have the stretch marks to prove it. “He shouldn’t . . . ” has been a part of our vocabulary from the beginning. But he has. He’s thrived despite being premature. He’s communicated despite not really talking until 3. He’s endured, despite being different from the rest of his peers. And he continues to push me and challenge me and inspire me.

At no time, in all the battles and disappointments, have I ever wanted anything but him. And I have known from the moment he came on the scene that he was my calling. I’m not perfect. I’ve had my moments where I’ve wondered if I was the right mother for the task. I’ve had moments where I’ve wanted to abdicate parenting all-together. This child thinks he can parent himself, let him.

But for all his head-strong ways (he proudly redefines stubborn, my friends. He considers it his life goal to be contrary. I have no idea where he gets that.) he remains one of the most inspiring people I know. He questions everything. And I refuse to see that as a bad thing.

Ok, unless he’s questioning my parenting at 11 pm. Then I draw that line—but in general, I’ve made a choice to see the good in this child. To not buy into the labels outsiders have tried to stick on him–questioning the wisdom in seeing his gifts  as “deficits.”  To focus on his progress, not constantly point to his struggling. Surely, there is a way to see the remarkableness  in another human being and  support it? Even if we don’t really understand it and it drives  a bit gray before our time. Surely we can see past homogenized ideals (sweet little kindergartners,  compliant, sitting nicely at their desks) and embrace the different (Yes, baby, your green eyes mean you have superpowers)? Maybe we can even teach this child who questions everything, and everyone, to question the Universe. Maybe, we can teach him to channel all that disobedience and “to hell with authority” attitude in the right direction? Maybe, we can parent him with love not judgement, joy  not shame, support not derision.

Who would parent a child with judgement, shame, and derision? More than you would imagine.

Choosing to see the good does not make me a fabulous parent. Quite the contrary! My child once said to me, “Mom, every kid deserves parents who believe in them.” He’s right, every child does. But every child doesn’t get it. Trust me on this.

No, believing and supporting doesn’t set me up for the Mother of the Year award. From where I stand it sets me at the starting point of good parenting. It’s everything that comes after that will determine if we succeeded at the task. And only time will tell. My child, who still feels so brand new to me, will grow up and judge my actions—and he will be able to tell you if I was a good mom.

I hope he’ll say yes. Not because I was perfect. I’m not. But because I continue to talk with this questioning child of mine. I own up when I fail. I apologize when I’m in the wrong.  I continue to test the boundaries and release more and more of his life to him. Letting them go is the hardest part. And I hope that he will be able to look back and see how I’ve been letting him go from the moment he was brand new. Not because I didn’t love him. But because I knew, that this premature fighter wasn’t going to be mine forever. And if I was lucky, I would parent him to see beauty. To seek joy. To do justice. To know love. To  dream and inspire others to dream. To choose to see the good. And to never, ever stop questioning.

Me: Do you still want a birthday tree now that you are a teenager? Or have you out-grown the tradition?

Boy Wonder: Mom! You’re never too old for a birthday tree! In fact, I’m going to make sure my kids have birthday trees.

Me pushing 30, Boy Wonder pushing 2 months

My mind is whriling today. I’m torn between busting an Acorn move (order, orders, orders), pouring new candles because I have an idea, and deep cleaning my pitiful house. It’s appalling. I’m embarrassed and shamed by the grime.

Yet, here I am blogging. I’m the Queen of Procrastination once again.

My  child is turning 13 in twelve short days so,  I’ve been thinking a great deal about motherhood — and by extension, the process of blogging about mothering. Although, in lots of respects, most “mommy bloggers” are really blogging about their kids, it’s still a practice (we hope!) of reflection.  The premise is, you become a parent, your bundle of joy arrives without an instruction manual, and you blog your learning curve as a way of journaling your frustrations, joys, and serving as an all-around precautionary tale to the rest of parenthood.

Plus, your kid is damn cute, and that kind of cuteness should be shared with the world!

Well, that’s how it would have gone down if blogging had been around when I was a brand-new parent. However, by the time I entered the scene, my child was quickly becoming an oppositional 3 year old and I didn’t really want to tell the world too much about his clever attempts at thwarting my authority. I mean, it’s OK to admit you’ve been out-maneuvered by a toddler once in a while—but everyday? I had no intention of becoming  your favorite train-wreck of a read.

We were also in over our heads learning to parent a child who had different needs than our parenting philosophy met. And that kind of pain, for me at least, was private. So, I seasoned Evidently with bits of my child. Mostly the good bits. Because when you are parenting a child who is  borderline (our eternal thanks to the firm yet understanding Psychologist who put us on the path to wholeness.) oppositional, it’s important to see parenting as a LONG term process and to focus on the positives and the potential. Progress, not perfection became our family slogan.

I’ve taken some flack for it. Ocassionaly I get a snarky comment (delete, delete, delete) or an angry email suggesting my “boy wonder” is too perfect. All because I choose to see the progress and the potential.

He’s not perfect. But his failings are none-of-your-business. No matter how funny or charming or witty they might seem in retrospect. No one wants their mother to broadcast every point of their growth curve to the world. No matter how funny or charming or witty their mother makes it all sound in the writing.

So, I’ve been very careful about saying too much. Too much good, too much not so good. Because I wouldn’t want to read a blogger who can’t shut up about how great her child is, any more than I’ll read a blogger who is non-stop negative about parenting. And mostly, because there are boundaries to be maintained. Each of us must establish them for our own relationships. Your child might not mind your constant blogging about them. My child, at almost 13, does. And we’ve established the do’s and don’ts of blogging about him. I still write what I write, but I’m respectful of the boundaries he has set for telling his own story. (I can write about the past without censure. The present is off limits for the most part. And always read to him prior to publishing.)

Because ultimately, they are his stories. His life I’m writing. Sure, I’m reflecting about the process of mothering—which is my story. But I am not alone in it! At two  and three and six and seven, we get, as parents, the ultimate joy of telling our story. But with that joy comes some responsibility. I still read several bloggers who will be paying for therapy in the near future for their sweet cherubs. I bite my tongue, because unsolicited advice is never welcome. But I’ll throw-up a warning flare on this blog: be careful what you write (and say!). The internet is forever, and you may think you have a shoe-in to a forever relationship with your child by simply being their parent. You DO NOT. Trust me on this. Words can be forgiven, but they cannot be unsaid.

Some of you are chronicling, in the most loving and refreshing way, the stories your children will want to hear. My child still loves to hear stories of his past. Even the hard stuff. “I did that? Noooo!”  Or, “Wow, mom, that was really bratty. I’m sorry.” or “Ha! I was kinda smart at five, right?” Yes, yes you were.  It’s a worthwhile endeavor, if done with some sense of propriety—although finding the line, and crossing it seems to also be part of the process.

But my child is not two or three, he’s not six or seven. His shoe size and his willingness to reflect on his babyhood with some perspective points to what has quickly become my reality: I am parenting a young man. And with that, comes more challenges, more joy, and probably a lot less of me talking about it in public.

If we’re lucky, he’ll find his voice and tell you all about it on his blog. In the meantime, I’m going to quietly marvel at the progress we are making at establishing an adult relationship. We’re not there yet; but then again, perfection is not our goal.

Heartbreaker!

I’ll probably have a first day post later this evening. But I thought you’d like to see my freshly minted 8th grader. Oh. My. Goodness. He’s too cute. Seriously, the kid is killing me.

He better keep an eye on those chucks… I might just  have to “borrow” them.

Almost thirteen. But not quite.

Boy Wonder: “Ok, so if you have to come get me at the park. . . just, uh, kinda stand on the edge and wait to catch my eye. Ok? Because, waving is so not cool.”

It was bound to happen.  That  magic time-release pill you take when your child is born finally goes off in your body. The child you once had to remind hourly, “I’m not a jungle-gym, stop climbing on me!” now, bats away your public attempts to be affectionate. Overnight you are embarrassing. And really, you are. You’re not cool. Don’t let your fashion forward clothing or taste in Alternative music fool you. You are a mother of a teenager and by definition you are NOT. COOL.

Did I mention that this new change in status comes with a new title too? Oh yea, you’re no longer “MOM!” but “Moooother!” Which is apt. Because, let’s face it,  it’s not your job to be cool. It’s your job to mother and that requires a keen eye at noticing all the newly established and yet completely invisible boundaries your child has constructed overnight:

When you can and cannot give hugs or advice. Hugging only when no one is looking and always at bedtime. NEVER when there is a girl around. Advice only when said child is well fed and there are NO  girls around.

What you can and cannot call him. Only by his given name in public. Pet names at bedtime. Nothing, you don’t know who he is if there is a girl around.

Where and when you can be seen together in public. If you’re buying clothes or food or “extras” your wallet is always welcome and probably your company too.  But, only if, you know, there are no GIRLS around.

Did I mention the new boundaries also come with fully installed land mines? Yeah, one of them is called “Not when there are girls around.” It’s not unrealistic that you will lose a few limbs in this process. Don’t worry, they’ll grow back.

This is toddlerhood on testosterone so tread carefully. Respect is  your best guide, humor your road map. But you can rest easy in one little fact: you are not alone in this. His father took that magic pill too and he wears socks with his sandals.

. . . but here we go.

 

I will admit, I’m not ready for this. I’ve re-read my baby manuals and I can’t find the chapter on “Dungeons and Dragons, cologne, and some 16 year old tart thinks your kid is SEXY.”

How do you make them stop growing? I don’t mean the constant, “Mom, my pants are too short” growing or the, “Mom, I’m HUNGRY” growing. I mean the, “Hey mom, I need mouthwash” growing. 

No, no you don’t need mouthwash.

And you don’t need cologne either. I’ll concede the deodorant, kid. But that’s as far as I’m going. 

Boy Wonder: “But MOM! I want cologne.”

Me: “Do you even know what cologne is for?”

Boy Wonder: “It makes you smell good.”

Me: “No!  And you may not wear cologne if you don’t know what it’s for. Go ask your father what cologne is for. . .”

Much stomping up stairs and down stairs. . . 

Boy Wonder: “See, I told you! He says it’s to make you smell good.”  

Me: “Go tell your father he’s not allowed to wear it either!”

I’ll tell you why teenage year old boys wear  cologne, and it’s not to smell good. Not exactly. It’s so that GIRLS will notice they smell good. And his father should have known that as he was the best smelling teenage boy I ever knew. 

Where was I? Oh yea, I’m not ready for this. 

My BABY came home from his first big kid event last week ( a marathon Dungeons and Dragons game. He had been invited by the slightly older crowd and being the youngest player was a big deal.) all a twitter and a glow. Asking for deodorant, cologne, and informing me that some tart girl thought he was cute.  

Boy Wonder: “Mom! Am I ever glad that you made me really wash my hair yesterday.”

Me: (stopping for a moment to gloat and not realizing what I was walking into.) “Yeah, see, I told you!”

Boy Wonder: “Yeah! Some girl ran her fingers through my hair and told me that she thinks I’m SEXY.”

Me: “WHAT? Wait, wait, wait. What girl, running her hands through,  what?”

Boy Wonder: “MOM! She’s like, sixteen. She thinks I’m a cute kid. She’s not my age or anything.”

Me: (climbing the stairs to his father’s office) “Yeah, well, ‘SEXY’ isn’t a word I want applied to my 12 year old.”

At this point his father, who doesn’t know what cologne is for, is snorting laughter in his office.

Me: “What are you laughing at, buster?”

Seriously, am I the only adult in this house?

I didn’t tell him to wash his hair so some girl would run her hands through it. I told him to wash his hair because it was filthy. These little moments of parenting can have unintended consequences, my friends. You think you’re just doing your job by insisting on good hygiene and teenage girl reinforces your point and simultaneously doubles your water bill.  And I certainly didn’t agree that he could go hang out and play the ultimate geekville game for him to come home asking for cologne. 

Boy Wonder: “So, can I have some cologne?”

Me: “No. But let’s talk when you’re 13.”

I’m still not ready for this. But I’ve bought myself 4 months. And who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll forget.

He’s reached an age where I don’t really understand most of what he says. But you know, I still adore listening to him. 

He talks with his hands. . . wonder where he gets that from! 

The last of the lilacs — on Boy Wonder’s window.

 

I spent the greater part of this afternoon helping Boy Wonder prepositionally clean his bedroom. Beneath his bed, inside his closet, on top of his computer hutch, under his rug—if it could be cleaned, we did it. He did the 3 weeks of laundry he’d neglected; which really means the 3 weeks of laundry I neglected to nag him to do. He’s 12. So, I feel like it’s a victory that he actually knows how to use the washer and dryer and most of his dirty clothes end up in a hamper, not under his bed. But if I don’t remind him, “Hey! It’s laundry day, get on it. And by on it, I mean now!” it’s not happening.  For the past three weeks I’ve been preoccupied and after seeing him in the same shirt for several days, I took a peek into his closet and declared today a Prepositional Cleaning Day. There’s a reason I buy underwear and socks by the dozens!

It’s amazing sifting through the things he keeps. The things he fishes out of the trash bag, “Hey! That’s tech. I can use that someday!” The mounds of rocks collected on all our vacations, the boxes of legos he still uses to test inventions, the shoe box full of packaging material, “I love that box, Mom! Those bubble sheets make me happy.” His interests have shifted with time, but he’s not ready to let the past go. Not just yet. Next to his 7 year old obsession with Scoobie Do mystery books are last year’s obsession, all the Harry Potter novels. And this year, it’s an alphabet soup of programming languages. Texts on Java, html, php and MySQL are stacked up with pages marked by crunchy papers with cryptic notes. He wrote the code for his first database last week. He just didn’t do his laundry.

In truth, I expect a unified theory of physics from him. Someday.  I just don’t expect him to keep his room clean. I know it’s the path of least resistance. I could yell, and rant, (and trust me, that is what it takes!) and watch him struggle with the process for six hours. Those days usually end with me declaring, “Well you better be one heck of an inventor and make lots of money, because finding a housekeeper willing to clean your mess doesn’t come cheap, Bubba!” Or, “NO WOMAN is ever going to marry you with a room like this. Think about that!” These are appeals that his 12 year old self is willing to ignore, no matter how right I might be.

But there is another option. One that requires less time and less yelling and less suffering. And sometimes, I have the clarity of mind to  choose it. This path, it is full of laughter and insight. Glimpses into this child of mine, this child who is growing up as quickly as he’s growing out of shoes and jeans and shirts. He is interesting and full of ideas. He is compassionate and loving and kind of funny, in a quirky irreverent way. It is a path full of gentle moments, sweet nagging and reminders—this is how you dust, remember to hang up that jacket, uh trash does not belong on your floor, I’m pretty sure I said only ONE water bottle in your room at a time, does Six look like ONE. . . gently, now. Gently.

“I forgot how much I like my room, Mom. I haven’t been this excited about it since I moved in. Thanks, Mom.”

As I placed the last of this year’s lilacs in his window, because he loves the smell of them as I do, I watch him. He’s already fast at work on something new—in a language I do not speak.