Me: So, you want to do some art?

Boy Wonder: Sure. But I just need to finish this. I’m creating a computer model of my secret spy satellite.

Me: I don’t suppose that comes with a secret lair, eh?

The list of lies I’ve told my child in the last few days would surely get me in trouble with Santa. But, it was for a good cause… and I have to say, worth the expression on his face when he walked through the door. My photos of the event are all wonky, much like the candles on the cake—someone played with my camera settings and I didn’t catch it until too late! Somehow, I don’t think we’ll need photos to remember this birthday.

Beyond all the turmoil in my life this week (and boy did that NOT help!) it’s been really difficult to watch Boy Wonder mourn. We told him that we would do things as a family on his birthday, but that parties with friends and gifts just couldn’t happen this year. He understood, but it didn’t make it any easier. Listening to him on the phone with his uncle, (thank you for calling, Mark!!) this morning would have broken my heart, except I was laughing so hard. Is it evil to torture your child so? He simply had no clue what was in store for him.

To his credit, he tried really hard not to mope. He didn’t succeed. This morning I found him curled up in front of his Birthday Tree in a quasi-fetal position. “Why so glum, chum?”

“Oh, no reason,” he said with tears in his eyes. And I felt like the worst mother on the planet. And so he sighed the afternoon away.

I won’t forget the look on his face—simple glee. He spent the entire time thanking everyone over and over. I’ve lost count how many times he’s told me, “I just need to say thank you!” He’s over the moon… a bit teary-eyed for all the right reasons. When his grandparents called to sing Happy Birthday to him they asked if the party was worth all the suffering.

“It was worth it, five times over!”

He never saw it coming. And sometimes, that’s a good thing!

This photo is a bit blurry—but I adore his expression, so this is what I’m posting. His smile has been fleeting this afternoon, so I’m hanging on to what I’ve got, blurry or not.

Boy Wonder has had the most unfortunate of accidents: he sat down in the chair of a scissor happy stylist. His long hair is no longer and he’s none-too-pleased. It took about an hour after the cut for it to sink in: he no longer looks like himself. He didn’t ask for a short cut, and he had no expectations that his hair would look much different than before. He certainly didn’t expect to see a different boy in the mirror and he’s having a hard time absorbing the sense of violation.

It took me six seconds to recognize there was problem when he walked in the door. I looked at my child and back at my husband and then I hit the roof! I FOOLISHLY let IZ take him to get his hair cut. Boy Wonder is not the most concrete about expressing what he wants when it comes to his hair. His father was no better. Apparently, they told the stylist, “choppy, rocky, not girlie” when what they should have said was, “this cut, only about a half inch shorter.”

There were words. Many words. I can’t look at my kid without my heart breaking. He really loved his long hair and it was such a part of him. It wouldn’t be so bad if this is what he wanted. But, it isn’t. He’s crushed and I’m torn between being crushed with him and wanting to crush his father. Clearly, we have established that from now on, the boy’s haircuts will be handled solely by the boy’s mother. And the boy’s mother reserves the right to glare in all directions for a few days. Lucky IZ, he leaves on business tonight.

And it might seem silly, to be upset about a haircut. I’m sure somebody will want to point out how unimportant it is in the long run. Please don’t. Because while you and I know that hair grows back, and it does not “make the pre-teen”, this is a real loss for my child. And if you could have seen him falling apart, you’d wouldn’t judge him for his distress. I’ve always been a sympathetic crier: but my own kid lamenting just wrenches my heart out.

The thing is, I get it! We sat and lamented together. I told him about how once someone did the same thing to my hair, only my hair had been down to the middle of my back. How, I had to walk home after, right past the school. And the woman had used a funky curling iron on it making it all fluffy—so I ended up walking to the school to dunk my head under the water faucet before heading home. It was THAT bad.

“Do you have a picture of your hair?” he asked.

“Yes! I had my school photo taken that year with that hideous cut. And then your grand-dad had to go hang it in his office, where the whole town could see it!” I told him.

“Was it worse than my hair?”

“Way worse. I was mortified. And humiliated.” I answered.

“Could I see this photo?” the twinkle in his voice gave him away. We laughed a little about our misery.

When the reality set in, he was furious and then distraught and then in need of a new hat. An emergency trip to Fred Meyer remedied the hat situation. His hair is going to take a bit longer. The new “do” is so dang girlie and so short, it will be months before he needs another cut—months before we get another picture without a hat. I’ve already warned him that he can’t wear a hat at church, but otherwise, I’m ignoring that “no hats indoors” rule for a few days. He needs time to adjust to the person he sees. And frankly so do I.

This child. This has been making me laugh. And cry. And marvel.

This child. He wasn’t always so tall, or his hair so long. I wasn’t always so old. But we’ve always been friends. Always a little bit grubby after a day at the beach.

This child. Still loves rocks and animals and legos and all things science. But I think that he might someday love girls too. I’m anxious that someday is closer than ever before.

This child confessed last night that he was a “fly-trap.” I think he meant “babe-magnet”. He shook his head and laughed. I held my breath. So much has changed. And yet some things stay the same.

He told me his secrets and his worries and we are still friends. Friends don’t tell secrets. They hold your worries close to their heart.

This child is growing up. Faster than I ever expected. Too fast for me to keep up. This child has me wondering where all the time went.

You can see from the date, IZ was served this morning. He was none too pleased. As I wasn’t the recipient of this legal notice, I laughed a lot longer and harder over it at coffee. I suppose that’s not supportive of my parenting partner; however, IZ isn’t the first person in this family to find themselves in need of a lawyer. Boy Wonder was 4 when he first demanded something in writing.

“But, you can’t read!” I responded in dismay.

“Still, I’d like that in writing.”

“I suppose you’ll want my signature in blood next!” Needless to say, I didn’t do it. I’m not that cowed by this child, much.

The back-story to this particular document is that our child has a bad habit of running sick without telling us. Running: to the point of playing out in the chill with a cold when he is prone to infection instead of staying down and resting just days before we leave for vacation. Running: to the point of $400 emergency room visit just days before we leave for vacation—all because he neglected to tell anyone that he didn’t feel so well a few days previously. If you didn’t feel so badly for him, you might find it annoying. Or maybe I’m just a bad parent.

When he was small, he was enough of a hugger that getting a physical beat on him was easy. Occasionally, he’d run by you on the way outside and stop for a hug… when you got scorched from a little lovin’ you knew he wasn’t feeling so well. If that failed, he would eventually melt down in terror and grief and yeah, spike a fever the next day.

But at nearly 11, there is no stopping him when he is sick. And he’s learned not to say a word until he can no longer exist in his own denial. The last bout of infection, just two days before we left for vacation (why is it always just days before we leave for vacation???), we heard him sobbing uncontrollably downstairs in his chill zone. Here’s the thing, our child does not cry unless he’s miserable. The stoicism that allows him to run himself into the ground extends to his emotions.

Of course, one swipe of the thermometer told me what I already knew. He was fighting an infection and he needed meds ASAP. So, off to the emergency room we ran. I used the short car trip to inform this child, yet again, about the perils of ignoring self care. Which is why, 4 days later while on vacation, when he ended up with yet ANOTHER infection due to a lack of “self” care… I hit the roof. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Why didn’t you tell someone ages ago that you were itchy?? For the love of all things holy, why didn’t you tell me this before we left for vacation????” Lecture I did.

Now, my child has figured out that when his mother snaps, which is not all that often, the best position is one of silence and agreement. If at all possible, sitting back and looking interested, nodding one’s head vigorously enough to cause a concussion is preferable. And so he does. He figures appease me, then trot off to do whatever he was going to do in the first place. I swear the child actually dozes off mid rant, I just can’t prove it. Teenagedom can’t be far away!

Evidently, he has decided that a few CYA measures are in order. I suspect the thought occurred to him right before he passed out during my last rant.

For the record, because obviously he gets his lawyering skills from me, this is not the first draft of his notice. No, that draft was missing a date and riddled with spelling mistakes which I promptly circled. As everything is a learning opportunity in these parts, I set him to looking up the proper spelling in his dictionary. He wrote out his spelling words several times each and then rewrote the notice with proper spelling and punctuation. If you’re going to produce legal documents, you should probably make sure they’re legible and dated.

Heaven help us if he discovers carbon paper.

Ten year old logic is fuzzy, at best. Ten year old BOY logic leaves a mother shaking her head. I mean, what’s up with shoving all the shorts and t-shirts that don’t fit you, along with 15 plastic hangers, into one of three drawers you have for your clothes only to then stash all your good t-shirts and hoodies underneath your bed? Seriously. This child perplexes me.

He, of course, seems to have a reason for everything. Not that any of them make much sense. Witness this encounter.

Me: (assembling the infrastructure of a plastic storage box). . . “Let me get this straight. You took this box apart because the big spools of thread wouldn’t fit in the box if the infrastructure for the compartments remained?”

Boy Wonder: “Right!”

Me: “Did you ever consider using this box for all your small sewing notions and leaving the big spools of thread in the wood organizer I gave you?”

Boy Wonder: “But you have the wood organizer! You took it, remember?”

Me: “Right, I took it after you emptied and left it on your floor… I mean, did you ever consider using it BEFORE you disassembled your plastic storage box?”

Boy Wonder: “But I wanted it all to fit in one box.”

Me: (exasperated, because what’s up with the all or nothing logic?) “Pffft! You and your father! Black and white thinkers, I tell you.”

Boy Wonder: “I don’t really think in Black and White, you know. I’m more of a Sepia Thinker.”

And this is the REAL reason we call him Boy Wonder: he leaves his mother wondering where he gets this stuff.

Yellow Stripes are all the rage at Chez Wonder. He tested 2 months ago and I think had given up hope of ever hearing back. But, we got the call yesterday. . . good news. . . He passed!

The ceremony last night was really sweet. However, most of photos have other local children in them and no way to really crop them out—kids I don’t know, so no way to seek permission either. Anyhow, it was lovely, you’ll just have to trust me on that. Three kids got their next belt and they’re at that age where they’re fiercely proud but have NO intention of letting on; a mixture of “Aw Shucks” and “Look at me!” played out on every face as they bowed to their instructor and received their certificates. Straight faces all around, except for the sly grin attempting to escape at the corners of their mouths.

I tend to cry at these things, but managed to keep myself together for the boy’s sake. You know, it would never do. But I don’t think you could wipe the grin off my face last night.

. . . I’m going to blog about you.

Boy Wonder gave his father a card yesterday that read: Happy Father’s Day to the dad who wrote the book on fatherhood. . . from the kid who inspired the chapter, “Just When You Think You Have It All Figured Out. . .” Inside he inscribed the card:

Dear Dad,

Thank you for being such a good father this year. It amazes me that you can clean, cook, play, and take on the evil wrath of mom all at the same time.

Love, Boy Wonder

PS. The wrath thing was a joke.

Sure it was kid, sure it was!

How to Make a Great Paper Box.

It’s a Good Thing!

Ever had one of those days? It seems ironic that just last week I was talking about “two mocha days”. Because, I had no idea then that Sunday would register off the mocha scale. It was just that bad. If it could go wrong, it did. It was fiasco central here yesterday.

Life is fairly chaotic here lately. IZ has been managing his own work chaos. We hear him feverishly typing but we’re steering clear to make sure he has space to deal with client melt-down. And, it’s end of term for Boy Wonder and the last minute push to get it all done keeps us crazy busy. Not necessarily a bad thing, unless of course, you realize that you have missed on portfolio item altogether. Portfolio items need to be mailed in and while school ends on Wednesday and that’s theoretically enough time to do the work, it’s not enough time if you have to mail the portfolio on Monday. Which we do!

So, in a classic, “Stop the Presses” move, the boy and I sat down and did the project. We will now attempt to make up for lost time today. It’s all good. Really, it is. It doesn’t matter that the boy has to tape his speech today and he seems to be coming down with a case of Laryngitis. Oh my.

The Laryngitis is self-induced, which brings me to the mother of all disasters: the church dinner. You’ll have to trust me on all the gory details. I’ve rehashed them all with IZ so much that I’ve driven my self to distraction. The wrong kind, too! The basics are such:

• We attended a newcomers dinner at the local Episcopal Church last night.
• We thought it was a family deal, it wasn’t. It was an adult deal. They’d hired (somewhat insufficient help) one 15 year old girl to watch a passel of kids.
• Hell broke loose.

(more…)