(DIM) Do-It-Myself

Last week, Cael came home with the instructions for his very first official school project.  He was tasked with making a "habitat diorama" for an animal of his choice.  The students could use a shoebox or something similar as the framework for their environment, and it should include anything the chosen animal needs to survive.

Cael's choice?  A bald eagle.



That's my patriotic boy.

The only problem is that Cael, while pretty artistically gifted, is also somewhat artistically unmotivated.  I asked him what ideas he had.

"I don't know."

I asked him what an eagle would need to survive.

"I don't know."

I asked him if he wanted a smoothie or grilled beef tongue for his afternoon snack.

"I don't know."

Yeah, I thought he wasn't listening.

Once he had done his research and was able to focus on his project, he made some legitimate suggestions.  He wanted to put a nest in a tree where his eagle would roost.  He wanted a lake or river with fish for his bird to eat.  He wanted grass and mountains, because "mountains rock".  (I see what he did there.)  And lastly, he wanted to paint the entire box so that you couldn't see any cardboard anywhere.

Immediately, I could see the end result.  Not his, but mine-- the project I would have made if I were in his place and had chosen something obscure like the Jesus Lizard.  I'd create a shoebox Amazon rainforest with fourteen different textured plants from my yard, and utilize a discreetly placed spray bottle to mimic the ever present moisture of the canopy.  Then, a complex patchwork of strings and pulleys would guide my lizard over the surface of my poured acrylic "water" as he danced across the surface.

Photo credit here.

But I guess an eagle is okay, too.  And I may have a problem with perfectionism.

Every time we discussed the project, and later when we actually began to assemble it, I had to remind myself to refrain from imposing my ideas and taking over.

This is Cael's project.
This is not my project.
This is Cael's project.



This became my mantra.  And I swear, I did my best to stay out of it.  But after he'd drawn his fresh water fish and finished painting, (by himself, for the record) the time came to create and erect a tree structure.  He liked the idea of the branch being off the ground but lacked the strength or coordination to punch through the box, so I had to take on the task.

In order to affix the grass, rocks, etc., we would have to use the hot glue gun, and I have learned from extensive experience with our log cabin project that my leaky glue gun should require licensure and come equipped with burn cream and a injury waiver, so I would have to do that part, too.  I had Cael lay out the landscaping where he would like, and I glued everything down before starting in on the river.

And here's where I couldn't help myself.

He did a great job painting the river.  But wouldn't the river be even cooler if we covered it with solidified hot glue so that it would look glossy and wet?  He agreed.  And wouldn't the glue river look even more realistic if it tumbled down a rocky waterfall?  He was excited.  And wouldn't the real pièce de résistance be a cobblestone bridge at the edge of the shoebox where there was already a domed cutout?  He was... annoyed.



"No, Mom.  And eagle doesn't need a bridge!"  

I don't need a log cabin assembled with twigs from my backyard, either, but people without rampant perfectionism don't always know what's best for them, DO THEY?

I respected his wishes, however, and handed over the rocks and paint so that Cael could build the waterfall.  I coated it in dropping hot glue, and called it good.

This is Cael's project.  
This is not my project. 
This is Cael's project.

When it was done and I stepped back to look at it, I felt a twinge of regret.  The entire project was his inspiration, and while he did do much of the work, the habitat diorama in front of me didn't look like it was crafted by an eight year-old.



It looked like it was crafted by a glue-gun-wielding stay-at-home-mom who'd had too much coffee that day.  But Cael loves it, and what was done was done.



As we enter this phase of my kids' schooling, I'm going to have to learn to take a step back and let the boys be 100% responsible for their own work.  And if that is the only lesson learned from this project, it should be considered a success.

But you know that next time there will be a bridge...

In Defense of The Bad Gal

I eavesdropped on an interesting conversation last night.

As I was taking some boxes to the recycling bin, I could hear Graham chatting with a couple of neighbor boys as he told them he couldn't play any more last night.

"Yeah, we've got to have some family time."
"Your Mom never lets you and Cael play!  You need 'friend' time, not family time."
"I know.  It's always family time."

My first instinct was to run out to the driveway and defend my parental position on this one, but I decided to respect Graham's privacy and go back in the house while I reevaluated every decision I've made for the last 2-3 months.

And in the end, I decided that I'm still right.  Sorry, boys.



With the exception of an affinity for new technology and my unwillingness to get a bob haircut, Joel and I are pretty traditional and old-fashioned in our parenting beliefs.  I drive a mini-van, for goodness sake.  But as time goes by, I realize more and more than our style doesn't align with that of many parents in our generation.

After school, my boys are free to play with the exception of a couple of days when I have their day care friends over, and feel it would be disrespectful for them both to leave.  But Thursday or Friday (or any day after 4:45pm, send your kid on over.  The Foreman boys are ready to play.

That invitation doesn't extend forever, though.  At some point we will eat dinner, and that usually signals the end of (neighborhood) play time.  After dinner we do homework, we clean up, and we take showers.

**Please note that I am using the royal "we" here, as my children seem to have developed a phobia and/or life-threatening allergy about cleaning their bodies.  Thus far, no one has succumbed to anaphylactic shock, but studies are ongoing.**

If there is time left over, we spend it together.  We read a book, we play Old Maid, we sit together on the couch and I pretend to care about the score of a baseball game.  But not every minute or even every day is for friends.  That's what the weekend is for.

This issue, more than any other, has made me the bad guy... or gal.

There are so many others, though.  I've had to establish a firmer stance as a mother than I ever expected because these boys are more stubborn and unyielding than a brick wall, and I've learned that the only defense against masonry is more structure.


If you make a mess, you clean it up.  I don't expect perfection, but cleaning up your Legos is not properly achieved by cramming them all into a dirty sock and then jamming said sock into your dirty clothes basket.  When 647 loose Legos explode inside my dryer, I will not dance beneath them as though they were confetti on New Year's Eve.

If I tell you to do something, you do it.  Not later and not partially.  If you try to pull a fast one over on me, you may discover that the trip to Dairy Queen we planned ends up happening later... or maybe I'll just fill up a Dairy Queen cup with some greek yogurt from the fridge.

Use your best judgment.  If I got angry about you showing your friends one of my bras, I probably won't respond well to a fashion show of my various pairs of underwear.

If I cook you a meal and your first words upon seeing asparagus are "you've got to be kidding me!", you won't get to eat.  Someday, God willing, another family might invite you to eat with them, and I don't want you to respond to liver and onions as if they were, well, liver and onions.  Be respectful.  Plus, the rest of us are sick of green beans.

If you hit your brother and he hits you back, don't come crying to me.  Work out your problems with each other.  Someday I will be dead and he will be the only other person on the planet with whom you can commiserate about that time Mom wouldn't let you play outside after dinner.

For the love of God, calm down.  When you come home from school and explode with unrestrained energy, I find myself huddling fearfully in the middle of a tornado of light sabers and farts.  No one deserves that, especially the woman that actively chose a belly of stretch marks in order to have you around.  If you must, do it outside.

Do not mix the Play-Doh colors.  This is non-negotiable.

If you ask me a question, don't fight with me about the answer.  I may not be a lawyer or an astrophysicist, but I'm a smart gal and I know a few things.  If I don't know an answer, I know how to help you find one.

If you misbehave when friends are over, I will send them home.  If your friends misbehave when they are over, I might send them home too.  It depends on the kid.  Are their parents bad guys, too?

There are a lot of new-age parenting ideas floating around out there, and while I don't agree with a lot of them, I don't begrudge a parent their right to raise their own children in whatever way they feel is best.  But if your son or daughter complains that the Foreman boys are never allowed out of the house, please set them straight.

Then serve them some asparagus.  We all need to be the bad gal sometimes.

Radical Remembrance

I'm writing this post on Sunday, September 11th, and if there were ever a day meant for remembering, this would be it.

I've never written a 9/11 post, message, or even Facebook update, because I have always felt that those sentiments should be left for the people whose lives were more directly impacted by those events.  I was just a shiny new college student, ready for class on a beautiful Tuesday morning with no idea of how things would change.

I didn't lose anyone.  I didn't even know anyone who lived in New York or DC.  But for me personally, I was already operating at a deficit because that beautiful September morning would have been my mother's birthday, if she hadn't been gone for almost seven years.



She would have hated that her birthday, which should have been a lighthearted event-- a sunny promise of autumn leaves and cool breezes, became a memorial for tragedy, a reminder of the evil in the world.

The interesting thing is that she was the exact opposite of what that day would later represent.  Mom was quiet and she was kind.  She embraced people with hugs and "I love yous" and sticky coffee cake, and would never, despite any opposing ideology, think of lashing out at others.

Radical kindness.  Radically gentle.

Mom's been gone for twenty-two years now, and that fresh hurt of her loss has passed.  She comes to mind every single day, but in moments when I give Adler eskimo kisses like she shared with me, or when I laugh about how she couldn't curl her tongue in the bathroom mirror.  And as I watch coverage of the 9/11 anniversary, I just hope and pray that for those who were directly affected, the fresh hurt can pass for you too, and you can remember the happy moments with your loved ones and the sunshine on that Tuesday morning.

Photo credit here.

2046

This is happening right now.



While Adler enjoys a little "Thomas the Train" on the iPad during his very first potty attempt, I can't help but be enamored with his cuteness.

I also can't help but wonder if I am helping to craft him into the 32-year-old he will someday be, enjoying a private moment on the toilet with his trusty mobile device.

Or more realistically, seventeen private moments and counting.

Good luck, Adler.

Flaws and Futures

I'm struggling today.

Even though the kids are at school and Adler is enjoying an episode of "Super Why" which gives me approximately 23 minutes to reacquaint myself with a cup of coffee and a quiet house, I'm still feeling that bone-deep stress that only a parent can understand.



For the last month or so, I have felt like I don't even know my boys.  They have been so defiant, argumentative, and often rude that I can no longer excuse their behaviors away.

In short, I love them, but I haven't liked them a lot lately.

And when I say "them", I really mean Cael.

I am trying to choose my words carefully, because he is aware of this blog and I know that a day will come when he wants to read it.  I've always been honest here, and nothing I say will come as a surprise to him because he is whip-smart and quite self-aware, but I also don't want to hurt his feelings in an effort to try to be funny.  So for both our sake's, let's try it this way.

This is Cael.



He is a few weeks away from nine years old, and he's amazing.  But like all of us, he is flawed.

Cael is stubborn, but he is smart.  When he's been told to stop arguing, he can't help but continue because it is important to him to make sure his opinion is heard.  I get that.

When I feel like I have figured out all of his moves, he finds new ways of defying me, but that's probably because he is so creative.  The kid can make something artistic out of almost anything.

When we've had a tough day with one another, I feel exhausted and devoid of energy, but Cael never seems to run out of reserves.  When I think of it, though, I'd rather have an energetic kid than one that has no spark.

I'm a pretty sensitive person, and I try to think of other people's feelings before my own, but that concept eludes Cael.  He can't seem to see or think beyond his own orbit, but he is also only eight.  And my way of thinking often leaves me disappointed... at least Cael is looking out for himself.

I get frustrated with how Cael sees things in such extremes.  If he doesn't like where we are going to dinner, he won't eat.  If Graham won't play a certain game, Cael won't speak to him.  But when he's thirty, maybe that conviction will push him to go for that promotion he's been wanting, or will help him win that court case he's trying.

Lastly, I find that Cael (and the other boys, too, for that matter) save the worst of their behavior for me.  Babysitters and teachers sing their praises, and then when I enter the room, they run wild and lose that respect that should frame their interactions.  But what if they need to "let down" each day?  If their brains need that release, I would certainly rather them do it with me than at school or at church, or when they are older, at work.

So yeah, today I'm struggling.  But I need to remember that for each of their flaws, there is also a strength that I may be helping to create in the men they will become.

And for six more minutes, there's coffee and silence.

Veggie Tales

This summer, we grew a garden.

In fact, this garden was the first one of my adult life.  As a child, we had a large garden in our yard, and I loved helping my mom pull weeds and pick peas.  It seemed like that garden was full of every vegetable imaginable, and it was that vision that prompted me to try my hand at gardening myself.

Everything was pretty stacked against us.  With our yard already taken up by a full-sized wiffle ball field, oversized playset and one available back corner ear marked for a future shed, our only option for a garden was on the east side of our house where a gravel pad reminded us of the Airstream trailers we put to rest.  

So last spring, we did our best to dig away the rock and till the dirt.  Trying to eliminate all of the rock was about as futile as trying to keep Play-Doh colors separate with a two year-old at the table, but we removed enough to plant our seeds, and before I knew it, we had a garden full of green, and the promise of fresh food to come.

I don't know if the rock is to blame, or the dirt that often feels like more clay than soil, but not everything took.  We had a bumper crop of zucchini, four abundant tomato plants that are still cranking out super sweet cherry and grape tomatoes, more green beans than we could eat, and a pretty good turnout for those peas I remembered harvesting as a kid.  But the onions never grew to full size, the spinach got eaten by grubs from underground, the broccoli I planted for a fall harvest has only produced three tiny potential broccoli plants, and the pepper plants created only one pepper each. 

But the carrots, y'all.  

If there were a vegetable metaphor for a lackluster garden yield, these carrots would be it.  When I pulled all of them after a couple started to rot in the ground, I was so disappointed in these pathetic, dull orange nubs.  As with all of the other vegetables that never materialized, I felt frustrated not only that we didn't get to eat the food, but also that my kids didn't get to have the full gardening "experience".  That dirt-in-your-toes, damp earth smell, fresh-from-the-garden dinner experience.

But when I unloaded those carrots, it turned out to be quite an experience anyway.

"What?  These are our carrots?"

"Yeah, I know they're not the be--"

"These are AWESOME!"

"They're what?!"

"This one is super hairy, so none of the other carrots like him, because he's gross."

"And this one is running away because he doesn't want to get hairy too."

"This one grew a tail like a rat because he tattled on the hairy one."

"These guys are just bullies."

"This guy was so scared that he forgot to put on pants."

"And this one-- holy cow, Mom!  He forgot his pants, too, but you can see his--"

I guess the garden was fruitful after all.

...but maybe I'll skip the carrots in 2017.

Withdrawal

Lately, the world has been a bit darker.  Colors have been duller, and music has lost its brilliance.

All because one week ago, I gave up soda.

That may be a bit dramatic, but there's truth there.  For over half of my life, I've been guzzling Dr. Pepper and more recently, Diet Dr. Pepper, in record numbers, and now thanks to some harebrained scheme to "get healthy" and "avoid brain cancer" I decided to end our relationship.

Photo credit here.

As silly as it sounds, I feel like a recovering addict.  I think about it every day.  I miss the carbonated bite and the caffeinated pick-me-up early in the morning.  Like, really early in the morning.  Sometimes straight out of bed.  So tingly and crisp.  So smooth and such a perfect pairing for eggs, or toast, or... or... a cup....

Sorry, I got a bit distracted there.  Since I quit, I've managed to replace nearly every drink I consume with water, which, aside from also being a liquid, has none of the qualities I loved about my beloved Diet Dr. Pepper.  

Photo credit here here.

I take that back.  I'm peeing constantly, so at least one thing has remained the same.

It's crazy to look back just three or four years ago and consider my family's diet at that time.  Constant bread, pasta, and sugar, sugar, sugar.  It was no wonder I found myself dramatically overweight and constantly hungry.  Now we're eating only real foods, nothing processed, low carbs, lots of vegetables and protein, and yet all I want is a Big Gulp from the nearest gas station.

One week down, the rest of my life to go.

I guess it's time to start drinking coffee.