How do I ensure my son does not end up a juvenile delinquent?

If John Hughes were casting the biopic of my 2 year-old-son, I firmly believe, and am somewhat embarrassed to admit, he’d be played by Judd Nelson (John Bender), the juvenile delinquent from The Breakfast Club.

This past week I picked my son up from daycare only to hear that he had been throwing sand at other kids, shoving them, and at naptime, chose to stand up, pull down his diaper, and pee on his nap mat (anyone see Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own? The peeing scene in which Madonna comments on is what I’m picturing…). Had he made fun of Brian (Anthony Michael Hall’s character) for eating “PB and J with the crust cut off” this vignette would’ve been complete. My son is that kid at preschool.

Here’s the thing: I can’t have my son be that kid; I’m a teacher. This will not fly. I relayed this story to one of my closest friends at work. He listened, recognizing the seriousness, the severity of my words, how much is riding on what happens next in my son’s life. And, with that, he told me the story of the time his son (now a successful, attractive, well adjusted, young man) called another student a mother***** on the playground. Brilliant. Obvious to anyone who has children, my coworker’s son used that term because he had heard his father say this time and time again. This is no one’s fault, really.

Now, had my son told the other students in his class to go f*** themselves for some egregious error they had made, I’d recognize that as being completely my fault. That, in all honesty, I may have said that at some point in my child’s existence, wondered at some point, when my husband was going to take me up on that offer. Mea culpa. But, that’s not what happened. And, my son doesn’t see people shoving or hitting each other in his home, so what the hell?

I listened with horror as his teachers told me they had reprimanded my son by telling him this action (his shoving, throwing sand, peeing standing upright over his mattress) makes them sad. Sad? Really? That’s it? I’m humiliated. I went home and immediately told his Nonni, my mother, who insisted (love the Italian in her) that it was obviously some other kid’s fault (and we should place a horse’s head in that kid’s bed…), and my son was just sticking up for himself (does this still include the peeing on his own bed at nap time?) I beg to differ. So, my quandary is, how do I ensure that my son does not end up a criminal? Some suggestions…

1.     Stop swearing in front of my son. For the most part, I’ve done this. However, there is the occasional under my breath/ loud enough for myself to hear telling someone around me where they can kiss me if they have the time…

2.     Try to make my son believe that my tattoos (though hidden from view) are drawn in, can be erased, and were the worst mistakes of my life.

3.     Make him see that fast cars, fast money and fast women have no place in his life. (But all seem so easy…)

4.      Never buy him a red plaid cut off shirt. Ever.

5.     Remind him that I love him, and use this guilt for the rest of his life.

Om Namah Shiva

           

Do you remember that scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where the Hindu priest is pulling a man’s heart straight from his chest while chanting, “Om namah shiva” - sounds like “Om nom shivai”, and later on he tries to do the same to Indi only to fall to his own death? That happened to me this week; minus the Hindu priest, or an incredibly built Harrison Ford nearly shirtless on a bridge, or the fall to a fiery or crocodiled pit of death. My heart was figuratively ripped out of my chest when I dropped off my son at daycare for the first time.

Granted, I tell my high school students on day one of my course that I’m a miracle of modern science because I have no heart; that if they come to me with their ‘tugging at my heartstring stories’ of how their homework is lost, they can just sell that batch of crazy somewhere else because I’m not buying. I figured this ability to become ‘heartless’ when needed would prove useful in this new endeavor with my child; this week, I was proven wrong.

My son has had the privilege of having my sister nanny him in his home the past two years. I’ve taken this for granted, and now realize after my sister’s decision to stop helping rear my child to find her own way in life, and my parents’ out and out refusal to take him until he’s 18 (selfish much?), that I had it pretty good. For the first time in his life, my son is out of the comfort of his home, and in a pre-school atmosphere. This is the most difficult thing I’ve done in my life.

Day one of this endeavor went well, a little too well. I dropped my son off expecting tears, pleas for me to stay, lingering goodbyes, and was met with my son practically throwing up a peace sign and telling me not to let the door hit me on the way out homeslice (do people say that anymore? Did they ever?); I was pissed. I became determined that my son would be more upset the next time I dropped him off (sick, I know). I had plans of spending the rest of the day with him only so that he would miss me more when I dropped him off day two. How could he nonchalantly say goodbye to me, not even noticing while I waited by the window (for 30 minutes) watching what he was doing, hoping he would look up, notice me gone, and cry out?  

Be careful what you wish for.

This morning my son held onto me with a vice grip akin to Lindsay Lohan holding a water bottle disguising her vodka at a party she hasn't been invited to. I contemplated not going to work. I started making empty promises which, at the time, I actually believed; I’ll quit my job, I’ll stay home with you, call in sick for the rest of the year, etc. etc. etc. While his sweet, grandmotherly teacher gently took my son from my arms assuring me this would all be okay, I wanted to grab him and run.

Does this get easier?

Things I didn’t think I’d have the stomach to handle until I became a Mom

1.     Vomit. Last night was a scene straight from the Exorcist; I was just waiting for my son’s head to spin around. We had a fairly normal day, but he over did it on the cereal bars right before bed. Look, I’ve seen my fair share of vomit. I’ve held back the hair of friends, of coworkers, and thrown my own pony back to do some ‘cleansing’ after a night gone awry, but my God. Yes, it was New Year’s Eve, but I don’t party that hard anymore. My son was in bed by 9:30pm, and why the hell do clubs stay open until 2am anyway? Who still looks good at that hour? (How old am I? Did I really just write that?) Regardless, as we were up the stairs off to bed, my son decided to christen the evening and the stairs with his own parting gift for 2011.

2.     Diapers. For human beings on the scale of my son, should they really be that bad? My son weights 30+ lbs, and he produces things that look reminiscent of the sick triceratops’ droppings from Jurassic Park, is this healthy? And why, when I’m attempting to change his diaper does he fight me? If anyone is getting the short end of the stick here, it’s me. Shouldn’t he be thankful? Buying me flowers after we’re done? Or at the least a drink??

3.     Ultimatums. I am a strong, confident woman, why do I give my son these? My latest favorite is, “Oh, okay, you’re not going to listen to me? Do you want me to get your papa?!” My son doesn’t take me seriously (like my students, and the rest of the world), so I stoop to this level, am I proud of that? No. But, it gets me through the day. My son’s papa is my father, his grandfather, a man who at 5’10” is a teddy bear and a whiz with children. Is he always nearby? No. Does my son know that? Absolutely not.

4.     Tantrums. What could possibly be so wrong in my son’s life that he chooses to lay down on the floor, throw his head back and scream? You know what? I’m going to try this at my job. The next time I disagree with a superior, or have had it with a student, I’m going to lay my head on the ground and cry. We’ll see how well that works.

5.     And, I understand that my son is only two, but looking forward… why do male high school students feel the need to bathe in Axe? It’s awful. Will my son do this? Is it hormonal? I have vague memories of my older brother getting ready for his junior high dances by showering in Draakar Noir; that evil black bottle that could grow hair on a woman’s chest… does someone tell them to do this?

Resolutions for the New Year

Mommyhood: Year two. That’s right, naysayers (mom and dad), my child has turned two. I’ve made it to the second go round and it’s been entertaining to say the least. Having said that, there are a few items I’ll try to improve in the New Year.

1.     I will try to accept that art and music classes are not for everyone. I realized this when I was patiently finger painting eggs to go into a self-created birds nest (wtf…) and looked up to see my son on the outside of the sliding doors, nose pressed up against the glass, making faces at all of us suckers on the inside as he enjoyed the sunshine. And with that, I picked up my eggs and birds nest and we haven’t looked back. I’m not knocking those parents who can get their kids to sit, relax, calmly paint or sing while politely using one instrument at a time. I’m just saying that that is not the path my son and I are on- ours is a bit less structured, more free spirited… For a second I thought he might’ve flipped us his own version of the bird the children were painting on the table, but I can’t be sure.

2.     I will be more together in times of crisis. As my son and I were relaxing with our bottles one evening, he leisurely leaned back in his plush kids’ chair falling directly onto a floor lamp resulting in a gnarly head wound. To help the situation, I proceeded to run up and down the stairs for no apparent reason while screaming and packing an overnight bag with snacks and toys; estimating that we would possibly be gone for weeks. I did all this while my husband patiently sat waiting with our son in the car. As we arrived at the emergency room (me trying to mask the scent of wine on my breath as I reiterated what happened to six different doctors and nurses…) they told us that our son would not need stitches, painted some glue on his wound (I now have a bill for what I could’ve done with Elmer’s…), and said that he would be fine (while my son proceeded to dance for and high five all of the sick people waiting to be seen).

3.     Despite children’s birthday parties being the outer most ring of hell Dante omitted, I will continue to throw these because I love my child. For my son’s second birthday, (one he will most likely not remember), I rented a pony; a living, breathing, neighing pony that shit all over my parents’ backyard, all in an effort to make Toy Story’s Woody and Bullseye come to life. Similar to Puff Daddy’s (or whatever the hell he’s going by now) White Parties, I told those who didn’t come in cowboy attire that they could just see their non-themed asses right on out the door (remember that for next year’s pirate party, mateys). Although I still feel much more comfortable drinking at adult parties, I hoisted my moonshine up to my lips while wearing a cowboy hat and boots and took one for the team that day.

4.     I will learn to accept and find the humor in the fact that I am turning into my parents. Mufasa was right Simba, there is a circle of life, and in my own family it means that I will inevitably end up saying things to my son that sound eerily familiar to what I was told. “You’ve got to be smarter than what you’re working with”, “If you want to cry, I’ll give you something to cry about”, “The only people on the road at 2am are drunkards or criminals, and since you are neither of those things, yet, you are not allowed out past 10”, and my favorite, “Do you need to potty?” (this last one will be said loudly at restaurants for the rest of his life). I’m starting to become more and more okay with this. Recently on a weekend trip away, one of my mother’s friends took me aside and told me that he loves my mother because she always seems to make him feel better about himself, my reply: “I know, she’s the best.” I hope at one point or another, my son will say the same about me.

5.     I will make a concerted effort to grade my parenting based on a curve. I’ve mentioned how honest my family is- there’s never been time to “beat around the bush” with us. I’ve written how my dad told me his concerns about me ‘making it out of the woods okay’ during my ‘awkward stage’ from 8-24 years. The other night I went into my mother’s garage and noticed several trophies from my siblings’ and my athletic achievements. I asked my mom why these weren’t up around the house in places of honor and her loving response? “Who gives a shit? You were all good. We get it.” You’ve got to appreciate how this woman keeps things in perspective. I’d like to remind myself that we’re all in this together, it does take a village (thanks, Hillary), and all I can do is (like my mother does) remember to not sweat the small stuff.

Here’s hoping you and yours have an adventure filled New Year. As my father sarcastically told me this past evening while watching me nurse my Syrah, and my son’s fallen train set he's,  “continually growing prouder of me and my multi-tasking-parenting skills”. Cheers, Dad, thanks for noticing.

Buon Anno!

All Hallow's Eve

October 31^st is by far the greatest day of the year- better than Christmas where you might feel obligated to buy people you barely know gifts, better than birthdays which inevitably are a let down; Halloween is a day dedicated to eating, drinking, being merry, and dressing up as the person you wish you could’ve been sans credentials/ money/ real life interfering. It’s awesome.

Over the years I’ve been everything from Marilyn Monroe (ended up looking like the Joker at the end of that evening), a Playboy bunny (lost more than my bunny ears that night), a “Trophy Wife” (came complete with crown and sash- pipe dream if there ever was one) and my all time personal favorite: when I was nine, I was a “harem girl” and my little sister was a unicorn and had to push me in my wheelbarrow (magic carpet) through the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival, and she hasn’t let me forget it.

When I was pregnant with my son, he was a baseball- my shirt was tucked up under my super plus size utility sports bra, pregnant belly painted white with red stripes, and I worked it. When he was one, he was a lion, and I was Dorothy Gale (the one with the inappropriate skirt length and red, sequined stilettos that would’ve made the Wicked Witch of the West blush). This year, as an homage to spending Saturday mornings of my youth lying in bed watching the old black and white show with my dad, my son will be Zorro.

Now, my concern is, as a mom am I allowed to dress up as the sexier, female version of this action hero? When is my expiration date for being able to dress like a hooker on this holiday?

There are countless articles online about young girls being convinced by the media, and their friends that they need to dress far beyond their years in a sad, pathetic attempt to seek out negative attention from their peers.  Well, what about the moms? Where’s our chance to seek out this unnecessary attention from those around us? And, if we get it, is that really a bad thing?

We are in a profession (mommyhood) that requires us to be role models for our kids 24/7. We are obligated, out of love and a hope that our kids turn out halfway normal, to act, dress, and speak demurely. We need to show our kids how to get attention from those around them in the right way. Well, I’m cashing my vacation time in, and I’d like one day off. I’m not saying I’m about to walk into my classroom and teach donning a “sexy witch” costume. But I am saying that although this holiday is in celebration of the dead, I’m not.

When I met my husband, I was at my family’s annual Halloween party (mom and dad were dressed as Carmen Miranda and Fidel Castro, sister was Joan Jett, Brother #1 was a matador, Brother #2 was Go Go Speed Racer) I was dressed as Eve who was happy to be without her Adam. No one batted an eye since I was a young, naïve 23 year old.  Can I get away with this now?

This year, I will be taking my son trick-or-treating for the first time. And, confidence allowing, you’ll see the two of us walking around our neighborhood dressed up like a Latin, crime-fighting duo.

Olé!

Are We Being Too Hard On Ourselves?

 

Society has it ingrained in women that we need to look like Stepford wives after popping out our kids: big boobs, small waist, perfect clothes, spotless house, hot mate.

Immediately after we have our children, we should be back in pre-maternity clothes, looking well rested, instantly ready to hop back into bed with our partner, and in a constant state of euphoria because of our “perfect” family and the never-ending bliss we receive from them. The obsession we have in the parenting world with perfection is absurd.

When I first met my husband my friend Toni asked me if I was going to tell him the truth about me- that truth being that I swear like a truck driver, I have an unhealthy relationship with reality t.v., I get my news from The Onion, my eating habits haven’t changed since I was five, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why college day parties didn’t catch on in the “adult world”. I told her that he’d just have to find these things out on his own time, at his own pace.  And, for better or worse, he did.

This idea is also true of parenting. No one tells you the cold-hearted truth about this endeavor, just like no one tells you the real story about being married. If they did, the population of the world would dwindle, and very few would be getting those tax breaks for checking the “married” box every April 15^th.  

Likewise, women have to come to grips with the fact that post-babies, things change. Body parts move. Hair becomes less kinky or kinkier (whatever the opposite effect desired is). Suddenly, you’ll tear up at Hallmark cards in the drug store aisle (don’t even get me started on the commercials for Mother’s/ Father’s Day or Christmas). Drinking habits improve- you’ll do this more. And, you realize that you’re in a marathon not a sprint, you’re constantly trying to keep your head above water, and about a million other horrid clichés people tell you to get you through.

I remember weeks after having my son, trying to squeeze my post-baby ass back into my jeans, by lying down on my bed, or the floor, or the kitchen and forcing the zipper to go at least half way up with all my strength. Then I would pull myself up without the ability to bend my legs in the process, throw on an oversized t-shirt triumphantly, and head out the door feeling victorious.

 Why was I so obsessed with trying to look perfect? Because society was telling me that I had to be.

And that is total B.S.

Even while I was pregnant my helpful mother tried to warn me that I would look a little different after having my son, “You really should buy those maternity shorts in a Large, I don’t even know why they make those in any other sizes. No pregnant woman is a Small or Medium anymore. And they never will be again. Let’s go drink margaritas - they’re good for you.” And, dammit, she was right, about everything.

I hope that the new, young moms out there everywhere realize that your kids will love you no matter what. Then, they’ll become teens and be incredibly embarrassed by you, and years later, love you again- for being exactly the way you are.

It's A Wonderful Life

 

 

I’m not a “Christmas person” for several reasons. But, growing up, I’ve always been a sucker for Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life.  I love the idea of how someone’s life could change completely based on one different choice made.

This past weekend, I went to a bachelorette party where, at one point during our dinner, the entire table drank to the maxim, “No kids forever! Yes!” As awkward as this was for me, I was once in these ladies’ stilettos. I get it. But, as I sat there nursing my wounds and my lemon drop, I thought about what these girls would be missing out on with a life sans children…

They will never fully experience the 2 am wake up call. Is this for the best? Probably. And their 2 am wake up call still happens, but is known as a different moniker- the “booty call”. But, there’s something pretty amazing about being totally responsible for another person’s happiness (no, not that.. get your head out of the gutter…I’m talking about parenting again). And at 2 am, being able to fulfill my son’s needs by bringing him a bottle or a hug feels good.

They won’t be walking their child up to his first day of preschool or kindergarten. There won’t be pictures or tears, or Nonni and Papa waiting in the wings, or driving back three or four times to look in the window to make sure he’s not the “weird kid” in the corner. What a terrible day to miss out on.

They most likely won’t be sipping on a cup of coffee at their child’s weekend soccer/ baseball/ basketball/ etc. games. They won’t be shouting nonsensical things from the sidelines in between plays like my mother did at my softball games, “Touchdown! Come on, you can do it! Field goal!” They won’t be there to help heal sore muscles, or provide needed encouragement.

They’ll miss bedtime stories. They won’t get to do the voices for each character, fully committing to whoever it is, and waiting to see how well it’s received.

Who is going to play the part of the train in The Little Engine that Could? Who’s going to be Eeyore? What about Goodnight Moon? Tragic.

They won’t see him off to his first junior high dance. They won’t help him pick out his dress shirt, slacks, tie, and help him with his hair. Remind him to have a good time, be respectful, and pray that no one breaks his heart.

What about 8^th grade graduation? First day of high school? First love? First break up? Who is going to be there like my parents were, when he makes a poor decision, goes to a party, and comes home after trying his first alcoholic beverages. And, like my parents did, I’ll get to fill him up on as much breakfast food as I can until the point of sickness to teach him a much needed lesson about peer pressure, drinking, and the effects of scrambled eggs on a full Jack Daniels stomach.

And college acceptance letters? What about those? They’ll never get to experience sending this person out into the world to make his own way, hoping and praying they’ve done enough to ensure he turns out halfway decent, kind, and able to find humour in all things.

There are times when I try to remember my life prior to my son. Some days feel like an eternity, and we are still dealing with temper tantrums, and mothers looking at me accusingly when my kid is the one at music class running around crazily while they are singing lullabies peacefully. Moments when I think about the freedoms I once had, but like George Bailey realized eventually, I’ll take this life any day.

Cheers to that, ladies.