Colin and I like to share books, or rather, he reads a ton, then foists stuff on me and demands I read it right away so we can talk about it.
He’s kind of a book bully.
Our book discussions go something like this:
“Did you read it?”
“Yeah, it was good.”
“You liked it?”
“Um, hmm. Cool, huh?”
At which point he either is dying for me to read the next book in whatever series it is, and biting his tongue over some major plot point he doesn’t want to ruin, or on to some other author he’s then pushing on me to finish so we can have another provocative discussion.
It’s about a scintillating as my adult book group discussions. Significantly less wine. Better material.
I told you about my chill child last week, and he is pretty chill most of the time. Except when he’s not. Like those days I pick him up from school and he’s got a scowl on his face and the conversation goes something like this:
“Hey sweetheart, how was your da – “
“WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO ASK SO MANY QUESTIONS?”
I swear there was some planet in retrograde for our entire household last week. The same morning started off with the other child slamming doors and books and throwing shoes around on his way downstairs.
“Mom, will you please, just —WHY ARE WE ALWAYS LATE?”
I happened to be waiting, keys in hand, to drive him to school. So I had no answer. At least not one that wasn’t going to get me yelled at.
There are people whose mouths write checks their bodies can’t cash, whose bravado is bigger than their brawn. Who can be guaranteed to bristle at the slightest confrontation.
You know ‘em. People for whom the competition is a bigger deal than the actual feat, whose entire psyche is one, big button waiting to be pushed.
You might think this is something with which I’ve gained familiarity by virtue of being surrounded by adolescent boys. Nope. If anyone around here is prone to chest-thumping smack talk, it’s me. I’m a big talker, and without anything in particular to back it up.
There’s something about suggesting I sit something out, or wondering if I have the chops for anything in particular that will inspire my most irrational behavior.
I have two years of high school cross-country as evidence. I slogged my way through the first year, hating every step, to prove my dad wrong when he called me out for volunteering as team manager in order to earn a letter without doing any actual, athletic-ish work. I signed up for the second year to prove I don’t ever do anything to prove anything to anyone.
Then there were two seasons where I umpired my kid’s little league team even though I’d never actually even played baseball, or probably even watched a whole game. That particular behavior brought about by a team manager who shot off his big, dumb man mouth:
Thought he could tell time. We have a big clock in the living room. The kind with a face and Roman numerals. I guess that could be hard to read on the fly. Too bad there are also only two to three additional clocks in pretty much every room in the house.
Our youngest child has apparently never learned how to use them. He’s always asking me what time it is.
Thought he knew how to tie his shoes. Not sure why that same child insists on running around with his laces undone more than half the time. Is it a fashion statement? Did I miss a memo?
Thought sitting outside on a bench in 65 degree, sunny weather for 20 minutes wouldn’t do him any harm. I was wrong. It nearly did him in, poor thing, having to wait while I picked up his brother across town. He got sweaty. He was bored. Things could have escalated before I finally showed. It could have been tragic.
Trusted that no homework on Friday meant no homework on Sunday. How is it that math assignments are always popping up out of the blue, inspiring panic and outrage the day before the school week starts again? I think I remember having a conversation about homework on the ride home from school Friday. There wasn’t any, then. Not a stitch.
I totally get this one. Math usually pops out at me unexpectedly, too. Ruins my day. Damn math.
I recently subscribed to one of those services that delivers a box of ingredients and instructions for dinner to your door every week because:
True Fact #1: Parenting gurus say if you don’t sit down to a family dinner on a regular basis your children will one day be hobos.
True Fact #2: There are people around here who might not live to see hobo-hood, and the whole dinner process is part of the problem.
First there’s the whole question of what’s for dinner, to which the answer is usually “I dunno,” or “doesn’t matter.” But when we all gather at the table it will inevitably dawn on one or more of these people that it jolly well does matter and I somehow forgot that fish flambé or whatever I’ve fixed is expressly verboten, and that’s when the nightly Pouring Of The Cereal commences.
I talk a lot in this blog about running and skiing, but in the interest of complete disclosure, we’re not really a sporty family. Being a “meh” mom isn’t conducive to raising the next Carl Lewis or Shaun White.
Our experience with kid sports is miles wide and inches deep. This is because, while neither kid shows any phenomenal athletic ability, it feels like good parenting when whatever they’re doing doesn’t involve a screen and/or headphones. When someone shows half a mind to sign up for whatever’s in season, we’re supportive.
Track season just started again for our youngest, just as skiing season winds down. Before I tackle the three-page permission-slash-doctor’s-release-slash-fundraising-agreement Colin just handed me, I thought I’d share my parental perspective on various sports.
Last week’s list of how to annoy teenagers without even trying was something I almost didn’t publish out of guilt.
My kids are okay people, and by that I mean they give us way less trouble than people want to believe of teenagers. I also mean they inspire a whole bunch of gooshy, happy feelings the expression of which would get me kicked out of the snarky parents club.
I didn’t expect that of parenting. What I expected was to be at a point by now where I was counting the days until our oldest was leaving.
When I was on a business trip in December, there was a woman who got really gloomy toward the end of the week. She didn’t want to leave because she’d be returning to a home recently absented by her grown daughter.
I may have lacked the appropriate amount of empty-nester empathy.
Could you pick me up? I had a panic attack in history and I just can’t do this today.
Ugh. Crap. I was in the middle of a run, and then I needed to shower, go to a meeting, go to another meeting, and then, well, work. Jack’s school is 30 minutes away, in good traffic. I didn’t have that kind of time.
And … crap. What did he mean: panic attack? Sure, he had enough going on to overwhelm a person. It could be finals, or the speech he’s supposed to have ready this weekend – four minutes translated into Danish and memorized for a youth exchange retreat. It could be something a friend or a teacher said to him. It could be the weight of the world. Or it could be everyday teenage angst.
I know a few people with very serious anxiety problems. Some who can’t sleep through the night, or speak to a crowd, or – I don’t know – navigate a car through traffic, depending upon the day. What if this episode was the start of something chronic and debilitating?