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Remember that?

I was telling Michael tonight at bedtime how much he loved being swaddled when he was a baby. In fact, it was the only way he could sleep, and over the seven months he slept that way (yes, I know that’s a long time to swaddle a baby, but nobody asked you. And besides, if I thought it would keep him asleep past 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning these days, I’d swaddle him in a heartbeat), Dave and I perfected what, at the time, we referred to as the “baby burrito.”

Michael was so curious about it and kept asking, so I took out a flat sheet, had him lay down on it, and proceeded to swaddle a four foot tall 8-year-old. It was actually pretty awesome, and he loved it. In fact, he said he was really comfy, and scooched his head up onto his pillow to figure out if it might be a good idea to try and sleep like that (thankfully, he decided it wouldn’t, because I was envisioning being called down to his room around midnight because he had to go to the bathroom and couldn’t un-swaddle himself out his burrito wrapping).

mattandmike2

I find it interesting that kids love so much to hear stories about themselves from when they were smaller. In fact, nobody appreciates stories about my kids (which, of course, I love to tell), than my kids.

There’s something really delightful for me when I reminisce about sweet or funny memories with the bigger versions of the people they happened with. And I love that they appreciate these memories. Almost as much as I do.

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Sometimes it really does take a village.

roasting a marshmallow

roasting a marshmallow (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My younger son Michael got hurt at camp this evening.  Nothing serious, thankfully, and down the road, it’s probably going to be a funny story that involves a late stay at camp and a misdirected flaming marshmallow.

I work at this camp, but I’d left for a few hours at the end of the day with my older son and some friends to run some errands and have dinner.  When I returned at 8:00 to pick Michael up, I was quietly taken aside by the camp director, who began our conversation with “First thing – he’s fine.”

After getting the full story, I came to find out that a boy backed away from a campfire with a burning marshmallow that somehow ended up on Michael’s neck.  I totally get that accidents happen (ironically, as a child, I was burned at camp with a misdirected mess kit frying pan from over a campfire).  As soon as I saw Michael, I knew he was fine, and there was barely even a mark on his neck.

And I was fine, too, until I spoke to the people who took care of Michael and I think probably kept him from really being burned.  At which point, I started crying.  Michael’s counselor, barely even an adult himself, saw the incident as it was happening, scooped Michael up, carried him to the nurse’s office and (according to Michael, anyway) kicked the door open to bring Michael inside.  The nurse, who took no chances, lay Michael down on the floor and poured water on his neck, because she wasn’t sure what might be going on underneath what she saw, which was black char on a child’s neck.  The camp director and the assistant director, who both took a look at Michael to make sure he was okay.  And whoever made the poor kid with the marshmallow stick (who apparently felt pretty bad) apologize to Michael.

Every day, we send our kids off to places where we can’t watch them ourselves, and trust that the adults who are with them will keep them safe.  What I realized tonight is that there really are people who take care of other people’s kids as if they are their own.  Who don’t think twice about doing whatever it takes to make sure that a kid is really okay (and that even though he’s waiting for his mom with the nurse – and his favorite counselor, who happened to be the one who carried him to the nurse – that he still gets his s’more before he heads home for the night).

I’m grateful for those people tonight, and the others who quietly keep an eye on all of our kids when we aren’t there to watch them ourselves.

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I had no idea!

On the way to camp this morning, Matthew told me that he needs a white t-shirt for something his bunk is doing one day next week.  No problem, I cheerfully replied, because I always have a stash of plain white t-shirts in various sizes (purchased when they’re on sale at the craft store).

Now THIS is something that they don’t tell you in the parenting magazines.  Someone ought to publish a book with some more useful parenting tips than how to get a preschooler to eat more more than just pretzels and string cheese.  Here are a few pointers that I’ve had to figure out on my own over the years:

1. Your elementary schooler is going to come home with a request from his teacher for a shoebox, coffee can, plain white t-shirt, ziploc bag the size of a small SUV, or something more obscure like a goat heart.  And because this request has been sitting, crumpled in a damp ball in the bottom of your child’s backpack for several days, you will have approximately 12 hours to procure this item, label it nicely with your child’s name, and present it to the teacher.

2. At some point, your child is going to embarrass you with a tantrum or a swear word they learned from you.  Probably in a nice store or in front of your boss.  When it happens, here’s hoping you’re surrounded by people who have kids too, so they will pity, rather than judge you.

3. There’s always going to be some annoying mom somewhere, who has a kid who walks, talks, is potty trained, reads, lands a back handspring and does algebra before your kid.  Remember that every kid reaches milestones at their own pace.  And that this braggy mom just sucks.

4. It’s possible that your child is going to have some weird habit that perplexes you.  For a while, one of my kids insisted on stopping at every car in the supermarket parking lot so he could read me the license plate.  And for a solid two years, the other kid couldn’t fall asleep unless he brought some random item (which he referred to as his “sleeping things”) to bed with him.  card faceWe’d find him with an Uno card stuck to his sleeping face, his hand in a cardboard box, or his sweaty little preschooler fingers wrapped around a ladle when we’d kiss him goodnight.  The moral of the story: embrace the quirks, because if you don’t, you’ll question half of what they do.

Any more questions?

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Holy crap, I’m tired.

Ever have one of those days where you look longingly at your bed in the morning as you’re making the bed and fluffing the pillows, thinking, “Just a few more hours, my darling, and we shall meet again?”  And I’m not talking about those days when you just want to lay down for a few more minutes.  I mean those days when the thought of another full night’s sleep is appealing by 8 a.m.

I sometimes have days where for no apparent reason, I’m just tired for a lot of the day.  I don’t remember being this way in my 20s, and probably not in my 30s either.  And I know there are things I could be doing (aside from making coffee my immediate priority when I wake up in the morning) that would allegedly provide me with more energy.

English: A pile of pillows.

English: A pile of pillows. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I hear that exercise can help.  But frankly, when I’m this tired, who has the energy to work out?  It just doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

And unfortunately, I’m just not a napper.  When I do nap, which is rare, I wake up in worse shape than I fell asleep in, and it takes hours for me to shake that groggy feeling.  And besides, I don’t know many people who have that much time on their hands where they can curl up with a blankie for a while in the middle of the day.  Maybe when I’m retired.  Or the next time I get the flu.

In the meantime, ugh.

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Next time, let’s hit the road.

For the first time ever, we tried our hand at a “staycation” this past week.  Now, I’m only using the term staycation because it’s become part of our vernacular, and you’ll know what I’m talking about.  Because generally, I think it’s just a dumb, made-up word to describe a fairly lame concept.

NBA store

Because of the shifts in school calendars due to Hurricane Sandy, my kids had an unprecedented week off between school and camp this summer.  We’d thought about going away somewhere, but decided to stay home and do some fun local things with the boys, while still having time to relax and get ready for camp.

We went to the beach, and to Six Flags.  We took the boys into New York to see a Broadway show (which was immediately followed by a testosterone-repleneshing visit to the nearby NBA store).  So, yeah, that was fun.

We also took the boys bowling, where Matthew complained about losing the first game and Michael complained that he was hungry.  We went to our local pool, where the boys complained they were bored.  I did a load or two of laundry every day, served breakfast every day and dinner a few days, and argued with Dave about the clutter level in the house.  Things that just made it feel like an extra-long sucky weekend.

So, I kind of came to the conclusion that while the concept is a nice one (and don’t get me wrong – it might work for some people), I’m glad that our “real” vacation at the end of August involves air travel and a hotel room.

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Why we both go along.

Flagler Beach

Flagler Beach (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dave and I took the boys to the beach today.  It’s an easy drive – about an hour – so it’s good day trip for us, but since we’re not huge “beach people,” we only end up doing it a few times a summer.

My kids are lucky to have us both along on days like today.  Dave is the parent who’s great about taking them out to swim in the waves.  I’m definitely more cautious and have a healthy respect for the ocean.  So I’m the perfect parent for the kid who wants to stand in ankle-deep water and collect pretty rocks and shells.  I’m also the perfect parent for the kid who wants to hear, “Be careful!  Stay where I can see you!  Don’t go too far out!”

I’m generally also the more prepared parent.  I’m good for a fantastic sunscreen application before we leave, additional sunscreen in the beach bag, along with frisbees, sunglasses, as well as a supply of snacks and drinks.  Today I brought along spray water bottles, which I was especially delighted with, since it was 90 degrees AT the beach, and the sand felt like hot lava.

If Dave took the boys to the beach without me, they’d probably stop for Slurpees on the way there, and Dave would bring his wallet.

I like to think that the boys are learning some important lessons by having us both along for the ride.

#1. Take chances.  Go swim in the deep end.

#2. It’s nice to have someone who wants to keep an eye on you.

#3. If you feel like staying in the shallow end today, find someone to stand there with you and hold your hand.

#4. While I don’t believe in the phrase “you can never be too prepared” (because I think you CAN – I believe in being “just right” prepared, because there’s only so much stuff I want to lug around), being prepared can save you a lot of time, hassle and money.

#5. Respect the choice of the person who’s swimming all the way out, and the one who’s hanging by the edge.

And don’t forget the sunscreen, even on your feet.

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This is the world we live in.

Caution Tape

Caution Tape (Photo credit: Picture Perfect Pose)

For the past three summers (this will be the fourth), I have worked at the camp that my kids attend.  It’s a great fit for us – I love the job I have and the people I work with, and my boys have a fabulous eight weeks there every year.

As a camp staff member, I attend required staff training sessions every year.  At the end of today’s training session, we had several camp-wide drills, before which the camp director spoke frankly to the staff about the harsh reality that we all live in.

And it hit me.  Hard.

Not because I didn’t already know this.  I follow the news.  I read the information that comes home from my kids’ schools, and I know that safety is something to be taken seriously.  But there was something about looking around and seeing the faces of the counselors who take this job just because they love kids, thinking about my own kids being there, and then thinking of the terrifying possibility that something unthinkable could happen.

I find it so sad that kids’ (including my own kids) reality these days includes lockdown drills and intruder drills.  I know it’s necessary, and somehow it’s both scary and comforting at the same time to know that places our kids go are preparing for this.

It also makes yearn for the days of previous generations, when parents put their kids on a camp bus every morning, or sent them off to a sleepaway camp for the summer, thinking that the worst that could happen would be an argument with a friend or a bee sting.

I think every generation of kids has had their crises, their issues and things to fear.  All we can do is hug our kids tight, love them with everything we have, and just talk to them when they have questions, because unfortunately, we don’t have the answers either.

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All for one, and …. oh, whatever.

My husband Dave and I and our 2 boys are a pretty tight-knit family.  Which is mostly a good thing.  Until it’s not.

It seems lately that it takes just ONE of us to be in a bad mood to throw off the entire dynamic of our family.

Earlier this week, Matthew was frustrated about a group project for a required 6th grade class (where he had to build some cockamamie contraption to fly ping-pong balls. Or something like that). Which, in turn, meant that the rest of us were frustrated.

Then the next night, Michael started falling apart around dinnertime, because he’d been kept up late, listening to Matthew complain loudly about said cockamamie project.  So the rest of us were dragged down by listening to a tired, whiny 8-year-old.

Tonight, for whatever reason (perhaps from listening to several nights in a row of complaining and whining), Dave just came home in a crummy mood. Which put the rest of us in a bit of a crummy mood.

I’m not suggesting that we pretend to be something we’re not, especially at home where we should be able to let loose and really be ourselves.  We’re all entitled to a bad day now and then.

But on some level, it’s sort of ironic that the people we love the most are the ones who see us at our worst and get more of our crap than anyone else.

On the flip side, which is generally what I prefer to look at, when something good happens to one of us, it’s a celebration for us all.  I guess we’ve all gotta put up with a little rain to get to the rainbow.

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What’s your name again?

I’ve been finding lately that I’ve been forgetting things.  Nothing really important, but I’ll turn on my laptop with a task in mind, and then by the time I’m logged in, I’ve forgotten what I was going to do in the first place.  Or I’ll go into a different room in the house to get something, and once I get there, I have no idea why I left the room I was in before.

It dawned on me today that the reason I forget things is because there just isn’t any room in my brain for new information, because the old, useless stuff just refuses to leave.

Like the complete lyrics to every song from A Chorus Line.  And the words to the majority of the songs recorded by Air Supply, which I don’t believe I’ve listened to since the mid-80s.

And how to load and use a caulk gun (I only realized this information was hanging on, because I spoke to a man in his 20s today who didn’t even know what a caulk gun is).

About half of the Gettysburg Address, whichI was required to memorize for a class in 9th grade.

I know how to french braid hair.  This is information that’s not doing me any good whatsoever, as I’m in my 40s and have no current need to french braid my hair.  Oh, and I have two sons.

I also have the entire layout of my local supermarket, where I’ve been shopping for almost 12 years, memorized.  I write my shopping list in the order of the aisles.  Okay, so maybe that’s useful information, but the fact that I can tell you exactly where in the cereal aisle the Cheerios are, and that canned corn is on a bottom shelf, is probably taking up a fair amount of cognitive real estate.

Information

Information (Photo credit: heathbrandon)

Every time I use my waffle maker, which I assure you is NOT often, I remember that despite what the instruction manual says, it takes 4 minutes from the time I close the lid for the waffles to be cooked to perfection.

So, is it any wonder that when I’m introduced to someone new, I just pretend their name is Lisa, because I know there’s no way I’m going to remember it once I walk away?

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Um, yeah. I told you.

Over the winter, we got an e-mail notifying us that it was time to sign up our 8-year-old son Michael for “pre-travel” soccer, a required program should he want to participate in travel soccer in our town in 3rd grade.

We asked Michael if he wanted to participate. Nope. Told him that all of his friends were doing it. Still no. Explained to him that if he decided later that he wanted to try out for travel for the fall and didn’t do this program, that it would be too late. No again. Reiterated that if he changed his mind halfway through the spring and wanted to join his friends, that he couldn’t change his mind. No, no, no.

So we signed him up.

In our defense, he’s 8 years old, and 8-year-olds can be pretty fickle characters. We really didn’t want to chance that he’d change his mind, because there would be nothing we could do about it.

And what happened? He almost always gave me a hard time about going, To our credit, when he did go, he enjoyed it, but when he wasn’t there, he told us he didn’t like it. I don’t think he enjoyed the serious level of competition (there were more than 100 boys there, being trained and evaluated by international soccer players for about 50 slots on the town’s travel teams). He said that he just wanted to play soccer, and this was, understandably, lots of drills. By the end, when Michael was justifiably arguing that HE never wanted to do this program, and that WE signed him up for it, we let him skip a bunch off the twice-weekly sessions.

soccer

We found out last night that, no surprise, Michael didn’t make any of the travel teams. All of his good friends who participated did. And while Michael seemed happy for his friends who got onto a team they really wanted to be on, he was incredibly happy for himself that he didn’t make it.

I guess sometimes kids really DO know what they want, and we have to figure out when we know better than they do, and when we should just shut up and listen.

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