OCD (Out of Character Disorder)

"Mom, you're like totally obsessed now."

I'm really not, or at least I don't feel like I am.

I don't know if my psychology degree is to blame, or the hours I spend thinking and analyzing everything from my kids' behavior to my own, but over the years I have become pretty self-aware.  I know all of my idiosyncrasies and the ways I can be overly sensitive, or predict the precise moment a specific event will tip my emotional scales from fairly balanced to someone-get-her-a-stiff-drink.

It's this awareness that helped me realize that I have a one-track mind when it comes to the things that I enjoy.  Obsessive-compulsive interests, if you will.

I've done this my whole life.  When I was in high school, Alanis Morrisette became very popular, and despite the fact that I couldn't identify with her angry lyrics, I was hooked.  I knew every word of every song.  I knew about the artist herself-- where she grew up, how she liked to style her hair (which I may have attempted myself a time or two) and spent the better part of a year wishing I'd been so lucky as to have a hit album rather than frizzy hair and thick glasses.



This happened in college with just about any Tom Hanks movie.  It happened a few years ago with the Hunger Games book series, despite the fact that I am, in fact, a grown-ass woman.  It happened when I rediscovered "Whose Line Is It Anyway" and was able to find every old episode that ever existed and spent a good two years memorizing most of them.  I even got to see a couple of the guys on their comedy tour and sat in the front row.

Apparently I'm a media superfan.  I'm super into the things that interest me.  I am not, to be clear, of the fan variety that mails locks of my hair to celebrities or pins their photos to my bathroom mirror.



Earlier this summer, after I exhausted myself re-watching the entire "White Collar" series for the fifth time, I saw a commercial advertising the next season of "The Voice", and it reminded me that I had never set my new DVR to record the upcoming episodes.  I have always liked singing competitions, and last winter I leisurely enjoyed watching Jordan Smith absolutely dominate all of the other artists, and was happy when he won handily.  I forgot all about the show and the season that aired last spring, so I thought it would be fun to start watching again.



And it has been.  The kids have gotten involved too, choosing their favorite contestants and campaigning for them to be chosen or stolen, and have begun asking about the coaches themselves.

"Who is Adam?  I mean, why is he famous?"

"He's the lead singer of a band called 'Maroon 5'.  You'd know a lot of their songs, I have them playing in the car."

"Who are Alicia and Miley?"

"They are singers, too.  All of the coaches are.  You might know a couple of Alicia's songs, and you've heard Miley's 'Wrecking Ball'."

I'm not particularly proud of that iTunes purchase.  We'll gloss over it, mmkay?

"Play something you have of Blake Shelton's, Mom."

No, nope.  I don't own any of his songs because I DON'T DO COUNTRY MUSIC.  Never have.  My disdain for country music has been as much a part of me as my name or the color of my eyes.  But with my two boys looking up at me without judgment for having watched the same seven episodes of "The Voice" on repeat for two weeks, I couldn't shut down their request.

"I don't really like country, but I'll find something on YouTube so you can hear what it is like."



And that's when my interest "disorder" took on a new and very weird twist... I started to like Blake's music.  I bought the song the boys liked the most and played in the car for them.  YouTube led me to others that I enjoyed and then later loved, and before I knew it, I'd purchased 19 of his not-so-twangy songs that have been on (you guessed it) nonstop loop.

I feel like a fish out of water.  If I like country music, then should I question all of the other things I believed about myself?  Tomorrow will I give up coffee and start homeschooling my kids?  Will I begin eating pickles and book a hot-air balloon ride?

"Mom, you're like totally obsessed now."

Maybe I am.  Maybe I'll be watching old seasons of "The Voice" for the next six months while wearing a cowboy hat and a plaid shirt.  And maybe there's just one more thing for me to do.



Just kidding.  Maybe if my hair looked like Alanis Morrisette's...

Big Wheel Keep On Turning

"Hello, Mrs. Foreman.  This is the principal at the elementary."

Uh oh.  Can anything good start with that?

Maybe if you're the mother of little girls with pink painted fingernails and pillowed reading corners, yes.  Maybe even if you're the mother of that variety of boy that prefers digging quietly in the dirt or chasing earthworms and dragonflies.  But I'm not.

I held the phone as I looked around my living room.  Shoes everywhere.  Sixteen legos strategically placed around the sofa, just waiting to be stepped on.  Bits and chunks of paper that I already know once read "fart poptart" before being ripped up before leaving for school in the morning.

No, a call from the principal only means trouble.

I tried to imagine the different ways this could play out.  

"We're afraid your son has vomited on six other children.  Wait... seven."

"Ma'am, your son de-pantsed a boy on the playground that disparaged the St. Louis Cardinals."

"Did you instruct your children to start a poker ring during recess?"

I definitely didn't expect what I heard next.

"I'm just calling to let you know that Graham was nominated by his teacher as our "Rockstar Student" of the week.  He was chosen for being kind to other students and always following directions.  As part of this, he got to visit with me, I tweet out his photos, and we make a phone call home so that you can chat with him.  Would that be okay?"

"Of course!"

I was surprised, but Graham must have been even more shocked, because as awkward as he is on the phone, his responses were even more stilted than I expected.

"Grammy, I'm so proud of you!"

"Okay."

"Are you excited? Your teacher chose YOU!"

"I guess."

"I love you!"

"Okay."

"And do you love me?"

"Uh huh."

"I've always thought you were outstanding, but it sounds like everyone else does, too.  Doesn't that make you feel good?"

"Okay."

"I'm still really proud of you!"

"Yeah.  Bye."

It's probably for the best that they weren't awarding eloquence yesterday.

Graham has always been my easiest, my gentlest.  But he is also a bit of a wallflower, and not one to stand out in group settings and preferring to be one of the crowd.  And while this distinction obviously made him a bit uncomfortable, I'm so glad he got to feel the heat of the spotlight for a bit.

Because when he gets home, he's still picking up those legos.

Book of Expletives

Apologies for the extended absence.  For the last week and a half I've been toggling between preparing for Cael's ninth birthday party with ten friends, recovering from said party, and most recently, shouting in anger at my various devices as they all unify to tell me that my camera's memory card has been somehow corrupted and ALL OF THE PHOTOS are irretrievable.

I'll share the details of the party eventually.  I'm just not ready to speak of this unfairness yet.

You can imagine how quickly I accepted when Joel suggested a mid-week date night to go see "Book of Mormon" at the University of Iowa's brand new auditorium.  I needed some time away, am never one to turn down a dinner out, and all I knew of the show was that it was funny.  I needed some funny, so it was a match made in heaven.

 

After dinner and a long walk from the recesses of the parking lot, we finally reached our seats in the nosebleed section (all we were able to snag on opening night).  We settled in and chatted with the stranger in the seat next to me whose quick analysis of the asymmetrical overhead lighting and its ability to "create balance in the space" told me that this was, in fact, one of those theater lovers, so I shifted toward Joel and avoided eye contact.  I'm much too introverted for snooty small talk on a Tuesday night.

Within a few minutes the show began, and from the very start it was entertaining.  The singing was great, the characters were very identifiable, but it is SO.  SO.  INAPPROPRIATE.

Ya'll, it's hilarious.  It's shocking.  It's going to send us all to hell for sure.

Since they don't allow photography during the show, I have no visual evidence to show you what went down, but I dug around on the internet to get some comparable examples.

Throughout the majority of the show, I looked like this:

 

Many of the older women in the audience looked like this:



And pompous theater guy next to me was clearly struggling between being offended and trying to maintain proper theater decorum.



See this photo?  There were about as many "F" bombs in this performance as there are grains of sand on that beach.



And after belly laughing at it a mere four days after our friendly neighborhood Mormons actually knocked on my own door, I'm quite confident I'll be spending eternity in a spooky Mormon hell dream of my own in about 45 years.
 

But the predominant feeling of the evening was complete discomfort at having to experience this show in close proximity to so many strangers.  It took me back to when I was in sixth grade, and shortly after my mom had died.  Two of my favorite former teachers offered to take me and my best friend to a movie as a kind gesture during a hard time.  The most popular movie in the theaters was "Forrest Gump", and I was thrilled to be seeing it with my friend on one side and my school teacher on the other.

That is, until Jenny took her bra off, and my face felt as hot as that fiery scene above.

Turns out, 22 years have passed and I am not beyond blushing like a fifth grader.

(Check out the opening scene of the show as performed at the Tony's a few years back... I promise it's safe.)



So in conclusion, if you can handle a round of Cards Against Humanity, you're probably tough enough, but if you're timid around vulgarity, steer clear.  Because it's hilarious.  It's shocking.   

And it's sending me to hell for sure.

Sweet and Seven

Let's call this period of time "Ego Week".  It's actually 16 days to be accurate-- the day after Graham's birthday to the day before Cael's, during which time Graham is only one year younger and still riding the high of new presents.

For such a sensitive and sweet boy, he knows how to milk an advantage.



Graham's birthday is always a bit of a challenge.  When asked for gift ideas, he makes suggestions for cheap, meaningless items like "bubbles and balloons" or for things that don't exist, like "Nikes that are purple but say 'BOY' on them so people know they're not girl's shoes".  In short, it's up to me to find things that he will enjoy and make the experience special for him independent of the gifts themselves.

That was my biggest challenge this year.



I did get the bubbles and balloons.  I also got a some books and art stuff, a couple of small Lego sets, some fun bike accessories, and passed on a few ideas to my family.

And then it was time to make a cake.

You guys, I had the hardest time mustering up any motivation this year.  Perhaps it was because Graham had requested a Minecraft cake and I was not particularly excited or inspired by the subject matter, but from the moment I started baking, I just couldn't get invested, and that really hurt me in the long run.  Only Adler was really in the game.



All of the example photos on Pinterest looked largely the same, so I tried to copy my favorite parts from each and combine them into one confection, but my lackluster attention caused me to make a lot of mistakes, like attempting a square cake that was much larger and thinner than I expected and forcing me to bake three layers instead of two, using a whipped chocolate frosting instead of something firmer that would support the fondant, not making my own fondant and using dry store bought stuff, and just not caring sufficiently.  For the first time, I found myself wishing I'd just bought a grocery store cake.

To be fair, it was 3:30am and I had stared, unblinking, at the cake for 40 minutes without doing anything.  Eventually I stuck a creeper and a pig on it and gave up.



But my sweet Graham was so excited and grateful, despite the fact that he HAD to recognize it was not as detailed or as polished as I would normally expect.

And he loved his new shoes even though they were green, because his birthday was first.

Happy Birthday, Bubba.

(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.