Leaving Behind His Teens

This week, my oldest son, my second child, turns 20.
I won't get to be with him, so that makes me a little sad, but luckily his father has flown down to Florida so they'll get to spend some time together for his birthday.

From the minute Spencer arrived, two weeks early, he has been curious. As a toddler, as a kid, as a teenager. I hope he never loses that.
Recalling Spencer as a little guy, I can hear the echo of his footsteps as he made the early morning dash from his bedroom, across the wood-floor landing toward our bed before he dived in between me and Earl. We teased him when he was little that he should wear the box instead of the shoe because his feet were so square, as wide as they were long.
Thud, thud, thud, his feet would race across the landing.
When he was very young, Earl started a thing with him. If Spencer pressed Earl's nose, Earl would beep.
One morning early, Spencer pressed on Earl's nose. Earl was too tired to respond. Spencer pressed again. Still nothing.
"Hmmm," Spencer said. "Must need new batteries."

Spencer and his Gran.

He loved castles and knights, plus swords and armor. He wanted to fight dragons and bad guys.
He's always loved sports and grew from a chunky little boy to a wiry school kid (even though he homeschooled). He practiced basketball until he injured the growth plate in his elbow. He played quarterback in 6th grade football because he was the only one who could memorize the plays.
He decided he wanted to go to real school in eighth grade, so we moved to a small town where we could enroll the kids. Grace started school then too, and Tucker followed six months later.

He's always loved being with friends, more than my other kids. Even the pictures of him as a little boy show him with an arm thrown around another guy's shoulders.
Even today, his buddies come first.

He had some tough times trying to figure out who he is and what he stands for as a teenager, but as he turns 20, I hope he's more sure about himself and his abilities.

He knows he loves nature and plans a career as an environmental scientist. He takes a kayak out on Tampa Bay and paddles to islands covered by mangroves before leaning back and sleeping in the sunshine.
So he's far away in the sunshine this weekend, taking a couple of days to spend with his dad and his grandparents (my parents), doing his laundry and eating homemade meals (steak was his first request). Also helping to paint their house because he remains a generous guy who doesn't mind helping out, even on his birthday.
Happy birthday, Spencer.
I can't wait to see what you accomplish in the next 20 years.

Teenage Puzzles

My mom called one night this week. "I just wanted to find out how Tucker was," she said.
Tucker, our remaining child at home with his two older siblings at college. He's 16 and frequently sullen, but sometimes buoyantly friendly. There's no predicting which one he'll be.
"He's fine," I said. "He got a 97 on his chemistry test."
He works out three days a week after school to get ready for swim season. He spends a lot of evenings fetching his girlfriend from her college dorm 15 minutes away and bringing her back to our house. She's probably here for dinner three or four nights a week.
"I saw that they'd broken up and didn't know who did the breaking up, but wanted to make sure he was okay," Mom said.
She's friends with Tucker on Facebook. I'm not. I never know his status in relationships or otherwise, unless he volunteers it.
"Really?" I asked. "She was just here last night. She was going to take the bus back to school and we told Tucker to drive her."
After I talked to Mom for awhile, I called down the basement to Tucker. He spends a lot of time playing  Xbox or watching TV in his man cave.
"Who broke up with whom?" I asked.
"Don't worry about it, Mom," he said.
"But you're okay?" I called.
"Yeah," he said, with that tone that includes the word "Duh!" even though he didn't say it. "We're not dating but we're still together."
"Oh..." I had no idea what that meant.
But I do know that when I got home from running errands last night, she was here again. She's a sweet girl, but the bridge between a girl in college and a boy in high school is pretty great, even if they're only 15 minutes apart.
Still, maybe they've figured out how to take the sting out of break ups. On Facebook, they're not a couple any more. In real life, she was here three nights this week.
I can't figure it out, so I'll just make dinner for the both of them and stop trying to solve the puzzle.

Impending Troubles?

How do you respond to someone's prediction of doom?
I'm not really sure what to do with this. Maybe you can help.
Just this morning, I called Sheila, asking her to review how she handled her 20-year-old son's teenage years. Tucker seems angry whenever he's home. I want things to be better, but I end up getting angry back at him. Sheila and I talked for awhile but, as usual with parenting, we didn't come up with a solution. As I dropped Tucker at school this morning, the slam of the door resounded like an exclamation mark on our relationship.
I've been worried about Spencer the past few days too, since he came home at 9 p.m. Saturday. He hasn't hung out with his friends since then. He claims everything is fine, he's just decided to stay home more. That makes me nervous. He's the most social person I know. Is he fighting with his friends? Is he trying to avoid trouble?
So worry about my boys was nibbling at my brain when I got home and checked my email. One of my former students, Muhanned,a smart man who I trust and stay in contact with, sent me an email. Muhanned was born in Saudi Arabia, grew up in England and the U.S.
His email was titled "I had a dream." I figured he was sending me another video of his baby daughter. But not. He wrote about his dream that "some harm came to your son" and "you were offered $300 million in compensation." He woke up with a feeling of foreboding and wasn't able to shake the feeling for the past few days, so he emailed me.
I felt tears fill my eyes.
Should I go pull both boys out of school and keep them home -- forever -- to keep them safe?
I don't know whether Muhanned has prophetic dreams like his namesake, but the idea of something happening to either of my sons is frightening. And when I thought about it, I realized there is nothing I can do to protect them from the world.
Of course, I analyzed Muhanned's email. I wanted to shoot back questions: Which son? Have you had dreams come true before? Did something happen during the day that made you think of me, which could have spurred the dream and had nothing to do with my future?
And I looked at his carefully chosen words: "some harm." He didn't say "die" but why would I get compensation if said son was still alive? $300 million compensation meant some sort of accident and a big corporation responsible. I brooded on his words. I needed to make sure my boys were safe.
The thing is, there's nothing I can do to make sure my boys aren't involved in an accident if Muhanned's dream is correct or if it isn't. The only thing I can do is to make sure that the boys know how much I love them, to be certain our relationship is fine in case anything should ever happen to them or me -- whether it's related to Muhanned's dream or just to life.
So I asked Tucker to go to lunch, but he turned me down. He wouldn't mind if I gave him his weekly allowance though. So I dropped by the school. Tucker and his buddies filled the car and asked me to drop them at Qdoba. He leaned over and game me a kiss before he got out.
Then I saw Spencer walking with a few friends on their way to lunch on this beautiful, sun-drenched day.
Whatever the future holds, I hope we can all say we didn't waste our time together fighting or complaining.
And I'm thankful to Muhanned's dream for forcing me to go make peace with Tucker and take a few minutes out of my day to remember how much I love my kids.

Mothering Epiphany

Yesterday, between my three classes, I spent a bit of time with my teenage children, and I realized that the words I say have more impact than I imagined.
I'm sure you don't believe me. Teenagers never pay attention to their parents, but two incidents convinced me.
Grace was sitting on the couch looking as glum as I've seen her since she arrived home from college.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know what I'm going to do with my life," she said.
I assured her that going to college was plenty to do at 19.
"Yeah, but you don't like my major," she said.
And I thought back to a few comments I had made, encouraging her to look into science again. When the doctor asked what she planned to do with her multi-lingual studies major, I jumped in and said, "Order coffee in any language."
I suppose these comments are not exactly supportive.
I promised Grace that I would back her decision and that she would find a splendid job with her major.
Then I left to take Tucker to swim practice. He sat in the passenger seat next to me and glanced in the side mirror.
"I'm going to shave tonight," he said rubbing his hand across the beard on his chin and cheeks. His beard filled in pretty well and I had been urging him to trim it. I didn't want it to get long and straggly looking. I didn't respond to his comment about shaving.

"No, I think I'll shave all this," he rubbed his cheeks, "and just leave this," he said pointing to his chin.
I made a snorting derisive noise.
"Oh, fine. Everybody else likes it, Mom. You're the only one who doesn't."
"I didn't say anything," I replied in my defense.
"You made that laughing noise," he said and fell silent.
Since this was the second time that day, I realized that my children were, for some reason, putting a lot of stock in my opinions, as much as they struggled to convince me otherwise.
We drove on in silence and I debated whether I could joke with Tucker to get him out of his anger. Then I decided on a direct approach.
"Tucker, you're right. I should have been supportive of you. You guys are practically adults and I need to stay out of your decisions."
He looked at me, afraid of a trap.
"Seriously," I said. "The same thing happened earlier today with Grace and I just need to keep my opinions to myself."
His shoulders relaxed and we drove the rest of the way to the pool.
Truthfully though, keeping my opinions to myself is not something I'm very good at. I find myself offering my children, and my husband, tips on better or easier ways to do things.
This is going to be an uphill climb.

Brings Tears to My Eyes

I know that I complain about my kids a lot, but I want to make sure I also appreciate them when they go a step above the normal teenager.
I was in the kitchen yesterday evening sauteeing tomatoes for my tomato and turkey omelette when I heard the bathroom door open and then the creak of the hall closet door.
A knock at the front door drew my attention and I waved in Forrest, one of Tucker's friends.
"Is he in the basement?" Forrest asked as Tucker emerged from the bathroom.
I didn't think anything more of those squeaking doors until I went in the bathroom later that evening.
There, on the toilet paper holder, was a fresh roll of toilet paper.
That's right. My 15-year-old son went to the closet and got a new roll of toilet paper and put it on the toilet roll holder with the end coming over the top, the same way I always do.
I'm feeling so proud and a little verklempt. Forget swimming fast or getting good grades at school, changing the toilet paper roll is where you can see the real mettle of a man -- or, future man.
And I've included a picture of cats and toilet paper, because this could happen at my house too, but it hasn't...yet.

Photo from: http://www.lolpix.com/_pics/Funny_Pictures_671/Funny_Pictures_67113.jpg

Model Life

My friend Sheila, who used to blog before she became an international traveller two weeks ago, sent an update to her friends as Paris fashion week is winding down.

It’s so much more work than either Beth or I imagined. The emotional stress is also so much more than I would have thought. But at the end of the day Beth loved it. It’s a hard life being a model. It’s definitely not all glitz and glamour....it’s constant travelling never knowing where you’re going to be next. College would be so much easier than all this.

I don't think Sheila actually expects people to feel sorry for her daughter who has become an international model in the matter of a month. And the hours that Bethany has spent going to castings and fittings before waltzing down the runway sound exhausting. Many days she worked 14 hours without time to stop and eat.
She was booked for shows then cancelled at the last minute. She was rejected because she is too skinny -- too skinny to be a model? What did they expect when she didn't have time to eat?
In spite of the excruciating hours and the emotional highs and lows, modeling has some benefits that college would not have.
Even though Beth travelled to New York city alone, she had a strict schedule she had to follow. Nearly every hour was planned. Believe me, that cuts down on the emotional highs and lows that come from the many unscheduled hours in college where teenagers can wallow in their loneliness.
Bethany had planned to go to college in Ohio. Instead, she started modeling in New York City, flew to Milan then on to Paris. Modeling has allowed her to travel the world.
If Bethany had gone to college, she would have to pay the $20,000 yearly tuition, or find grants and loans to pay for college. As a model, she'll be paid for shows and her work. Of course, Sheila still has no idea how much money she has made or how much the expenses of the trip will cost.
As a model, at least in Paris, when Bethany exits the buildings she has to stand and allow the paparazzi to snap her photo. If that happened at college, it would mean she had a stalker.
As a model instead of a college student, Bethany does not have to read any more than her daily schedule. At college, she would have to pay for expensive textbooks then read them by the deadline, along with writing papers and studying for tests.
The best thing about Bethany deciding to forego college is that, after two weeks away from home, Sheila was able to fly and join her. She can smooth her hair and kiss her goodnight. Even when they're in a foreign country and Beth feels tired and may snap at Sheila, they aren't separated for months at a time.
That is something that, as a mother, she could not have done if Bethany had gone to college. When they go away to college, the most a mother can do is send calming words across the phone.
So, in spite of the long hours and hard work,even though it isn't all glamour and easy cash, I'm envious of the new life Bethany and Sheila have. Not just because they get to visit exotic locales, but because they get to be together.

Last Time

The problem with the last time something happens, unless it is scheduled, we probably don't notice it's the last. I know the last swim meet, the last basketball game, the last show in a play. But so many lasts with my kids I don't recognize.
This morning around 6, I heard the floorboards creak then someone shuffled into a door. Next the word, "Mom" came from the darkness.
"Yeah?" I responded.
Then Tucker stood beside the bed stretching six-feet tall now, his shoulders broadened from this last season of swimming.
I scooted over so he could sit down.
"I had a bad dream," his hand rubbed at his eyes. He sat on the bed then lifted up the covers and climbed in.
I moved over more toward Earl as Tucker turned on his side.
I rubbed his back a few minutes while he slipped back to sleep.
As I lay there, sandwiched between my husband and son, I remembered that this used to be a common occurence. Tucker would seek out our bed. Once he had fallen asleep, I would get too hot from all the body heat coming from those guys so I would get up and sleep on the couch.
Now I can't remember the last time Tucker came to our bed. Probably a couple of years.
Odds are good, this time on Feb. 13 may be the final time that one of our children climbs into our bed after a bad dream. There might be plenty of other times they wake us up in the middle of the night though, and the problems may not be as innocent as a bad dream.
At 14, Tucker can be a handful. When he was two, he would run ahead then look back to see if I was still there watching him. Now he may talk a good game about all the ways I could improve myself, but in the middle of the night, he came to see if I was still there for him.
I am.

Chubby, Little Hands

At the Newman Center on OSU's campus where we go to church, we sit to the side in a section filled with families. Our kids aren't little and restless anymore, but it is a habit we got into and so we continue to sit in the family-friendly section. This morning, Earl and I both seemed to be noticing lots of adorable kids. He was fascinated by an Indian boy and then a baby who looked like a mafia member.
I watched our friends who sat on the steps with their son, who is Spencer's age, 16, and their little girl who is 6. The girl has thick, gorgeous dark hair. She was born with a full head of hair that she now pulls out of its ponytail holder and smooths down again before trapping it. I can tell this is a new skill that she takes great pleasure in. But what really got to me today was when she leaned over to whisper to her mom.
If I'm going to whisper to someone, I may cup my hands around their ear. This little girl, Elizabeth, reached her arm around her mother's neck, her little hand pressing her mother's head toward her mouth as she whispered her secrets. And I remember little hands pressing me closer.
When I nursed Tucker (until he was 3!) he would rub his finger against a mole on my cheek. Grace would twirl my hair while she nursed. My own children had those little chubby hands that were always reaching for me and caressing me.
This morning, Tucker sat next to me in Mass and I reached over and rubbed his broad back a few times. But I know there are limits to how long I can maintain touching this 14-year-old before he shrugs me off.
Still, there are days when Grace will lie down on the couch and rest her head on my lap. Sometimes if we are walking somewhere, she will grab my hand and we'll swing them along like we did when she was little. And both of my boys, although 6-foot, 3-inches and 6-feet tall, will push my office chair away from the desk where I am sitting and climb onto my lap for a quick hug and talk before they're off again to their teenage boy activities.
I remember feeling overwhelmed with the physical contact of little kids, especially while I was nursing. I didn't think I could stand for another person to touch me. Now, I realize how rare those days of constant touch are because they slipped away so quickly. So I take the hugs and hand holding where it comes these days.

Passions

Sometimes it's hard to keep all the balls in the air at the same time.
If I decide to focus on writing, my running slips. If I decide to really train for running, my writing falls off a cliff. I won't even tell you where mothering and teaching fit in.
One of the problems is that I am most productive early in the morning. At 5 or 6 a.m. I am usually either at the computer writing or on the road running. And that is my window of opportunity.
If I write for an hour or two, I'm not likely to then go for a run. I might head out the door, but I don't make it too far.
If I go for a nice run, when I return dripping sweat, I'm more likely to sit on the front porch and read the newspaper than I am to sit at the computer and write.
Many days these past few weeks, my early morning hours have been spent preparing for class or grading papers. I'm teaching four online classes this summer, but once everyone is out of bed, if Mom is home, the expectations are that I'm not really working. I can make lunches and run to Target, and all those other little errands that eat into my day instead of grading and preparing for the classes I do have to go to teach.
Grace and I have also been following an exercise program that takes an hour to an hour and a half everyday with only one day of rest each week. We've finished five weeks of it so far. Grace is not an early riser, although I may roust her out of bed at 8 on mornings when she has to work. So this is another thing that is eating up my time.
There's always the evening, someone might suggest. But they haven't seen me in the evenings. I'm wiped out. Whether I've been teaching, grading papers, running kids to doctors appointments or meeting friends for lunch, come 8 p.m., I'm useless and am lucky to hold a book in front of my face or lift up the remote to change the channel until I lurch to bed at 10.
I guess I'm kind of the opposite of ADD, people who can't pay attention to one thing. Instead, I end up focusing on one passion at a time and the others fall to the wayside.

Happy

Today I am filled with joie de vivre. So many things have gone my way, starting with my morning when I wrote the end of my novel. I still have to go back and add a chapter, along with editing. I'm sure many things will change, but it makes me so energized and thrilled to know that I'm nearly there. Things have really come together the past few days.
Grace asked if she could edit for me and I explained that my experience with Earl as an editor when I was a journalist had convinced me that family shouldn't edit each other's work. I remembered arguing about specific words and big ideas. Nevertheless, I printed off the 280 pages today and handed them to her in a file folder. When she came home from work, she sat alone and ate her dinner of chicken sausage with apples. She read page after page. I walked past and assured her that she didn't need to read it all now. I still planned to write that extra chapter and get it to her. She read more than 80 pages as she crunched on carrots and sat at the table long after she'd finished her dinner. I know she has to tell me that she likes it, but she claims she would be honest if she didn't.
And now, as evening falls, the kids have dispersed and I am home alone. I love being home alone. Probably because I don't get the opportunity very often.
Since I had kids, I have worked from home. We home schooled so I never had time home alone while they were gone to school. They all started school about two and a half years ago then more than a year ago, Earl's job changed and he is home during the day while the kids are at school.
It's not like I do anything special when I'm home alone. Sometimes I do housework, sometimes I exercise, sometimes I surf the web, watch mindless tv or read a book. It's just nice to be alone occasionally. And tonight, I can pour myself a glass of wine and feel satisfied that my writing is progressing.
Then it's back to my papers that are waiting to be graded.

The Hidden Cost of ChiRunning

I just want to reiterate the value of exercise before I start totaling up the cost of exercising, and I'm not talking about the cute running shorts or the expensive shoes. Today, in my second trip back to the doctor in a week, I handed over my credit card for my $20 co-pay.
"$10" the Russian-born receptionist asked, as if she hoped to make it less painful. Maybe she felt guilty that I paid $20 on Monday and all the doctor did was tut over my knee and tell me to come back.
In some distant month, I can see myself practicing ChiRunning as I glide along the street, barely breathing hard. For now, I'm entering the bills on my Quicken, unable to run for another week yet.
ChiRunning class taught by impeccable instructor -- $125
ChiRunning book and metronome to keep me in beat -- $ 55
Emergency Room co-pay at 6 a.m. -- $ 75
Co-pay for first visit to have stitches removed -- $ 20
Co-pay for second visit to have stitches removed -- $ 20
Lost hour and a half of work in the writing center
while I had the stitches removed -- $30
Session with psychologists to lament the fact that
I can't run and must find other ways to deal with
my stress -- $120
Extra large bandages, epsom salts, mochas to ease
the pain, extra gas because I'm driving instead
of walking -- $??
New running shoes to replace the bloodied ones -- $90

In spite of the finances, the thing I feel badly about is that Grace fell on the same day as she was riding her bike to school. I was sitting with my stitched knee propped up when she came home with large bandaids on her ankle and knee. She hadn't ridden home in disgrace, dripping blood and crying. She had simply gone to the school nurse and gotten taped up. She didn't, or couldn't, make a big deal about it, because I had trumped her with my stitches. I was proud that she was more concerned about someone else (me) than her own injuries. She's really growing up. And it gave me pause, briefly, to wonder what it would be like to have a self-centered mother who frequently grabs the limelight with her own complaints.
Of course, I shouldn't overlook the benefits I've reaped from this episode. I haven't done laundry for two and a half weeks because the washing machine is in the basement.
As my fall becomes a bad memory, I will be left with only a Great Britain shaped scar.
Photo: http://creditcardlovers.com/