Dear Mom

     I've already talked about how tricky (and by tricky I mean down right exhausting and excruciating at times) to raise a little boy with a quick brain and a sharp tongue. It can lead to frustration when compliance and obedience seem impossible to achieve without a fight,  feelings of defeat when I forget what my goals are and yell or resort to behaving like a vindictive child instead of the parent. I have been embarrassed in public and looked at with something between disdain and pity a few times when I engage in what some perceive as "indulging" my son's need to understand why I want him to do something. We have learned that this little boy's nature is one that challenges authority inherently, values justice and logic above all things. He will fight for the rights of others and for his own rights. These can be amazing attributes in a well-developed adult, but a real doozy to deal with in a boundary-testing little guy who's still figuring out what the world is like.

     Our solution has been to set specific parameters and guidelines for tough situations for him:

1-When it's OK to disobey (If someone asks or even demands that you do something unsafe, unkind or hurtful to you or anyone else, you have every right to say 'no way!'),
2- What is the appropriate way to ask mom or dad or other grownups in charge "why do I have to?" (You may ask 'why?' as you are moving in the direction of obedience OR you may ask if it's OK if we talk about it first- but you may NOT hold your obedience hostage by standing cross-armed until you get a satisfactory reason. You need to trust us.)
3-When immediate obedience, no questions asked, is required. If mom or dad say something is not up for debate right now, you must trust that we have your best interest, safety and well-being in mind and believe that we will help you understand later (the middle of the road is not the time to ask why we have to hurry across!)

     These specifics have been helpful for our little analytic guy, but they don't cover every situation and they don't always take away all sting of an answer that he doesn't understand, doesn't agree with or is simply disappointed by. The grey areas, where I am tempted to simply say "because I said so" can be the toughest. He is smart, he knows what he wants and he doesn't want to be stopped. It is tedious to have conversation after conversation about what feels to me like the same issues, but I am convinced that it's essential to the type of mother I want to be and the type of son I want to raise. I want him to know that his trust is valuable and it is to be given where deserved. I want him to know that his desires matter and that in any relationship he enters into, who he is, what he thinks and feels should always be part of the equation. I want him to know that sometimes, not getting what you want doesn't mean you are unloved and that being angry at someone doesn't mean you don't love them. I want him to know that there is always a chance to turn around, say you're sorry, try again.
     And so, when all of the above tools failed last week and I had to firmly say, "I'm sorry that you don't agree, but I have heard your point of view and I am still choosing to say no for reasons A,B and C" he was angry. Angry enough to say something hurtful. Angry enough to say "I wish I never had parents, just like Huck Finn! That way no one could tell me 'no' all the time!" (note the literary reference in his fit of rage). I took a deep breath, I let myself be hurt, I let him see that he had hurt me and chose to respond kindly and honestly, "That's an unkind thing to say. I think you should think about if that is really true. I love you but I am not happy with how you're responding to my decision and I don't like the way you are treating me. I'm going to go finish my work now, but when you are ready, I think you'll need to ask my forgiveness for those words." He looked sheepish and somewhat embarrassed, but he did not apologize right then. He went to his room to work on some lego project while I went to my office without another word.
     I wondered if I had failed, if I should have punished him for those disrespectful words, if I should have demanded an apology right then and there. I tried to remember my hope for him. I prayed and I waited. That evening, I walked into my room, spent and empty, to find this little note on my bed and I was reminded of the grace that can enter in when we make room in the broken places.

Warts and All

On this day, three weeks ago, I had "minor foot surgery." That's what I've been calling it- "minor foot surgery" because that sounds much better than saying "I had a massive colony of warts that was threatening to permanently take over my feet surgically removed ." It wasn't so bad. I'm lying, it was awful. The podiatrist sprayed some freezing solution on my feet (yes feet, there were warts on both feet. It's appropriate to be disgusted right now), stuck a sizable needle into the 'wart family' (as my son likes to say) and once the numbing took effect (about 7 needle jabs later- ouch!!)  burned the warts with a laser. The smell of burning flesh was cringe worthy, but not as bad as the next step. He took these giant cuticle-clipper looking things and began cutting the burnt wart bits out of my foot leaving bloody gaping wholes on my feet. I'm not squeamish and since I could feel nothing, I watched it all with fascination. He then began to shave the skin inside of the wholes, much the way you would raspberry sorbet, and honestly, that's pretty much what it looked like, pink, smooth, creamy foot-flesh. After he bandaged me up, and told me to take it easy for a few days (and by days, he meant weeks- minimizing jerk!) I actually thanked him. Yes, I knew, in theory, when I heard the scraping sound as he "removed all traces of wart tissue from the dermis floor" that it would hurt later, but one cannot exactly prepare for the descent of pain that has been artificially postponed via drugs. It's just so shocking. One minute I'm walking home on feet that I cannot feel, an hour later, "Mother of God, he ripped out parts of my foot!!"

 So, I spent Christmas break hopping and hobbling to the bathroom, sitting at my computer with my feet up, and generally not moving unless it sounded like the kids were seconds from death. My husband, who was also on break, picked up the slack, with only minimal evidence of frustration and was pretty much kind and catering- for three weeks. He's been great about it, but I'm getting pretty sick of myself. You know how people get sick and at first, you're all, "poor baby" and then after a few days you want them to suck it up and get over it. Well, that's how I've been feeling about myself- Come on, buck up! Fake it, till you make it. Be-Aggressive! Be-Be Aggressive! B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E! Except, it's freaking hard to fake it when every step hurts. I have slapped that inner-cheerleader in her face more times that I can count (though I do appreciate how cute she looks in that pleated mini.)

Three weeks after my 'little procedure' I am getting around (with a cane) but am still generally cranky and self pitying. Each morning, my husband wakes up before me, makes breakfast, and gets the kids ready for school. This is great, we are the kind of couple that shares parenting and household responsibilities. But this morning, when I heard my little 4-year-old daughter saying 'happy birthday' to my husband, you'd think something would have registered. You'd think that I would have hobbled out of bed and at least join them at the table to eat the breakfast that he'd prepared. Nope. I thought, "that little girl is a dummy. She doesn't even know when her daddy's birthday is. Ouch, my foot." When my son came in talking about dad's birthday I thought vaguely the same thing. When my husband finally walked back in to the room to get dressed, I asked, "why is everyone talking about your birthday?" in an exasperated tone. It seriously never dawned on me that it might actually be his birthday, It never occurred to me that while on this day 3 weeks ago, a psychopath (ok not really) cut my foot up, on this day 34 years ago, the man who cooks me breakfast and drives hours to pick up my favorite pillow (that I left behind at the cabin we rented with friends), and wipes poopy bottoms (seriously, she's four years old and still refuses to wipe herself) and carries the air-conditioners up 3 flights every summer, was born.

So I guess I can be kind of a jerk sometimes.

yours,
hobbling to the store to pick up his favorites for dinner.

Dear Non-Spanking Parents

Dear Non-Spanking Parents,

So what do you do when your kid gets a little too big for his or her britches?

Yesterday, my son turned nine. Today, he thinks he's a grown ass man. I love him, so much. He is clever and funny and snugly. He's a great climber and a fantastic imaginer. His mind is sharp and his insights astute- usually these are great attributes, but every once in a while that quick wit turns into a wicked-sharp tongue and he lets his mouth get the better of him. For a little context, he weighs 60lbs (he's like a less than a third of me on a good day) but, we've decided not to use corporal punishment  (though once in a long while an egregious offense will warrant a spanked bottom in our house- not saying whose) so generally, my size doesn't help me in the area of discipline. Nope, we're evolved parents who apparently "know better" than to damage our children with the type of disciplinary actions our parents doled out.

 Just last week my husband and I rented a cabin with friends and after a few mugs of spiked cocoa we all got to talking about what our parents did to us. I divulged the time when my oh-so-brave 17-year old self mouthed off to my mom. For more context, I was about the size I am now and my mom has always been a very little woman, maybe 5'2'' (Don't feel too badly for her, she packs a mean passive aggressive punch.) So as I was verbally disrespecting the woman who labored for 33 hours to bring me into this world (can you tell that my own motherhood has slightly altered my perspective on things?) she threatened, "If you don't shut your mouth I'm going to break it!" I, of course, with my brown lip liner, concussion-tight, high pony-tail and too-fitted RL Polo shirt, was a senior pulling straight A's without trying, had the vocabulary of a 30 year old adjunct professor, and was not afraid of my 5'2'' mother. I know you're cringing, I know.This is where that time machine hot tub would have come in handy (1- to take me back to prevent my 17-year old self from saying what I was about to say and 2- to soothe my butt if I didn't make it in time.)  But, no one did stop me from opening my stupid mouth and saying, (this is now playing back in slow-mo in my mind) "then..break..it."  I think something must have happened between the time when I saw my tiny mother swing on me and when I came to, looked around and found myself landed on the kitchen floor against the washing machine (yes, our washing machine was in the kitchen- this was a rent-controlled, project apartment in Queens. No, we didn't have a dryer, we just laid our clothes on the radiators until they were crispy and smelled like whatever mom was cooking that day - arroz con pollo: good, bacalao- a pungent salted codfish: bad. You get what you get and you don't get upset.) Something definitely happened in that moment- she put me on notice that, at least for the remaining 9 months until I went off to college to do, whatever the hell it was I ended up doing, I was in her house. Mom's street-cred was reestablished and I knew that if she had to, she could take me out. It didn't fix all of our problems, and arguably, it didn't fix any at all, but, then again, I never tried to talk to her that way again.

So yesterday I heard my mom knit-picking at my son. He was already in a bad mood, for only God knows what reason. I think his 9-year old boy period was starting or something and every little request sent him off into a rant of 'why me?'s. I had asked him to do something, he fussed and I informed him of what the consequence would be. My mother, not satisfied with my lack of guilt tripping and snarky commenting, decided to chime in. The back and forth between the 64 year old and the 9 year old ensued and ended with him storming out of the kitchen. I asked him what was wrong and he literally turned into a character from "The Wire"

The conversation went exactly like this:

Me: What happened in there?
Tiny Boy: It's grandma, she's always getting me upset.
Me: Well, did you try to talk to her about it? You can use kind words to explain how you feel.
(and here's where the change happened- voice deep, scowl on his face, arms splayed in wide fury and invitation of conflict; has he been dipping into my secret stash of movies: Juice, Carlito's Way, New Jack City?)
Tiny Gangster: I don't know why she gotta be all up in my business!
Me: blink
Tiny Gangster: She's always talking trash... (he let his voice trail off, which was scarier than if he had punctuated the statement. Was he planning on making an example of his grandmother in front of all of her senior, nagging friends?)

In the end, I made some firm remarks about how to speak respectfully to and about his grandmother, but I walked away somewhere between stunned and in silent hysterics. This kid is no walk in the park. It was almost as bad as the time he was misbehaving in church and I quietly whispered, in a menacing tone "I would like you to change what you're doing" and he dead-pan responded "I would like to not smell your breath right now."

So, what do you think? Should I post this on one of those sweet parenting/"ask a natural mommy" blogs? No, I didn't think so.

So, I'm thinking I need a new plan, cause no gangster I ever met sat in time out.

At this rate, I fully expect my 4 year old daughter to declare, (with her 4-year old lisp) "snitches get stitches bitches" next time someone tattles on her.


yours,
mother of a little-man-on-fire

Dear You, Dear Me, Dear Me!

     Why do so very many sentences seem easily translated as "you ain't shit"? I, myself, am both witness to, perpetrator of and (on my best days) revolutionary against these crimes of speech and thought. Murderous is the human heart. That sounds profound; I just thought of it, but surely someone has said it before. Murderous, because if I annihilate you, and, systematically, everyone around me (at least those who either refuse to worship me or pose a direct threat to my being worshipped, which I think is mostly everyone), then only I will remain and I can be God.  I know, I'm taking things a little too far (I can do that- I come by my hyperbolic tendencies honestly, by blood- I'm Puerto Rican, everything is a big deal- and by upbringing- my mother had a mediocre grilled cheese at a local deli yesterday, she proclaimed that they stole her money and that she would starve before ever eating there again, ever!). But hear me out. I'm no theologian, nor am I a sociologist. I'm not a social worker or a teacher. I'm not even a great blogger. I think I'm a good mom (the kids ate green beans last night and there was almost no bribery involved) and a decent wife (I am consciously practicing not controlling my husband's life, as in, I've stopped  taking such great interest in when and where he gets his haircut, though if you ask me the Vietnamese guy is the best cut for our money...) So, my qualification to assign deeper meaning and motives to peoples' words lies only in this- I have a heart. And I know what my heart hears when my mom says inquisitively "oh, you're leaving the house without earrings?" or "There's no rush, I can wait if you want to run upstairs and put some lipstick on", it hears; translation: you're not cute and you ain't shit. And, I know what my heart means to communicate when I say "Oh, you've already turned your air conditioners on? It's mid-May and 80 degrees outside, we wait until it hits 90 in June, you know, to conserve". Translation: you're a spoiled wasteful brat and you ain't shit. It explains why I don't want some people to know that I pay someone to clean my house (I'm lazy and incompetent and I ain't shit), and why I am ok if other people do know (they have one too so can't say anything.) It's why we say "I told you so" and why we act like we (I say we, because I'm hoping I'm not the only freak in the world who is damaged in this way) weren't hurt in the first place when some apologizes to us. So, yes, once I make others subtly feel small, inferior and once I make sure they are solidly convinced of my greatness, I can rest easy, as ruler of the universe, impenetrable to criticism, pain, failure and then no one will think of me, let alone say, "you ain't shit."
     This is very ugly to write down. This may need to be one of those posts I compose but never publish. There are lots of posts like that, for lots of reasons. Usually it's because it just a plain old crappy post. I"m mean really, who wants to read about the stale nuts in my banana bread (I thought I could tie stale nuts into something humorous, it didn't work.) It's ugly to write and say and admit, and maybe I will bury it because, generally, I refuse to be exposed. And yet, on my best days I resist the urge to be better than the closest adjacent fellow human, on my best days I am endowed with a spirit of truth telling and grace that shocks even me. True, these days may  be months apart (and by 'days' I may only mean one momentary impulse that lasts all of 35 seconds before I realize I've been dethroned and quickly set the peon in his or her right position...) but still, there are glimpses. I cherish those moments. The moments when my heart is able to see another and say, "I'm sorry that I just called you nothing, I'm mistaken, you are most certainly not nothing. You are a work of art, a work in progress for sure, but art nonetheless." I cherish those moments when I can expose a lie for what it is and the moments when I have the wisdom to stop up my ears, walk away, smile instead. I cherish those moments when I pray for my enemies, perceived and real, and can honestly recognize when I have been an enemy to someone else. The moments when I set my boundaries and when I respect the boundaries of others, asking forgiveness for my trespass. So, I am going to publish this post (it's actually a fairly safe bet, since not many are reading, but it's a step). I am going to choose today to be one of those days, one of those moments.

With my apologies for yesterday, and tomorrow,