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I’m too old for this.

So, we’re almost two weeks into the new school year. My kids seem settled into their new routines in 4th grade and 8th grade.  Me? Not so much.

Now that my younger son is in 4th grade and I have just two years left as an elementary school parent, I realize that not only are my kids getting older, but I am too.  This was especially apparent to me on the first day of school, when I stood outside the school door, waiting for my 4th grader to bound out and announce to me that he was “starving” – our charming daily after-school routine. I glanced over to the door where the tiny first-graders came out, and saw the parents at their first school pickup, pushing a stroller with a younger sibling, or chasing a toddler around the playground.

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That was me – seven years ago, picking up a first-grader while simultaneously figuring out how to get through a second round of the Terrible Twos.  I got involved in the school, met other moms, and made friends. By the time both kids overlapped in the school, every face there was a familiar one.

Seven years is a pretty long time, if you’re going to the same place twice a day, every day, from September until June. And in seven years, a lot can change.  My 8th grader is still more or less that same sweet kid he was in first grade.  Unless we’re together in public where he might be seen by another 8th grader. Then he might pretend that he doesn’t know me. My 4th grader is still adorable and energetic.

And me?  By the time my family “graduates” from elementary school, I will have spent nearly a decade getting to know teachers and parents, watching my kids learn and grow.  In “my” elementary school years, I will have gotten through most of my 40s – arguably the happiest years of my life so far. But it feels strange. I had kids on the older side, and as I’m a little closer to 50 than I am to 40, many of the new parents are in their 30s. They are just beginning this journey, while I’m figuring out how to parent with an arthritic knee, graying hair and a husband with an AARP membership (and no, he’s not generations ahead of me; they send you the paperwork at 50, and if your hankering for discounts outweighs your vanity about your age, it’s a nice thing to have. But I digress).

In another two years, when I have one child in high school and one in middle school, I suspect I will look back on the nine years spent as an elementary school parent as a sweet time in my life. I still enjoy shopping for school supplies and making Halloween costumes; I don’t mind helping with homework and packing lunches.  Now I just need my reading glasses to do it all.

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Entering unfamiliar territory.

Tryouts for our town’s travel basketball program are tonight, and I’m a nervous wreck. I’m not even trying out.

You see, travel basketball starts in 4th grade, and Michael has been talking about it since FIRST grade. It’s the only travel sport he has ever wanted to play.

His older brother has always played in-town sports. No tryout necessary – just practice once a week, play a game once a week, and call it a day. I’ve seen Matthew through plenty of “tryouts,” but they’ve all been auditions, in  a world I’m more comfortable and familiar with.

So tonight, I’ll be taking my 9-year-old to the high school gym, where a bunch of people I don’t know will evaluate I’m not sure which skills until well past his bedtime. I don’t know how he will do, or when we will find out how these strangers think he did. While I know that Michael loves basketball and is good at it, I don’t know how good he is relative to the other I-don’t-know-how-many kids who are also trying out for what I’ve heard are 36 slots on three teams.

basketball

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this whole thing. I really want him to make a travel team, because it’s something that he wants so much. But I don’t love some of the things I’ve felt the need to say to someone who is still, let’s face it, a little kid.

I don’t like that yesterday at our annual block party, it was nearly killing me that he wasn’t practicing basketball, knowing the tryout was 24 hours away. What WAS he doing? Playing football and soccer, and running around with his friends. Exactly what a 9-year-old OUGHT to be doing on a beautiful Sunday afternoon when everyone on the street is outside too. But part of me was concerned; would playing football instead of practicing basketball give some other kid the edge? Was he going to hurt himself or get so worn out that he’d be too tired to do well at the tryout?

I wasn’t sure if playing goalie on his soccer team (or at recess at school, for that matter) was a good idea, since he sprained his wrist playing goalie about a month ago at camp. I’ve been paranoid that the level of practice he’s done (playing most every day at camp over the summer, a few private coaching sessions with friends who have played at at high levels, and shooting in our driveway) can never compete with the skills clinics, private basketball camps and private coaching that other kids have experienced.

So, we’re telling Michael (who is definitely a little nervous, because even at this age, he understands what’s at stake tonight) to just try his best, and we’re all hoping he’ll make it. We explain to him that he just wants to play basketball because he loves it, and if he doesn’t make a travel team, there’s still an in-town league and a few others, so he can still play basketball.

Because here’s the bottom line. My kid isn’t going to the NBA. He’s not getting a college basketball scholarship. He barely cracks 55 pounds, and he’s shorter than most of his peers. I hope that he makes a travel team. And I hope that if he doesn’t, he’ll still love basketball and will want to play. It’s tough that there’s this kind of pressure on kids who still drink chocolate milk and need a babysitter.  I hope that our decision to have our kid play other sports, and run around and just be a kid, isn’t going to take away the love he has for this sport.

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You know how boys are.

I just read yet another one of those articles that talks about raising boys vs. raising girls.  This one was refreshingly different, though, because it talked about the similarities in raising children of different genders, rather than the differences.

A disclaimer about my expertise: I have two boys. And no girls. So I’m really no expert here.

That said, I’ve always thought that boys get a bad rap.  I’ve written about this a little bit before.  For me, it started when Matthew was a toddler.  I’ve always said that my kids were pretty impossible babies (colicky and sick, and neither slept through the night for a full year, but more about that another time, because it’s really so much fun to reminisce about).  But they were great toddlers.  I’d heard about how boys were so “tough” and “active.” I’m not saying that Matthew wasn’t energetic, but he was often happy to sit and color, watch Sesame Street or do puzzles.  So I just figured that maybe we got lucky (or that there was something horribly wrong with him, depending on who I spoke with).

By the time Matthew was in kindergarten, Michael was a toddler, content to sit in his stroller and watch the world go by.  And I had a conversation with Matthew’s teacher, which to this day confounds me.  I can’t remember what exactly we were talking about, but she ended the conversation by looking at me and exclaiming, “Well, you know how boys are!”

No, I didn’t.

Much later, after I thought about it, I knew what she meant. “Well, you know how boys are, if they follow the exact stereotype. They don’t listen, they don’t sit still, and they don’t do as well in school as girls, at least at this age.”

On behalf of my kids, and all boys, I’m still kind of pissed about that comment. I’d also like to add here that Michael had this same kindergarten teacher four years later, and she made the exact same comment to me again.

So, what did I take from those conversations? First, I don’t think that anyone who has obvious disdain for one gender or the other should be teaching, unless it’s at a single-sex school, where they will be less inclined to play favorites (another disclaimer here: at another point after this, Matthew had a teacher who seemed to prefer boys.  While that wasn’t fair either, given that my kids are boys, it did bother me less, because Matthew was one of her favorites).

I also think that as parents (and teachers), we frustrate ourselves when we expect children (or adults, for that matter) to conform to gender or other stereotypes. And I’d love to know if you agree, but I think that nonconformance to stereotypes can be tougher for boys.  What I mean by this – we have a word for girls who don’t follow gender stereotypes – tomboy.  What do we call these boys?

How about we just call them boys?

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Happy Mother’s Day.

It’s been 12 years since my first Mother’s Day as a mom, and while I know that the first one seems like it should be the most meaningful, for me at least, it definitely hasn’t been.

I’ve had 12 years to think about what being a mom means.  I know that in comparison to lots of other moms, I don’t have a lot of years under my belt.  I know I’m not an expert on parenting, but I’ve become an expert in being a mom to my own kids.  And I’ve learned that (again, for me, at least), being a mom just keeps getting better. And that I continue to learn more every day about being a mom.

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I’ve learned that one of my kids has figured out how to leverage his cuteness to negotiate everything from 5 more minutes of awake time to convincing me to tie his shoes (even though he’s known how to do it himself for 3 years).

I’ve learned that while I want to put on a jacket in 50-degree weather, an adolescent boy will say that he’s perfectly comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt.  And I’ve learned that this is not a battle I’m going to choose to fight. Eventually, if he’s cold, he’ll put on more clothes.  Even if it’s not for another 10 years.

I’ve learned that little kids will eat just about anything if you put it on a toothpick.  And that sometimes, that trick works for grown men too.

I’ve learned that there’s nothing better than one of my own kids giving me an unsolicited hug or “I love you.”

I’ve learned that parenting isn’t fair. You’re going to give way more than you get, whether that’s in work, worrying, sleep or back scratches. But I’ve also learned that it is beyond worth it.

I’ve learned that when it’s my child’s heart that breaks, I feel it too.

I’ve learned that many of my own quirks and shortcomings have, ironically, made me a better parent. That I have nearly endless patience with my kids when they worry about things that worried me as a child.  And through them, I’ve learned to retroactively forgive myself for not being the perfect child I thought I needed to be.

I’ve learned to be thankful for the different things I enjoy with each of my boys.  My older son and I watch silly TV shows together, eat pancakes at diners, play music together and make sarcastic jokes. My younger son and I love to read and snuggle together, will try every kind of sushi, and have a catch together outside (hint to my delightful family: I could really use my own baseball glove if you haven’t picked me out a Mother’s Day gift yet!).

I’ve learned that each of my kids has inherited different personality traits from me, which I sometimes simultaneously admire and despise. One son loves to read, while the other could sing all day. One son is desperately hard on himself, while the other worries that the house will burn down. One son can’t keep his backpack or room neat, while the other has a fiery temper.  Both of my kids, thankfully, have a well-developed sense of humor.  I don’t know what I’d do without that.

I’ve learned that I’m not a perfect parent.  But I’ve also learned that I don’t have to be.  I do my best, and sometimes I screw it up.  Sometimes I screw it up pretty badly. But I apologize for my mistakes, learn from them, move on and try to do better the next time.  It’s the same way I tell my kids they should live their lives.

Oh, and I’ve learned that the two little boys and one grown-up boy in my life are the best things that have happened to me.

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Man down.

I broke my ankle this week.  Unfortunately, there’s a back story …. in October 2012, I missed a step in my house, and dislocated and broke my ankle.  I spent a weekend in the hospital to have some hardware put in, and had two subsequent surgeries in 2013.  The last one, to remove the hardware, was just in December.

On Monday, the dog kind of wrapped herself up in the backyard, and I ducked outside to help her.  A lot of the snow has melted, and unfortunately, there was one small patch (and I mean SMALL –  probably no more than about 10 inches square) of ice on our patio.  I slipped on it, fell and twisted my ankle.  I thought it was sprained, but took myself for an x-ray, and they told me it’s actually broken, the same bone as before.

Yesterday I went to see an ankle specialist, who told me I need yet another surgery to repair this break.  It should be sometime in the next few days.

I’m incredibly upset.  Sad, pissed, and defeated.  But I realized I’m probably not as depressed as I’d originally thought, because when I finally got out of bed this morning and dragged myself into the shower (lucky for us, we still have a shower chair from last time – yay?), I figured I should shave my legs, because it might be awhile before I’ll have access to that left one again.

So, as much as I’m inclined right now to wallow in self-pity, I decided that a more productive exercise would be to try and find the positives in what is generally just a lousy situation:

1- I can probably wear really comfy yoga pants every day for the next 6-8 weeks, and because I will be on crutches and have my leg in a big cast, nobody will judge me.

2- I won’t have to pick up any of the dog’s poop for the foreseeable future.

3- I broke my left ankle, which means I can still drive.  Thankfully, I never did master driving a stick, because then I’d be screwed.

4- Automatic upper-body workout.  A person can get some nice triceps by dragging their sorry behind up the steps, if they do it right.

5- Lots of hugs from my boys.

6- Adorable, unbridled 8-year-old enthusiasm about helping me make lunches, getting dinner ready, and just generally keeping the house together.  And that adorable face insisting on bringing me my crutches, and telling me that he needs to sleep in my room tonight because Dave is away overnight and someone needs to keep an eye on me.

7- An inability to spend too much time wallowing in self-pity, because my kids are intermittently upset about their mom being hurt, and I want them to know that we’ll all be okay.

8- Amazing friends and family, who have stepped up and offered to help again (even though they just saw my family through this 16 months ago), and will hopefully continue to help me keep things in perspective with humor.  One friend warned me to look over my shoulder because it seems that someone is out to get me.  Another called me a drama queen for breaking my ankle only to upstage a serious illness that she’s facing.  Two others have already dropped off meals to sustain us.

9- A rare few hours, just me and my dad, because he’s the one of my parents who seems to have lost the coin toss and drove 45 minutes to accompany me to pre-surgical appointments today.  Somehow, I was able to get through all the medical stuff in just an hour and a half, and was able to enjoy a lunch out, just me and my dad – also pretty rare.

So, here’s my plan – I’m going to try my best to keep this in perspective (sure, it kind of sucks to break your ankle twice in 16 months and have 4 surgeries on the same joint in less than 2 years, but it’s still no more life-threatening than it was the first time).  I’m going to do my best to find the humor when and where I can.  And I’m hoping my friends, neighbors and family won’t get bored of giving us a hand here and there when we need it.

Wish me luck.

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Thanks, everyone.

Last night, we had Matthew’s first music teacher over for dinner.  Matthew, who is now in 7th grade, took piano lessons from “Mr. Dave” in 2nd and 3rd grade.  We’ve stayed in touch with him via social media, where he’s watched our kids grow up virtually, but it had been about 3 years since we’d seen him.

I think I’ll always have a soft spot for Dave, who patiently taught a 7-year-old Matthew to read music, play the piano, and gave him his first taste of performing in front of others at piano recitals.  And last night, I had a reminder of why – he couldn’t wait for Matthew to play the saxophone and sing for him, and he accompanied him on the piano for both.  He didn’t judge Matthew (or us) for not continuing with the instrument he’d taught him to play, but seemed genuinely happy that Matthew still has a love for music (which I will always be grateful that Dave helped nurture).

piano

So, when I was getting a little misty last night, listening to Matthew and Dave playing music together, I was thinking about the many adults in my kids’ lives, the roles they’ve played (and continue to play) and how happy I am that our paths have crossed.

When Matthew was a baby, I remember feeling bothered that he enjoyed the company of other people who weren’t me.  I know it was my own maternal insecurity, which evaporated when a seasoned parent told me, “Kids can never have too many adults who love them.”  And I’m sure now that it’s true.

We have neighbors who have seen our boys playing outside and stopped what they’re doing to come and have a catch with them.  Friends and relatives who have come to see concerts, games and performances.  Teachers, coaches and camp counselors who have understood and appreciated their strengths and quirks, and have nurtured their love for sports, music, theater, art and more.

So, despite the fact that on occasion, I feel slightly crestfallen (I do still like to think I am my kids’ favorite grownup) when I think my kids prefer the company of some of these wonderful adults in their lives, I will always be grateful for these fantastic people in our kids’ lives who are helping shape them into the pretty awesome people we think they’re becoming.

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Sick Day.

I’ve got Michael home sick with me today.  I’m certainly not happy that he isn’t feeling well, but there’s something about taking care of a sick kid that touches the deepest part of my mommy-ness, and I have to admit – I kind of like it.

I realized this about myself when Dave and I were first married.  He got a bad case of the flu.  I SO wanted to take care of him – bring him soup and tea, take his temperature, worry and fix his blankets.  But unfortunately for me, all he wanted was to be left alone to be sick and sleep.  And I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Little did I know that just a few years later, I’d have plenty of opportunities to take care of little people who really couldn’t take care of themselves.  When Matthew was a baby, he seemed to catch everything that was going around.  Before he was a year old, he’d already had about a dozen colds, a handful of ear infections, coxsackie virus, and two pneumonias that landed him in the hospital.  Back then, I could barely keep up with it.  And it stinks to take care of someone who just cries, because they can’t tell you what’s wrong with them.  Until they throw up in your lap.  Then it becomes pretty clear.

cartoon-sick

Fast forward a few years, and I’ve nursed my boys through colds, bronchitis, stomach bugs (those, frankly, I’d be happy to skip), asthma and more.  And they seem happy to have me bring them soup, take their temperature (usually with a kiss on the forehead, which I believe is nearly as accurate as a thermometer), worry, and fix their blankets.

I’m taking Michael to the doctor in about half an hour.  Right now, he’s tucked into a blanket on the couch, eating a waffle and watching TV.  He asked if when we get back from the doctor, if we can “snuggle on the couch and watch a movie.”

So, maybe THAT’S what I like about it.

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I see where this is going.

Michael had his first sleepover at a friend’s house last night.

He’s 8, and had a few unsure moments at home yesterday before it was time to go.  But when his friend’s parents came by to pick him up, he grabbed his stuff, hugged us goodbye, and didn’t look back.  He was happy and tired when I picked him up this morning.  Just like it should be.

sleeping bag

I’m at the same time relieved, delighted, and and frankly a little sad.  Because Michael is our youngest, and in my mind, still too little for sleepovers.  But not really.

And at the same time Michael was sleeping at his friend’s house, Matthew was also out, and we knew he’d be dropped off late – around 11:00 p.m.  Now don’t get me wrong – it was REALLY nice to have a quiet house, sit on the couch with Dave, have a glass of wine, relax and watch football together.

But it was kind of weird, because usually when we have time alone together, we are out somewhere, and the boys are home.  I realize that as the boys get older, this is going to be more the norm – they’re out later than we are, and we’re home, pretending that we haven’t fallen asleep on the couch.

I know this is the natural progression of things, and I plan on letting my kids grow up the way they’re supposed to.  But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.  Honestly, not only do I not mind the mess, noise and chaos that can sometimes accompany a home with kids, but I kind of enjoy it.  And sometimes, when they’re not here, it feels just a little too quiet.  But don’t tell them.

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The thing about Santa.

Lately, my 8-year-old son Michael has been asking me if Santa is real.  I am not at all sure what to tell him, for a number of reasons.  First (and many people might think, foremost), we are Jewish.  That said, Michael has always believed in Santa, but totally understood that because we don’t celebrate Christmas, Santa just doesn’t come to our house.  And he’s always been okay with that (unlike his older brother, who at the age of about 4, asked me “When we’re done being Jewish, can we get a Christmas tree?”)

santa

Michael has, for some reason, always had this fascination with Santa.  When he was in kindergarten, he asked if we could go to the mall to see him.  I said we could, and on our way there, we had a conversation about what we might talk to Santa about, given that, you know, we don’t even celebrate Christmas.  Michael waited patiently in line for about 30 minutes, and when we got the front, he wouldn’t say a word to Santa or sit on his lap, but was completely mesmerized.  I did the talking for us, and told Santa that we’re Jewish but that Michael had really wanted to see him.  He looked at both of us, wished us a Happy Hanukkah, and told us that it’s all really about what’s in our hearts.  I walked away from the experience feeling like I’d just met the real thing.  Michael walked away with a little holiday paperback (containing some really weird story about some kids who get trapped in a giant snow globe, or something like that), courtesy of the mall.  He still talks about meeting Santa.  And the book.  Which, now that I think of it, I hope he doesn’t pull out and ask me to read to him.  It kind of scares me.

Michael and I just read one of Judy Blume’s “Fudge” books, and the topic of whether or not Santa is real comes up.  I tried to gloss over the part where the older brother says there’s no Santa, but Michael was having none of it.  So I read the page, then asked him, “Do you think Santa is real?”  And he seemed very concerned about the whole thing, and told me that he’s not sure, but that most of his friends do believe in Santa.  And then he asked me what I think.  And what I tried to explain to him, in the best way I thought an 8-year-old could understand, was that on some level, yes, I do believe in Santa.  I believe in the magic of the holidays.  I believe that there are people in this world who will show you their best, most generous selves.  I believe in the idea of Santa.

We talked about it some more, and Michael still isn’t sure what to think.  Logic is starting to take hold, and he says that it would be impossible for one person to deliver gifts to everyone in the world in one night.  I am glad that he’s talking to me about it, instead of just sadly realizing that so many of the magical things of our childhood are parents slipping into our room late at night to tuck a dollar bill under our pillows, hiding gifts in the attic, and writing notes in handwriting that won’t be recognized.

Being a mom has made all of those things magical again for me, and I’d like to be able to hold onto that magic for just a little bit longer.

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The problem with holiday cards.

I was thinking about the slew of holiday cards we send out every year, as well as the many that arrive in the mail to us (some, along with those holiday update letters, but more about that later).

I look forward to getting holiday cards – I like to see how faraway friends’ kids have grown each year, and it’s fun for the boys to look at pictures of nearby friends.  We display the cards we receive around a window in our family room.  And we send out a card every year, usually with a picture or two of the boys that comes from a fall backyard “photo shoot” that Dave does with his fancy schmancy camera.  What people don’t see in what’s usually a cute picture would be the hour we spent trying to get the boys to sit still, stop poking each other and making funny faces, or the swearing Dave did when the camera died in the middle of this mess, because he doesn’t use it that often and it wasn’t fully charged.

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This year, we used some vacation pictures for our holiday cards.  And even without the photo shoot, it was no different.  Sure, we had a nice picture of the four of us in a nice place.  But nobody could see the exhaustion on our faces from the 3-hour time change from home or the argument we’d had trying to figure out where to park that morning.

And as for those letters that some families include with their holiday cards, let me just say – blech.  I’ve never thought about actually sending one with our holiday cards, but just for fun, I’ve thought about different ways I could approach writing one…..

1. Dear family and friends:  Well, we survived another year.  Barely.  I continue to drag myself out of bed to teach college classes where an occasional student will nod off in the back of the room.  Things are going great for Matthew in middle school.  Unless you count the day I spilled coffee on his binder and wrecked the cover of a group project.  That wasn’t so great.  Michael is learning a lot in 3rd grade.  I even got to have a meeting with his teacher where she told me about a story Michael had planned to write about Santa getting drunk in a bar.  And Dave has had the opportunity to travel to wonderful and exotic locales for work.  Like New Hampshire.

OR…..

2. To our most cherished friends and family:  We are delighted to be sending you this letter after yet another fantastic year for our family.  You’ll see from the photo on our card that we enjoyed a lovely vacation together over the summer.   Master Matthew and Master Michael continue to excel in school and in their many extracurricular activities.  I continue to shape the lives of young people through my teaching adventures, and Dave receives accolades for his work.

And then, what I’d really like to write:

3. Here we are again, friends.  Another holiday season, another year that has passed too quickly.  We continue to count our blessings every day.  Yes, our boys do well in and out of school.  But wanna know what I really want to tell you about?  The time I spied Matthew lifting a 4-year–old neighbor off a friend’s trampoline at our block party.  When I glanced outside and saw Michael tying his friend’s shoes, because he knows this friend has a little trouble with it.  The day we drove home together from camp and Matthew told me that the best part of his day was helping the counselors out with the little kids.  Is it always easy?  Nope.  But in these small moments when I know that Dave and I have the privilege of helping these wonderful people grow up, it’s all worth it.

Happy holidays.

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