A new addition and the single mom

So my son had had it with me the other day.


For months now, he's occasionally mentioned wanting to get a fish -- or perhaps a lizard -- as a pet. We have a cat, but, still, he wanted a fish. I've generally said something noncommittal like, "Ok, sweetie, we can probably do that" and then relied on his short attention span to eventually take over and dissipate the idea.


A few days ago, this devious plan of mine caught up with me. I was in my son's room while he was getting dressed for school when I could see a little glimmer flash across his eyes. If he had the command of language and tone that adults do, what he told me would have been something like this (and I want you to read this in your mind with the words as utterly drenched with impatience and sarcasm as you can possibly fathom):


"Alright, look, Momma. I have told you for months now that I want a fish. It's go time. I want either a fish or a lizard or a turtle, and I want it now. It's your call which one, but make it now and get in the car. Let's get this taken care of ASAP because I'm tired of you blowing me off."


The real words were, of course, something more akin to this:


"Mommy, you said we I could have a pet. I want a turtle or a fish or a lizard. Can we do that after school today?"


That very day wasn't going to be a possibility, but I told him we would go over the weekend. He practically made me swear a blood oath that I would not back down.

He was excited about the prospect all week and practically bursting with excitement as we walked through the doors of PetSmart on Saturday. He picked out a Betta fish very quickly, promptly named it Nemo (not particularly original but whatever) and proceeded to nurture an overdeveloped sense of attachment to it.

"Nemo" he would cry and wrap his arms protectively around the little plastic bowl he came in.

Anyway, we got the fish home and settled happily into a roomy vase. My son insisted that Nemo live in his room, and so we cleaned an area off the top of his dresser to make a new home for Nemo. (The funny part is that the dresser backs up to a wall that's painted blue, and since the fish is blue, it's pretty good camouflage. I have to really look for the fish sometimes.)

As I'm about tapped out on the number of creatures I can be responsible for keeping alive at once (me, son cat), I put my son is in charge of feeding the fish, which he dutifully does every morning. "It's my 'reponstibility,'" he says.

We're nearly a week in, and the fish is still alive and my son starts his every day with, "Morning, Mommy. Morning, Nemo." Everything's cool. Now, if he starts asking for a dog, that'll be a whole other situation.

Independence and the single mom

There's been a subtle change that's come over my son since he started school nearly two months ago, a phenomenon that's altering the state of my life irrevocably. I've talked to friends and family about it, and they know what I'm talking about. But, still, the accurate words to describe it elude me. The best general descriptor I can come up with is "independence."

My son is becoming more independent. And not just in the little ways like being able to dress himself and brush his own teeth. It's more than that. It's an attitude, a tone of voice, a way of carrying himself, a confidence or maybe just competence that's new in his life.

It's not just that he hops out of the car in the mornings without looking back -- although it's that. It's not just that he comes home singing all the little variations on songs that are ubiquitous in elementary schools -- although it's that too. And it's not just that he's obviously growing more interested in friends and less interested in me by the hour -- although it's also certainly that.

It's all those things and many more that I can't really put my finger on. But it's been really quite a distinct change over a short period of time.

It's not like he spent the first 5 years of his life at home. He's been in full-time daycare since he was about a year old, so I don't think it has anything to do with his being away from me and with peers. It's got to be something uniquely different about the school environment -- a certain degree of expected independence from the students, the presence of older kids in their midst, something.

Part of me bursts with pride to see him getting his feet under him so quickly and assuredly in this new "big boy" world. The other part of me wants to burst into tears, of course, that my baby's growing up (by the way, the longer I'm a parent the more I wonder how my mom avoids doing that every day of her life whenever she glances at her three completely grown children).

There's also a third part of me that wants to wring his little neck for transforming from my sweet, loving, affectionate little guy (although he is still that a lot of the time) to this annoying little boy creature who comes home singing "Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear." Really, man, really?

Punishment and the single mom

I picked my son up from late stay at his school yesterday, and he came bounding out of the door, happy to see me. I got a cursory hug and a quick, "Hi, Momma" before he had a question for me, one that had surely been eating at him all day.

"If I get yellow or red (on his class behavior report), can you ground me?"

Another mother walking by me at just that moment actually laughed out loud. And wouldn't you? Who asks to be grounded?

"I guess so, son. Where did you learn about grounding?"

From one of his classmates, he said, who is apparently grounded for having yellow or red days at school.

I've never used that particular term with my son, so I wasn't sure if he'd gotten a description from this friend at school or what.

"What do you think grounding means?" I asked my son.

"That you take away all the stuff I sleep with, and I have to sleep on the ground," he said, matter of factly.

No wonder he's asking to be grounded! In his mind, it's a little adventure where he gets to sleep on a pallet on the floor. Hopefully I nipped that misconception in the bud before he started acting up at the school just for the joy of being "grounded."

Tattoos and the single mom

My son, like pretty much every kid his age, loves temporary tattoos. I think he'd be covered in them head to toe every day of the week if I didn't draw the line.

He recently came home to me after a weekend away with a fresh one on the middle of his back. According to my mom, who was the one who obligingly applied said tattoo, he wanted it there because that's where Uncle J.J. has a tattoo.

So this is where this is going -- the real thing vs. the fake one.

I have a small tattoo (about the size of two quarters) in a discreet location on my body. My son saw it the other day, not for the first time, and asked why I always had that "picture" in the same place.

How to explain the a real tattoo's permanence? Turns out, straightforward is the best approach.

"My tattoo doesn't go away. It's there forever," I told him.

He very nearly visibly cringed.

"I never want to do that," he said.

If you felt a sudden rush of breeze blow by you yesterday morning, it was probably my enormous sigh of relief wafting across three states.

I know, I know -- that stands very likely to change in the years to come, but I don't know if I could stand the idea of a real tattoo being appealing already to my 5 year old. I'll take the cringe any day.

The report from the front and the single mom

Well, my ex's visit has come and gone -- and frankly gone a lot better than I expected. My son spent the past two weekends with his father and handled it exceedingly well.

For the first weekend, I specifically avoided calling to talk to my son. His time with his daddy should be fairly uninterrupted time with his daddy, I thought, and so with great effort, I put the phone down.

While it was torturous for me, I figured it was in my son's best interest for me to keep my distance since he tends to get needy and whiny when he "remembers" he misses me. That hunch turned out to be right when I finally called Sunday morning, at which point he immediately launched into, "I want yooouuuu," complete with tearful voice and plaintive whining.

(An aside to this tale: my family and I had a big boating trip on the Intracoastal Waterway planned for that weekend, which my son obviously did not get to join us for. I had planned on -- and was succeeding in -- keeping it a secret so that he didn't feel left out. But you know what they say about the best laid plans.

As soon as I got on the phone that Sunday morning, my niece, who was on the trip with us, blurted out that she wanted to talk to my son. I didn't hear what she said to him, but I'm guessing she spilled the beans because as soon as I picked my son up on Sunday, he launched into a scathing criticism. "You went to the beach without me. That's not fair! I wanted to go to the beach!"

I didn't even get a "Hi, Mommy" or anything, just complaints. "But you got to spend the weekend with Daddy," I offered as some comfort. My ex would have cringed to hear how quickly his son blew that off as completely irrelevant and downright boring compared to going on the boat with his cousin.

I fielded these sort of comments for a solid hour before I finally put my foot down and told him I wasn't going to talk about it anymore.)

The second weekend with his father (this past weekend) went fine as well. I again stayed away from the phone for the most part and was pleased that I didn't get any wailing bedtime calls ("But I want you, Mommy. I want to come home."), as I have during past visits.

My ex actually delivered my son directly to my mom on Sunday afternoon. (My parents had taken a long weekend to go camping and were keeping my son Monday while he was out of school for Fall Break and I was still at work.) Mom said that he was a little whiny and pouty while he was with them, but he was pretty well back to his normal self after a good night's sleep Monday night and a day off with me Tuesday (Fall Break continued).

So, all in all, good news to report for the ex's visit. No temper tantrums. No crying jags. No newfound defiant streak (sometimes a symptom of the daddy visits). I'm counting my blessings.