Disconnected March 22, 2011

We no longer have a landline for our home phone.  I realize this isn’t that big of a deal in today’s world of cellphones and Internet, but for some reason not having the phone is sending me into a slight panic.  The panic has very little to do with the fact that we are totally screwed should we lose cell signal or that telemarketers will no longer be able to find us.  My panic has to do with what a lack of home phone means for J.  Yes, J.  The youngest of our clan who quite frankly has only used the phone to talk to his grandmothers a couple of times each year.

 

But, it was J who struggled to memorize this number and when he finally accomplished the goal, he said, “Now I know how to tell people where I belong.”  While I had completely forgotten about that preschool (OK, more like kindergarten) accomplishment, it came rushing back to me the minute my husband said he had made the call to cancel our phone service.  The one number that represented “where we belong” for the past 12 years was no longer there and I started to feel as if I was doing a disservice to my children, especially J who didn’t have a cellphone number to call his very own.

 

While he would love to use this as an excuse as to why a 7–year-old boy needs his own cellphone, the truth is, J doesn’t care about the home phone. So, why is this such a big deal to me?  Perhaps I’m the one who has been feeling a bit disconnected from “where we belong” lately as I watch my kids get older and realize that life does move on and, gulp, change–the phone was just a tangible way for me to keep hold of something familiar.

 

Or, perhaps this is another one of those parenting moments where I turn a basic situation into some type of life altering experience.  When I asked J how he felt about not having a home phone his reply was as deep and meaningful as the statement he made when first learning his phone number.  “I didn’t know we still used that,” he said as he worked on his Lego skyscraper. “Did you get new snacks at the store?”

 

OK, maybe not quite as profound, but it does put things into perspective.

Who Really Needs a Donald Duck Medal? May 6, 2010

I spent a good part of my afternoon staring at my computer screen reading the words “registration is now open.”  I have been asked—and I use that term loosely because it’s more like pushed—to participate in the Walt Disney Half Marathon being held in early January 2011.  I am not an athlete.  Matter of fact, I am not even an aspiring athlete.  I have very few competitive bones in my body and the ones I do have appear to be the ones beaten down three days a week when I attend a boot camp class.  Which is really how this whole insanity began.

For some reason, my fearless boot camp leader thinks that I can do this and she’s smart enough to know that in order to get me motivated, she needed to turn this 13.1 miles of agony into a fun-filled girls weekend.  We spend a lot of time talking about the trip down to Florida, picking up our race goody bags, riding theme park rides and enjoying a spa and cocktail post-race.  We don’t spend a lot of time talking about the training, the waking up at 4:30 AM on race day, and the mere fact that I have to somehow run 13.1 miles.  As my good friend Robyn stated, “The rules are you have to finish each mile in 16 minutes or less.  Sixteen minutes!  That’s like a stroll in the park even for your short, little legs.”  Point taken.  But still, here I sit staring at the computer screen afraid to click any further than the home page.

What is it about challenges such as this that make me freeze?  I’m not really afraid of failing.  In fact, I sort of envision myself dipping below the 16-minute pace around mile 5 just so race organizers have to pick me up in an air conditioned vehicle and drive me to the finish line.   I think I’m more afraid of trying—of committing myself to something that I already know will be hard both physically and mentally.  Which is why I can’t seem to press the final button on the online registration form.

For me, this is the real beginning of my half marathon training—getting myself mentally prepared to take a gigantic leap of faith that I can not only do the task, but enjoy the accomplishment.

The Soundtrack of My Life March 29, 2010

Last week, I took my middle son to our local bookstore to meet his favorite author Mike Lupica.  Lupica (who is probably better known as a popular columnist for the New York Daily News and a commentator on ESPN’s “The Sports Reporters”) has written numerous sports-themed kid books and has become known as “The King of Reluctant Readers.”  My son is one such ‘reluctant reader’ which is why we were both so excited to actually meet the author in person.

Although Mr. Lupica is an accomplished writer, he’s also a great speaker–appealing to both the crowd of boys (I didn’t see a girl in the bunch) and their parents (many of which were Dads that were absolutely giddy to ask such thought-provoking author questions as “Who do you pick to win the NCAA?”).  There was one statement that Mike Lupica made that stuck with me for days: “Parents, those conversations you hear from the backseat of your car or at the dinner table…those conversations are the soundtrack of your life.”  Wow—really?  I was thinking what my own soundtrack might be and was hoping it would be filled with deep conversations about life changing events or those ‘after school special endings’ where Mom and Dad are always right and brothers and sisters embrace each other with love. Instead, this is what I have:

Daughter: “I am getting an ‘A’ in language arts.  Finally an ‘A’ in language arts.  This means I have more ‘A’s’ than ‘B’s’.  Whoot Whoot!”
Son #1: “I am getting a ‘D’ in social studies.  I thought I was getting an ‘F’.  I have more ‘C’s’ than ‘D’s’.  Whoot Whoot!”

Son #2: “I know I was on yellow today, but Trinity was on red.  Do you know this is Trinity’s first time on red?  She cried. I don’t cry when I’m on red because I know the next time I will probably be on yellow.”
Daughter: “Don’t you mean you will probably be on green?  Isn’t green the ‘good’ color?”
Son #2: “Yeah, but yellow is kind of my own green.”

Daughter (as she stomps up the stairs with her phone): “Am I the only one in this family who doesn’t want to wrestle in the family room or hear about somebody bleeding during recess?”

Son #2: “It wasn’t my fault.  It was his fault”
Son #1: “Me?!  You are the one that pushed me into the table and made the pictures fall.”
Son #2: “I know, but you are the one that makes me mad which makes me do crazy things.  It’s your fault.”

If my conversations were turned into an actual music-filled soundtrack it would probably include Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, Mxpx’s ‘Responsibility’, No Doubt’s ‘I’m Just a Girl’ and the Offspring’s ‘Come Out and Play’–each representing a specific chunk of our current state of affairs which includes a son who thinks he will somehow get by with poor grades, another son who has apparently set his own standards and rules for classroom behavior, a daughter who wants to flee our testosterone-filled household and siblings who constantly look to blame one another for their own actions.

What is the current soundtrack of your life?

Why I Don’t Coach March 22, 2010

I just received a phone call asking if I would be willing to be the coach of my son’s recreational soccer team.  There is no part of my body that thinks this is a good fit for my personality.  First and foremost, after years of watching all three of my children play soccer at least once or twice during their long athletic careers, I still know very little about the sport itself. And, if that’s not enough to keep me off of the sidelines, I have very little patience for other parents.  Let me rephrase that…I have very little patience for other parents who 1) think their child is a better athlete than he or she really is, 2) feel the first grade soccer team is one step below becoming a member of the Chicago Fire and 3) run over to the team huddle during every timeout with an extra water bottle and cheese cracker snack because little Johnny didn’t eat a very good lunch.

The patience I lack as a possible coach, I make up for in being a good ‘player parent.’  I am none of the people described above (at least I hope I’m not) and I really do think being a coach of any type of kid team, even if you were forced to volunteer, is an enormous amount of responsibility.  Which is why, at the beginning of every new sport’s season, I truly believe that our coach has the best interest of my child and his or her team at heart.    For the most part, this philosophy has served us well and we have been blessed with a myriad of coaches who have gone above and beyond their call of volunteer duty.  Until last year.

Last year, my middle son moved up an age bracket for his baseball league and was put on a new team.  While his fielding was strong, Nate was in a bit of a batting slump—a slump that lasted pretty much throughout the entire season.  With each and every game, I could tell the coach was growing more frustrated with Nate—pulling him from key fielding positions and taking him out of play every other inning.  Near the end of the season, this coach allowed teammates to give Nate a hard time about his hitting ability to the point where Nate’s love for the sport itself completely deteriorated.  It took just one season for an 11 year-old boy, a boy who was sitting on the All-Star field the year before, to decide to hang up his bat and glove for good.

As we begin our first spring/summer season with one less baseball player in the house, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had that coach looked at my son as a person instead of just a player.  I’ve seen it happen before—the wrestling coach who showed Nate the importance of setting goals; the soccer coach who encouraged Hanna to learn a new position; the baseball coach who knew Jack’s size had nothing to do with his might and the football coaches who defined what it meant to really be a team—these adults looked at the role of coach as more than just a manager of the game and realized the impact they might have on the future lives of their young players.

For the record, I’m not volunteering to coach this soccer season and I’m pretty sure after spending a fall season where half the game time was devoted to helping 6 year-old boys zip up their coats, my husband will not be volunteering either.  But, we will be there on the sidelines, cheering on our children, remembering to bring our snacks on the right day and supporting our coaches in any way possible.

The Write Stuff March 15, 2010

My youngest son came home from school last Monday, dropped his backpack at the door and ran up the stairs and into my office.  “Mom,” he started barely able to catch his breath.  “I want to write a book.”  OK, this is the sentence I have been waiting to hear come out of the mouth of at least one of my children pretty much since the day they were born, but suddenly, I found myself envisioning him twenty years in the future sitting on the floor of a rundown apartment with nothing around him but a light, a laptop and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

That must have been the same vision (minus the laptop, of course) my Dad had when I announced with great pride that I would be majoring in English in college.  “And what else?” He had asked.  “Are you planning to get a degree in business or education?”  I simply replied, “Nothing else.  Just English.  Even if I don’t ever write a book, what business doesn’t need a good writer on staff?”  Apparently lots of businesses succeed without having good writers and it took me many years to discover that small, but relevant truth.

Did I really want one of my children to go down that same road—the one often filled with frustration and cynicism?  Doesn’t Jack deserve a career that is a bit more secure and financially lucrative?  Just as I was beginning to make my mental list of “why you should not be a writer”, I looked over to find Jack busy writing down words on a blank sheet of printer paper he had found on the floor.  He was lost in his own writing—furiously trying to get his pen to keep up with the stories that were obviously flying through his mind.  I knew that feeling—it was a great feeling.  And that one singular sensation (pardon the ‘Chorus Line’ reference) you feel as a writer (and I am assuming you feel with any career/hobby you love) somehow makes all the frustrations more bearable.

“Jack, I think it’s great you want to write a book,” I said as I joined him on the floor to see what he was putting down on paper.  “You could be a writer like Mommy.”

“You’re a writer?” He asked without even looking up from his paper.

“Yes,” and I hesitated before saying, “What do you think Mommy does?”

“I don’t know.  I didn’t think you really did anything.  Oh, laundry—you do a lot of laundry.”  I got myself back up from the floor, found my place at the desk and said, “Well, I am a writer and I love it.  And now you can be one, too.”

“I just want to write a book in the first grade.  My real job will be something cool like a football player or a UFC fighter.  Or, a bus driver.  Whatever.”

Obviously I put way more thought into his writing career than he did which is how this whole parenting thing usually works, at least for me anyway.  I find myself pre-planning their individual lives when in all honesty, they are just looking to make it through next week’s math quiz, English project or round of playground tag.  It’s a lesson I need to learn from my children–just taking each moment as it is and not worrying about what the future may hold.

As Jack would say, “Whatever.”

The Parenthood Journey March 7, 2010

It is really true what they say, kids do grow-up fast.  My oldest will be heading to high school next year and as we try to keep ourselves from being buried by the paperwork of new class schedules, band auditions, and parent orientations, I can’t help but think back to those first few years of her life.  Those were the days filled with sleepless nights, diapers and tantrums and when her brother arrived just two short years after she entered the world, I found myself juggling the ever-growing demands of my toddler with the ever-present demands of a newborn.  I was exhausted and cranky and found it difficult to believe that this would be the easiest part of my parenting journey.

That is precisely what my sister told me as I complained to her about my hectic and overwhelming life as a new mom.  She listened to my endless stories of grocery store meltdowns and missing “bops” (pacifiers for those not in the Minglin clan) and calmly said to me, “I know you don’t see this now, but the problems you are having at the moment are small and controllable when compared to the problems you will face as they get older.”  Small and controllable—those words stayed in my mind for years after that conversation.  Mostly because I thought my sister had lost her mind.  When I found myself rushing to grab towels after my daughter’s lunch made an appearance in the aisle of a drug store, or stayed up all night consoling a baby with an ear infection, or even when I spent an entire morning convincing a toddler they couldn’t wear sandals in snow—small and controllable?  At those moments my problems seemed big and unmanageable.

Then, just as they do, my children got older.  And as they got older, so did their problems.  We went from small illnesses and shoe arguments to broken hearts and bad grades.  There have been so many moments where I have watched as my children cry over lost friendships, struggle to succeed in sports, and drop the ball with school assignments.  It is during those moments that I have come to realize exactly what my sister meant by ‘small and controllable’ and have come to appreciate the days when I could make their decisions for them and soothe their spirits by simply holding them in my arms all night.

As we embark on our first high school adventure, I am keenly aware that my job as a parent is getting harder not easier.  But, with great hardship often comes great reward, and watching my children become smart, healthy & happy adults is worth every moment of every sleepless night.

“F” Is For Flipping Out November 12, 2009

I believe I am getting very close to losing my chance of ever obtaining the title of “Mother of the Year.”  Last night, I was casually looking over my son’s online grades (God love middle school for putting grades online).  As I scanned slowly down the list of classes—patting myself on the back for every ‘A’ and smiling at the ‘B’s’—I came across his math grade:  ‘F’.  We are a family—for good or bad—that doesn’t celebrate anything less than a ‘B’ and this was the first time in my parenting history that I saw an ‘F’ staring at me as if to say, “Ha!  Something must have slipped past your high-level parenting skills.”

Something has slipped past my high-level parenting skills—it’s called middle school boy.  His ‘F’ was not because he didn’t grasp a concept or has trouble taking tests.  It is the result of not turning in homework—homework that has been completed, but somehow never seems to make it into the hands of his teacher.  Since I can’t even seem to wrap my mind around this concept, I completely snapped—calling my son in from a late afternoon neighborhood game of football, marching him up to my home office, and yelling at him for being so irresponsible.  I can’t even remember everything that was coming out of my mouth.  I’m pretty sure some of the standard parenting phrases such as “I am so disappointed in you” and “I know you are better than this grade” were sprinkled in amongst the more immature statements such as “You will never pass sixth grade and will be living in my basement on the couch for the rest of your life.” 

My son just stood there looking at me as if my head was getting ready to explode and then his eyes filled with tears.  While my daughter is known to turn on and off the tears like a water faucet, my son does not cry.  He is the kid that spends most of his time being pounded on the football field or wrestling mat and thinks tears are only reserved for those moments when all other emotions have failed to work.  With quivering lips he whispered, “I am so sorry.”  “For what?” I snapped waiting for his sarcastic, middle school reply.  “For letting you down.”

Suddenly my anger subsided and the ‘F’ that was staring me in the face was replaced by the face of the boy I love so very much—even when his homework is wadded up in the bottom of a locker never to be found again.  Although the volume of my voice softened, my son still had to miss wrestling practice in order to get all of his past assignments completed and he was warned that if the grade didn’t turn around by end of week he would be grounded for the weekend. 

It is such a frustrating situation as a parent. You constantly feel as if you are balancing the line between inspiring your child to live up to his or her potential and crushing his or her spirit of independence.  Time will tell if my tirade of words worked for the good or not.  Until then, I have decided that my “Mother of the Year” dreams were pretty much dashed the minute my son walked through the doors of middle school.

Bring Back The ‘Great Pumpkin’ November 1, 2009

We missed the annual showing of “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown”—and, I guess we weren’t the only family passing on this great autumn tradition. According to a recent article in Ad Age, viewership for the “Great Pumpkin” was down 18%. There was a time when the “Great Pumpkin” was a must-see event. We would plan our entire family schedule around that one half-hour the week before Halloween—all of us sitting in the living room waiting in great anticipation for the Great Pumpkin to arrive in the pumpkin patch. I remember how excited I was to begin watching it with my own children—trying to recreate the memory for myself, but more importantly, passing it off to the next generation. But, this year it was different. Two of my three children had planned activities (and nothing says ‘Happy Halloween’ quite like a muddy, rainy football game followed by a band concert in a hot, stuffy gym) and by the time we got home, the show was over. Yes, I was sad that we missed Linus and his pumpkin patch, but I was more upset by my kids’ reactions to the news:

“Ah, we won’t be home?” Said Hanna. “That’s too bad. Maybe we could just buy the DVD and not have to worry about it.”

“Maybe it’s on YouTube,” replied Nate. “Then, you could watch it at your desk.”

“We’re missing what?” Asked Jack. “Who’s Charlie Brown?”

YIKES!! Not only did we miss the show, but no one really cared that we missed the show—except me. Is an entire generation missing out on one of my greatest Halloween memories? Soon an entire group of children will not wait with anticipation for the Great Pumpkin to arrive or think having toast and popcorn would make an interesting Thanksgiving dinner or laugh when Snoopy is the winner of the Christmas decoration contest. An entire generation without Charlie Brown’s holiday magic–hard to imagine isn’t it?

I am probably being too sensitive—after all, this was the first Halloween where two of my children went out with their friends instead of shuffling through the neighborhood streets with us. We had just one lone trick-or-treater on our hands and quite honestly, Jack would have ditched us for his own friends if we would have let him. It is just another sign that times are changing—kids are growing up—and those moments of childhood are truly fleeting.

I sometimes forget that they are getting older. In my mind Jack will forever want to snuggle with me on the couch, Nate will always run to me when he gets hurt and Hanna will ask for my opinion on everything from clothing to school. I have watched each of them slip further and further into becoming his or her own person—and while I like the people they are becoming, I sometimes miss who they used to be.

I know my children have to grow up, but I can’t help but feel just a little sad every time they inch forward on their own.  It’s just like watching Linus in his pumpkin patch—we know there really isn’t such a thing as the ‘Great Pumpkin’, yet we’re disappointed nonetheless when he doesn’t arrive.

Happy New School Year August 29, 2009

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look forward to buying school supplies.  As a kid I would wait anxiously for the “back-to-school” signs to popup in the stores and spend hours picking out the right colored folders and perfect pencils.  I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a new box of crayons or a smooth, flawless pink eraser and I would spend countless hours organizing my new school loot in preparation for the first day of school. With my school days long gone, I still find great joy in the school supply shopping excursion.  I love watching my children make their selections and rush home to put every piece carefully in their new backpacks.  Suddenly the excitement of summer is replaced by the anticipation of a new school year.

Although my kids may not feel new notebooks and highlighters are anything more than school supplies, to me they symbolize a new beginning—a chance to start with a clean slate so to speak.  For a brief moment I have forgotten all about the endless nights of arguing over homework, the fights with friends and the seven pairs of gloves lost during winter recess football games.  I find myself longing for filling lunch boxes with nutritious goodies and spending afternoons playing chauffeur to kids with ball practices and band programs.  “This is my year,” I say to myself in the mirror.  “This is my year to go from overwhelmed mother to school-mom extraordinaire.”

But, before long, the school year begins and the fresh, clean notebooks are soon tattered and torn.  The schedule gets hectic, the homework gets hard and my kids and I find ourselves longing for lazy weekend afternoons.  I guess that’s why I cherish those back-to-school shopping moments so much—they give me that rare opportunity to be able to fix all that is broken or achieve all that is hard by simply buying my child a Chicago Bears lunchbox or a Hollister backpack.  Nothing seems impossible with a good, sharpened pencil and a fresh pad of paper.

This school year we are embarking on a lot of new “firsts” for our family.  My daughter is spending her 8th grade year in a new middle school and is now joined by her brother who is starting 6th grade.  And, my youngest son is stepping into first grade without the comfort of his big brother and his fifth grade entourage.   As we sifted through folders and picked out backpacks I couldn’t help but relish in the thought that this could truly be “our year.”

Better with Age? August 18, 2009

It is one of those unbelievable cool July days—the kind where you begin thinking football and crackling leaves and find yourself surprised that you still have swim towels drying on the patio chairs.  I have decided to skip impending work projects and laundry folding and make my way to the sunlit patio to begin leafing through the plethora of magazines that have spent many a week lying on my family room floor.

“I wonder if I know anyone that has been to a ‘Botox Party’?”  I innocently ask out loud as I begin reading an article on the subject.

“What’s that?” Nate replies as he walks over to the patio and pulls up a chair.

“It’s a party where women go to have Botox injections.”  Nate’s expressionless face quickly tells me that my answer means absolutely nothing to his 11-year-old mind.  “They stick a needle in your wrinkles to make them smooth,” I add.

“Yuck, who would want to do that?”

“People who want to look younger.”

“Why would you ever want to be younger than you are?”  

Isn’t looking at the world through an 11-year-old’s eyes wonderful?  At 11, you can’t imagine anyone wanting to be younger—after all, with age comes great opportunities such as being able to ride your bike one more street over in the neighborhood or going to the movies with just your friends.  We mark our calendar for those age milestones such as turning 13, 16, 21—eagerly anticipating all the great things that the new age will let us do and the great person we will be able to become.  

Something happens to us—I’m guessing somewhere in our thirties—where age stops being something we look forward to and starts becoming something we dread.  We begin to see how precious time really is and how quickly it flies when we are preoccupied with kids, work and life in general.  And then, when we hit a major milestone (for me it was 40), we find ourselves frozen in fear—fearful that we may have nothing else to accomplish or to become.  This, we think, may be as good as it gets.

I reply, “Some people believe that getting older means they aren’t as good as they used to be, so they try to keep themselves looking young.”

“Are you as good as you used to be?”  

What is with this kid today?  I wasn’t prepared for such deep, introspective questioning from the boy whose conversations usually include some type of sports’ reference or sixth-grade boy humor.   

“Well, Nate, probably not,” I reply.  “But, I’m not really sad about it—at least I’m not sad enough to have a needle put into my forehead.”

“So, you don’t wish you were younger?”

“Not really, I kind of like life right where it is—not wishing it would move forward too fast or even move backwards.”  I stop for a moment and realize that I should probably take advantage of this rare serious discussion with Nate.  “You know what, Nate?  You should like life right where it is as well—not always wanting to be a few years older just so you can ride your bike to Dairy Queen with your friends.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about doing that as I watch the other guys come back with their ice cream cones,” he replies.  “Hey, what’s under there?”

“Under where?”

Nate laughs as he runs to the front yard yelling, “I just made you say ‘underwear.’”

It’s nice to see this serious side of Nate is no match for the funny side.  I kind of like him with a little dirt on his face, spitting sunflower seeds through a baseball dugout fence and sharing jokes with his friends about bodily functions and words deemed ‘inappropriate’ for casual conversations such as ‘underwear’ and ‘sports cups’.  

But, it’s always nice to see there is a little more to Nate than meets the eye—and with age, he will undoubtedly become better.  Don’t we all?