He's baaacck! My ex-husband that is. He arrived home from Afghanistan for his two-week leave earlier this week and is, just as I'm typing these words, picking our son up from school to see him for the first time in about 8 or 9 months.
I've tried to hype the visit to my son so that he'll be excited about being picked up and carted away from his home and comfort zone by a veritable stranger. (I swear I've been more positive than that when talking to him.) And I was patting myself on the back a little for doing a decent job, it seemed, at balancing infusing a little excitement without loading him with too much expectation.
I made sure he knew exactly when and where he'd see his father so that nothing was unexpected. I used that happy, high-pitched voice parents use when they're trying to impose cheerfulness on their children (I make no bones about the game I've been playing and the obvious pretense involved. As much as I generally hate this phrase -- it is what it is).
And it was working. My son would cheer when we talked about his daddy picking him up from school and talk about getting to see his daddy soon to other people.
But then last night, the house of cards came tumbling down around me. About 30 minutes after I'd put my son to bed, he called for me. I went in to his room to find his lower lip quivering and his eyes welling on the verge of a real crying jag.
"What's wrong, baby?" I asked.
"I don't want to stay with my daddy all weekend," he wailed, bursting into tears. "I want to stay with you."
The plan was, has been, still is for my ex to pick my son up from school today and spend a few hours with him and then bring him home for the night. He'll then pick him up from school again tomorrow and keep him all weekend. It's an all-or-nothing arrangement for the weekend because I'll be out of town and unavailable to pick him up mid-weekend.
As I said, I'd been informing my son of the schedule so he knew what was coming. And what made him, after days of seeming excitement, break down into pitiful tears over the prospect, I have no idea.
I consoled him as best I could, reminding him that he was first going to see his father for just a little while and then come home. Still, it took several minutes to get him to calm down and drift back toward sleep.
I might normally shrug this off as a not-unexpected emotional reaction to all this change (and I'm not saying it's any more than that), but my son has been upset in the past about going to spend nights with his father, calling me in inconsolable tears at bedtime and frustrating my ex to no end. I know it hurts his feelings that his son wants to come home to me (as it naturally would anyone), and I'm not sure he has enough experience with the delicate emotions of a child to deal well with the situation.
For now, I don't think there's much to be done about it, at least from my end. I'll continue to encourage my son to be positive. I'll do my best to console him when needs be. I don't know that there's much else to do. Got any brilliant ideas? I'm open to suggestions.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Anatomy and the single mom
Dear readers, I apologize for my extended absence over the past (nearly) two weeks. I really do try to blog about twice a week, but schedules and conflicts and general fatigue sometimes win over my good intentions. Last week, though, I was trampled instead by strep throat. Ick!
I'm fully recovered now, though, and eager to recount a little anecdote for your amusement.
My son was taking a bath the other day. (No, that's not the whole story, although impressive enough in and of itself). Just as he was beginning to wash up, he asked me, "What are my nipples for?"
After I got done biting through my lip to try to keep from bursting into laughter, I replied simply, "Nothing."
"When they grow up, girls use nipples to feed babies ," I said. "But nipples don't have any particular use on boys."
As amusing as the very question itself is, if you're a reader of this blog, you know there's always a second punchline coming when it comes to my son.
With a slightly pensive, slightly puzzled look on his face, he then said, "So they're just there to make me look handsome?"
I'm fully recovered now, though, and eager to recount a little anecdote for your amusement.
My son was taking a bath the other day. (No, that's not the whole story, although impressive enough in and of itself). Just as he was beginning to wash up, he asked me, "What are my nipples for?"
After I got done biting through my lip to try to keep from bursting into laughter, I replied simply, "Nothing."
"When they grow up, girls use nipples to feed babies ," I said. "But nipples don't have any particular use on boys."
As amusing as the very question itself is, if you're a reader of this blog, you know there's always a second punchline coming when it comes to my son.
With a slightly pensive, slightly puzzled look on his face, he then said, "So they're just there to make me look handsome?"
Friday, September 10, 2010
Behavior, embarrassment and the single mom
I spent a couple days deciding whether or not I wanted to write this blog entry. I know that there's nothing perfect about parenting. I know you, dear readers, know that too. But I'm still loathe to admit my own shortcomings in such a barefaced and public way. (Surely that's a condition of all humanity, right?) On the other hand, if the point of this blog is to share my experiences with even one other person who might empathize or just not feel alone, then I need to be honest (mostly).
So here goes... my child, in his first few weeks of kindergarten, is apparently already a discipline problem. His school (and others, I'm learning from friends) has a color chart indicating each child's behavior for the day. It's not unlike the terror alert system, actually -- and let's face it, 5 year olds can be a terror. From best to worst, the colors go green - blue - yellow - red.
What color day each child has had is sent home daily in his or her homework folder. Most days of the week, my son is on green or blue. But a couple prominent times, he's been on red.
Never on yellow, mind you. Always totally good or totally bad. He's either an angel or an absolute demon all day long. All or nothing, baby, all or nothing.
On the days he's on red, his teacher will write me a little note about what the problem. "He had trouble listening today and used mean words and voice to talk to two of his friends." "He had a hard time following instructions today and had to be told repeatedly to complete tasks." Heartwarming things like that.
And then the piece de resistance came when I got an email from his teacher the other day asking for us to meet next week to come up with a plan to address his "behavior/attitude in class." Oh, things just keep getting better and better in my little world.
I acknowledge that my son sometimes has to be told two or three times to do something. It's a common problem I wrestle with at home. But I didn't think he was extraordinarily stubborn or defiant. It's normally that he's not paying attention or is easily distracted by a toy on his way to do whatever it was I asked him to do. I recognize also that listening the first time and following through are important skills for him to master now that he's in school.
But here's the thing -- I have no idea what kind of "plan" to come up with. We talk about his listening the first time. It does no good. I fuss at him for not listening the first time. It does no good. I take away privileges or toys for not listening the first time. It does no good.
This is decidedly a failing on my part, but that doesn't alleviate the fact that I still don't know what to do. And now I'm not only frustrated but also mortally embarrassed because it's grown from a frustration inside the four walls of my house to a public exposure of my wickedly poor parenting.
OK, I'm exaggerating for effect, but I am still embarrassed at having to be called in to talk to the teacher in the first few weeks of school. And unless she has some brilliant insight or bag of tricks that I've heretofore been ignorant of (and maybe she really does -- that's the hope), I'm not sure this meeting is going to have much purpose other than making me feel like more of a failure as a parent than I already do. Ugh, this is all just so awesome.
So here goes... my child, in his first few weeks of kindergarten, is apparently already a discipline problem. His school (and others, I'm learning from friends) has a color chart indicating each child's behavior for the day. It's not unlike the terror alert system, actually -- and let's face it, 5 year olds can be a terror. From best to worst, the colors go green - blue - yellow - red.
What color day each child has had is sent home daily in his or her homework folder. Most days of the week, my son is on green or blue. But a couple prominent times, he's been on red.
Never on yellow, mind you. Always totally good or totally bad. He's either an angel or an absolute demon all day long. All or nothing, baby, all or nothing.
On the days he's on red, his teacher will write me a little note about what the problem. "He had trouble listening today and used mean words and voice to talk to two of his friends." "He had a hard time following instructions today and had to be told repeatedly to complete tasks." Heartwarming things like that.
And then the piece de resistance came when I got an email from his teacher the other day asking for us to meet next week to come up with a plan to address his "behavior/attitude in class." Oh, things just keep getting better and better in my little world.
I acknowledge that my son sometimes has to be told two or three times to do something. It's a common problem I wrestle with at home. But I didn't think he was extraordinarily stubborn or defiant. It's normally that he's not paying attention or is easily distracted by a toy on his way to do whatever it was I asked him to do. I recognize also that listening the first time and following through are important skills for him to master now that he's in school.
But here's the thing -- I have no idea what kind of "plan" to come up with. We talk about his listening the first time. It does no good. I fuss at him for not listening the first time. It does no good. I take away privileges or toys for not listening the first time. It does no good.
This is decidedly a failing on my part, but that doesn't alleviate the fact that I still don't know what to do. And now I'm not only frustrated but also mortally embarrassed because it's grown from a frustration inside the four walls of my house to a public exposure of my wickedly poor parenting.
OK, I'm exaggerating for effect, but I am still embarrassed at having to be called in to talk to the teacher in the first few weeks of school. And unless she has some brilliant insight or bag of tricks that I've heretofore been ignorant of (and maybe she really does -- that's the hope), I'm not sure this meeting is going to have much purpose other than making me feel like more of a failure as a parent than I already do. Ugh, this is all just so awesome.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Reincarnation and the single mom
My son takes after his mother in more ways than one. He's got my eyes and my way with words and, sadly, my attitude on some days. Most pertinent today, though, is the fact that he is not a morning person. Learning to get up early to accommodate a school schedule has been an intense challenge for both of us for the past two weeks.
This morning, he was more tired and more reluctant to get out of bed than usual. I have no one to blame but myself for that because I didn't get him to bed on time (we had dinner with a friend last night and just didn't leave when we should have). So when I went to wake him, he was especially groggy and grouchy.
It took a few minutes of coaxing, but I finally got him to rouse to consciousness and then went back across the hall to my bedroom to continue getting myself ready. I called out to him a few minutes later to make sure he was getting dressed, to which he confessed he wasn't yet. I walked in there to find him curled up on the bed with his arm draped over the cat.
"Baby, you need to get up and get dressed," I told him.
"But I'm cuddling with Henry," he said.
"Well, you need to stop cuddling with Henry and get dressed."
"Why does Henry get to lay in bed while I have to get up?" he asked.
"Henry's a cat. He doesn't do things like go to school," I replied.
And now, here comes the punchline...
"I want to be a cat," he said.
Brilliant thought, son! Wouldn't it be great if we could all pick the most ideal creature in the world and just become that? I might choose a lizard -- sunning myself on a big rock day after day. Or perhaps a lion -- a boy, not a girl. Lounge around in the sun, shaking my impressive mane and roaring while the lionesses do all that tedious chasing and hunting for me.
But then again, a cat's not a bad choice. Sleep, eat, sleep, stretch, bat something around a little, repeat. I'll take it!
This morning, he was more tired and more reluctant to get out of bed than usual. I have no one to blame but myself for that because I didn't get him to bed on time (we had dinner with a friend last night and just didn't leave when we should have). So when I went to wake him, he was especially groggy and grouchy.
It took a few minutes of coaxing, but I finally got him to rouse to consciousness and then went back across the hall to my bedroom to continue getting myself ready. I called out to him a few minutes later to make sure he was getting dressed, to which he confessed he wasn't yet. I walked in there to find him curled up on the bed with his arm draped over the cat.
"Baby, you need to get up and get dressed," I told him.
"But I'm cuddling with Henry," he said.
"Well, you need to stop cuddling with Henry and get dressed."
"Why does Henry get to lay in bed while I have to get up?" he asked.
"Henry's a cat. He doesn't do things like go to school," I replied.
And now, here comes the punchline...
"I want to be a cat," he said.
Brilliant thought, son! Wouldn't it be great if we could all pick the most ideal creature in the world and just become that? I might choose a lizard -- sunning myself on a big rock day after day. Or perhaps a lion -- a boy, not a girl. Lounge around in the sun, shaking my impressive mane and roaring while the lionesses do all that tedious chasing and hunting for me.
But then again, a cat's not a bad choice. Sleep, eat, sleep, stretch, bat something around a little, repeat. I'll take it!
Friday, August 27, 2010
Nonchalance and the single mom
Today is my birthday.
If you, friend or stranger, are now feeling at least a little compelled to smile and wish me a happy birthday, you have joined the company of my parents, my brothers, old friends and others who love me, but NOT my son.
He checked the mail yesterday, as he likes to do, and it just so happened that all we received was 3 birthday cards. Frankly, I think it's some kind of miracle that there were no bills, no solicitations, no junk of various sort. Just 3 birthday cards, which is as it should be on the day before my birthday, I say.
So my son gets these cards from the mailbox and walks over to me. "Just some cards in the mail today, Momma."
I asked him if he knew why we got those cards. He said no, so I told him the next day was my birthday. He looked at me for a moment as if this information might hold some passing interest for him and then, upon clearly deciding that it did not, said, "I want to be 6. When is my birthday?"
So what I'm hearing is something along the lines of, "That's fabulous, Mom. What I want to know is how does this information affect ME, really? How can I turn this conversation into something about ME?"
This morning I went into his room while he was getting ready for school and asked him if he knew what today was.
"Um, Friday?"
"Well, yes. But it's Mommy's birthday."
"Hmm," he said as he continued to walk around his bed (buck naked, I might add) to make it up.
"Shouldn't you say something to me?" I asked. I've evidently reached the point of pleading with my son for birthday well wishes. Desperate. Pitiful.
"Oh! Happy birthday, Mommy!" he finally managed to eek out. At least he did put a little heart in it and did come fling his arms around me (yep, still nekkid as the day is long -- there's clearly no shame in our house) for a big birthday hug.
Turns out it was the best birthday present I could ask for.
If you, friend or stranger, are now feeling at least a little compelled to smile and wish me a happy birthday, you have joined the company of my parents, my brothers, old friends and others who love me, but NOT my son.
He checked the mail yesterday, as he likes to do, and it just so happened that all we received was 3 birthday cards. Frankly, I think it's some kind of miracle that there were no bills, no solicitations, no junk of various sort. Just 3 birthday cards, which is as it should be on the day before my birthday, I say.
So my son gets these cards from the mailbox and walks over to me. "Just some cards in the mail today, Momma."
I asked him if he knew why we got those cards. He said no, so I told him the next day was my birthday. He looked at me for a moment as if this information might hold some passing interest for him and then, upon clearly deciding that it did not, said, "I want to be 6. When is my birthday?"
So what I'm hearing is something along the lines of, "That's fabulous, Mom. What I want to know is how does this information affect ME, really? How can I turn this conversation into something about ME?"
This morning I went into his room while he was getting ready for school and asked him if he knew what today was.
"Um, Friday?"
"Well, yes. But it's Mommy's birthday."
"Hmm," he said as he continued to walk around his bed (buck naked, I might add) to make it up.
"Shouldn't you say something to me?" I asked. I've evidently reached the point of pleading with my son for birthday well wishes. Desperate. Pitiful.
"Oh! Happy birthday, Mommy!" he finally managed to eek out. At least he did put a little heart in it and did come fling his arms around me (yep, still nekkid as the day is long -- there's clearly no shame in our house) for a big birthday hug.
Turns out it was the best birthday present I could ask for.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
School bells and the single mom
Well, it's official. My son has started school. (Insert weeping here.)
Actually, it all went very smoothly. He was a little emotional yesterday morning before we left the house -- wanting to cling to the lovie he sometimes sleeps with and bursting into inordinate tears when I asked him to leave the lovie in his room. (This is something he doesn't even remember to sleep with many nights and never brings downstairs, so this emotional show was certainly out of the ordinary.)
Once we got in the car and headed for school, though, he seemed fine -- no random displays of overwrought emotion or anything. When we got there, he was still cool.
The only small sign of trepidation was when an older student, one who'd been assigned the duty of helping the new kindergartners find their way, approached us at the door and asked if he wanted her to walk him to his class. He hugged tightly close to my arm and simply pointed at me as if to say, "No, I want her to go."
Once we got where he was supposed to be, though, he was totally fine with my depositing him there and walking away.
I confess I shed a few discreet tears in my car, but even I handled it better than I expected.
And when I picked him up that afternoon, he was in a perfectly good mood and chatted about the picture he had colored of a tree and how he had chopped it down with an axe and it had made a "chink" and then a "thud" sound (yeah, he gets descriptive).
This morning, he was the picture of "I know what I'm doing and don't need your help" cool. We pulled in front of the school, and he hopped right out and headed for the door with a little wave back to me.
Part of me is bursting with pride that he's going to school and handling it well and ready to embark on his own. The other part of me -- and I'm working to silence her for the good of my son, I promise -- hates that he's growing out of the need for me. I know that's an exaggeration; I know he'll need me for many things for much longer. Hell, I still need my mom for a lot of things and I'm 3-- well, grown up.
(Actually arriving at school.)
Actually, it all went very smoothly. He was a little emotional yesterday morning before we left the house -- wanting to cling to the lovie he sometimes sleeps with and bursting into inordinate tears when I asked him to leave the lovie in his room. (This is something he doesn't even remember to sleep with many nights and never brings downstairs, so this emotional show was certainly out of the ordinary.)
Once we got in the car and headed for school, though, he seemed fine -- no random displays of overwrought emotion or anything. When we got there, he was still cool.
The only small sign of trepidation was when an older student, one who'd been assigned the duty of helping the new kindergartners find their way, approached us at the door and asked if he wanted her to walk him to his class. He hugged tightly close to my arm and simply pointed at me as if to say, "No, I want her to go."
Once we got where he was supposed to be, though, he was totally fine with my depositing him there and walking away.
I confess I shed a few discreet tears in my car, but even I handled it better than I expected.
And when I picked him up that afternoon, he was in a perfectly good mood and chatted about the picture he had colored of a tree and how he had chopped it down with an axe and it had made a "chink" and then a "thud" sound (yeah, he gets descriptive).
This morning, he was the picture of "I know what I'm doing and don't need your help" cool. We pulled in front of the school, and he hopped right out and headed for the door with a little wave back to me.
Part of me is bursting with pride that he's going to school and handling it well and ready to embark on his own. The other part of me -- and I'm working to silence her for the good of my son, I promise -- hates that he's growing out of the need for me. I know that's an exaggeration; I know he'll need me for many things for much longer. Hell, I still need my mom for a lot of things and I'm 3-- well, grown up.
(Getting in the car yesterday morning to head to school.)
(Actually arriving at school.)Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Not-so-fun game and the single mom
Through the influences of an older child, my son has become enthralled with a game that we all surely played as children. That would typically be fine with me -- a passing of the torch, so to speak, for my son to be playing the games I played in my youth.
This time, however, I've got little romantic nostalgia and am instead now cursing whoever invented Punch Bug.
That's right, my son has become the keenest lookout for VW Beetles the world has ever known. The boy can spot at Bug at two miles -- two and a half in clear weather.
What really makes this game irritating is that I have to willingly submit to the beating every time.
"Give me your hand! Give me your hand!" he pipes excitedly from the back seat.
At which point I drape my arm back there for him to wallop me and shout "Punch bug!"
In all fairness, he doesn't really punch. He balls up his little fist and does little more than tap me on the arm -- just enough to be able to say he's gotten me. But it remains hilarious to me that I have to deliver my own appendage to him for, albeit mild, abuse.
I guess it's better than the days that will surely come in which he'll lean forward in his seat and deliver a sock in the shoulder worthy of the growing strength and lack of restraint of an 11-year-old. Any chance Volkswagen's going to discontinue Beetles anytime soon?
This time, however, I've got little romantic nostalgia and am instead now cursing whoever invented Punch Bug.
That's right, my son has become the keenest lookout for VW Beetles the world has ever known. The boy can spot at Bug at two miles -- two and a half in clear weather.
What really makes this game irritating is that I have to willingly submit to the beating every time.
"Give me your hand! Give me your hand!" he pipes excitedly from the back seat.
At which point I drape my arm back there for him to wallop me and shout "Punch bug!"
In all fairness, he doesn't really punch. He balls up his little fist and does little more than tap me on the arm -- just enough to be able to say he's gotten me. But it remains hilarious to me that I have to deliver my own appendage to him for, albeit mild, abuse.
I guess it's better than the days that will surely come in which he'll lean forward in his seat and deliver a sock in the shoulder worthy of the growing strength and lack of restraint of an 11-year-old. Any chance Volkswagen's going to discontinue Beetles anytime soon?
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