The dictionary defines a changeling as a strange child left by fairies in place of your real bundle of joy. This fable confirms what I’ve been suspecting for weeks. The boy in my son’s bed wearing my son’s pajamas is not really my son. Oh he looks just like him. And if I bury my nose in the crown of his head and inhale deeply, there’s that singular smell that is his alone, a scent that can still make my knees buckle with maternal love. But I am not fooled. These fairies are good at what they do.
I found his yearbook on the table and flipped through it. Not much to see or even read; he’s only in fifth grade. Suddenly a page gave me pause. There in the middle of the 4th grade class photo in his still childish scrawl was one word written beneath a picture of an unsuspecting nine-year old girl. “Hottie.”
First I am stunned that he knows this term and how to use it. Next I look closer to see what kind of taste he has (oh come on, so would you). Then I laugh and ponder what to do with this newfound information. Blackmail opportunities abound and he will be mortified if he knows I’ve seen this. I store this information to use at an opportune time.
Then I wonder. Who is this boy with shadows of manhood dusting his upper lip and body? I’m alarmed at his need for deodorant and the way his size S/M boxers have begun “tenting up” unexpectedly when he’s feeling restless, agitated or anxious. But what gives the imposter away is all in the eyes. My son, my first born, even when he didn’t get his way always had a softness in his eyes I could connect with. He hated to think he might have done something to disappoint me. But this child in front of me now manages a steady gaze full of barely concealed defiance. He does not back down or look away when I rebuke him. And dare I say there’s a hint of mockery in his expression too – the realization (so soon!) that mom does not know everything.
I don’t like the word “tween” because I know that it is merely a marketing term invented to help retailers push tons of useless products on a completely fabricated demographic. Eight to twelve-year olds do not need starter phones, laptops with training wheels or anything at all that sports a picture of the Jonas Brothers. If you get sucked into that you will soon be running an eBay store trying to sell all the techie toys your kid just had to have but has now outgrown. Which is why my son (in his assessment) is the lone child in his peer group who does not have his own calling plan, email address or My Space page. Most of my reasoning on this is simple: I will not waste money on things he does not need. The underlying reasons are more complex; I don’t want him to grow up.
My daughter, who is six, has a deep conviction that she is the boss of everybody. Actually, as a little African American girl in a sea of white kids at our local private school, she delighted going to school on November 5 and telling anyone who would listen that Obama was now the boss of everybody. But that may be another blog. The point is she’s got the “girl’s rule” thing down pat. And I’m O.K. with that. I figured we’d face the mother/daughter battle of the wills eventually. But my boy, now that’s another story. He’s my baby, my pie, my cub, my man child. And already he is slipping away. A friend whose sons are grown and gone recently said to me “They weigh on your lap for such a short time, but they weigh on your heart forever.”
Tonight my son told me that money makes the world go around. He was feeling flush with cash, having just gotten a ten from his grandma. I chuckled when he said it and replied, “Well I’m glad you’ve got the world figured out. Who told you that anyhow?” “Mr. Koo-rabs” he said with authority. I racked my brain for a moment – PE teacher? Playground Aid? “Who is Mr. Koo-rabs?” I asked as I walked right into it because it dawned on me in the instant he rolled his eyes and said, “You know. Mr. Crabs. On Sponge Bob!” I smiled, relieved, at least for the moment and nodded, “That’s my boy.”
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Parenting is not a competitive sport
I have a friend who makes every mom I know, myself included, look like a slacker. She has five children under the age of 12. She’s always dressed to the nines as if she walked right out of Ann Taylor. She got her MBA last year when her youngest was not yet two. This year she successfully ran for City Council. She’s also gorgeous, smart and funny. Oh, and her size two jeans are a little loose right now so she’s been hitting the drive through at In ‘N Out to see if she can pack on a few pounds. Just being around her should make me feel like staying in bed. But strangely, it has the opposite affect. I find myself energized, inspired and motivated in her company. It’s not that I want to be her or even be like her. It’s just that her competence seems catching.
I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.
Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.
I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”
My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.
My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.
I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.
I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.
Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.
I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”
My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.
My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.
I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.
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