Mom, You’re a Hypocrite

That is what my ten year old son said to me as he walked out the door on his way to school one day last week. Ouch, it stung a little. Let me tell you what happened and you can decide if he is right.

In an effort to raise my kids as non-sexist as possible, I encourage them to make choices about toys and whatnot based on what they like, not whether it is made for a boy or a girl. When we go through McDonald’s drivethru for happy meals and the speaker asks, “Boy or girl toys?” I answer with the question, “What are the toys?” After hearing the options the boys decide what they want, and sometimes it is the girl toy.

When the boys lined up behind Masha and Autumn to get their nails painted a couple weeks ago, I gave them several colors to choose from and daddy painted their nails right along with their sisters’. You might even recall that a few years ago I bought my oldest son a pocketbook and he took it to school on and off for a couple weeks.

I know that my boys have gotten chastised by their peers for their gender-bending. While the purse still hangs in the Gecko’s closet, filled with hidden goodies, he no longer takes it out of the house. Jade came home from school after wearing the nail polish and told me that the girls in his class told him that he isn’t supposed to wear nail polish. That night, after boy scouts, I asked him if anyone noticed and he said that a boy laughed at him and called him a girl. His answer? “No, I am still a boy and I am my own person.”

It is hard to let them make their own decisions about this stuff knowing that the odds are they will be made fun of, but it feels worse to force them to comply with our society's unwritten gender rules. Actually, it feels so asinine trying to explain why they can’t wear nail polish or carry a sleek bag with lots of pockets that I would rather they just do what they want.

But then I blew it.

Masha has an awesome winter coat. It is thick, plush actually, with stitching on it that looks swirly. The hood and sleeves are edged with faux fur of the same deep blue color as the rest of the coat. She looks all set to travel to Alaska every time she puts in on. She hates it. She really really hates it and refuses to wear it. I had to swap it out with a lighter-weight suede coat.

On that morning, she once again refused to wear her awesome coat and Jade piped up, “Can I wear it mom? I love her coat.” And I said, “No.” Then I pushed him out the door with his handsome navy and yellow winter coat. Gecko was stuffing his backpack while this was taking place. He was the last one left in the entryway and on his way out he said it: “Mom, you are a hypocrite. Aren’t you the one who is always telling us it doesn’t matter if it was made for a boy or a girl; you can choose what you like?”

My brilliant comeback was, “Just go to school, okay?”

I’m making up for it though. A certain little somebody wants an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas, and he’s getting it.

Gecko Scores

My 9 year old son Gecko plays on a premier soccer club team. He is one of the youngest and most developing kids on the U10 (boys born in ’02 & ‘03) team. He is also one of the smaller kids, though surprisingly not the smallest. But he is built for soccer. He is fast, agile, and aggressive and for the most part he holds his own.



For some reason though, he doesn’t shoot for goals. He plays forward or midfielder and he does great getting the ball and moving it, but when he gets close he just doesn’t take the shot. I chalk this up to focus (too focused on controlling the ball to plan for a strike and not focused enough on where exactly he is and what the goal opportunities look like ahead of him) and perhaps even a bit of uncoordinated motor planning (the switch from controlling it to actually shooting it).



I am not some crazed soccer mom who lives and dies for her kid to be the best, to be the star but I know that for his sake he needs to take that next step and start taking goal shots. I have been subtly mentioning it to him and when it comes up he tells me he prefers defense. And so I leave it alone hoping that by the end of this first year he develops to the point where he wants it.



Last Sunday when I did a little birthday shopping for myself at the Pandora store, he was with me. He goes there often with his dad to pick out my special occasion gifts and he enjoys looking at and picking out the beads he thinks I might like. As we were eying the lovely baubles in the glass cases, he said, "Mom, don’t you have a football? Maybe they have a soccer ball."

The sales lady was quick to tell us there is a soccer ball bead and to pull out the tray that it sits on. I smiled at Gecko, "I do have a football bead. And when you score your first goal, I will buy that beautiful soccer ball bead to celebrate it." He smiled right back at me and said, "Ok mom."

On Wednesday (the very next practice) the boys played against themselves, and lo and behold, Gecko scored not one but two goals. The minute he got home he yelled to me, "Guess what mom? We can go back to Pandora now." I was very excited for him and proud of him.

But later that night I wondered about it. When your children are really little, you know them so well. You know what each of their cries means, you know everywhere they go, everyone they see, all the things they care about... but then they begin to grow up and away from you. They have crushes you don’t know about, thoughts they don’t share, friends and enemies at school you don’t know. They have fears and desires that you are not privy to. Was it a coincidence that he scored those goals the very next time he was on the field? Or is he that motivated to please me/make me proud? Is that a good thing? Was it to show that he loves me or does it mean he feels like he needs to measure up?

Today he came home late from his game. He walked into the kitchen with a little Pandora bag in his hand and a wide grin. As he handed it to me he excitedly told me that he took a goal shot during the game but "the goalie just barely got it!"

That little silver and enamel soccer ball charm on my bracelet means a lot to me. While it won’t give up the secret of why he wanted it so bad, it reminds me that my boy is superstar to me.

Let Them Eat Cake (Pops)

I told you a couple years ago that Jade is a budding chef and since then I have done everything possible to encourage his cooking adventures. I had hoped if he was involved in the cooking he might actually taste or even eat the food we make, but alas that is not usually how it goes. Except for when we make goodies... then he is all about eating... he eats the ingredients as we put them in, slurps the batter off the mixers, spoons, and bowls, licks the frosting knife, and of course smacks up every “accidentally” spilled sprinkle he can find.

So for Christmas I bought him the Wilton Kids Mega Sprinkles Toteand my mom got him the Nordic Ware Cake Pops Baking Panso that we could make chocolate and sprinkle-covered cake pops.



He was very excited about the idea of making cake pops and has been bugging harassing reminding me almost daily that we have to make them. This week three of my five kids had a snow day on Wednesday... what better way to pass the time but making cake pops?

After the fourth go-round with the pan in the oven (for 16 minutes each time) and lots of batter still left in the bowl, I decided that we are definitely buying three more cake pop pans. Then once the house smelled truly delightful and all the candy melts and sprinkles were lined up and ready, I read the part where Gina (of Skinnytaste) says to chill the cake balls for 45 minutes in the fridge. Uh, ok...

It felt like hours after we had first begun our big adventure when we were finally ready to start dipping. The Gecko chose black candy melts, Jade chose red, and I chose white. I microwaved the candy to get things going and then put the glass cups into a pan of simmering water to keep the chocolate soft. The first thing we realized is that the little cake balls did not want to stay on the sticks and that the chocolate was too thick and heavy for them. We glopped the chocolate on and then watched sadly as the sticks poked through or the cake balls slid down their sticks.









No matter the setbacks, the boys totally enjoyed decorating their cake pops and you can surely tell they are just about ready to debut in Martha Stewart...



And no matter how ugly naturalistic my boys’ pops turned out, rumor has it that they were delicious anyway.



I don’t know if I ever told you this but I loooove to cook, and I am kinda good at it. And totally screwing up cake pops is just not acceptable to me so... today we tried again. This time I thinned the melted chocolate (with a big dollop of Crisco...ewww gross, I know but, a). it works and b). there are grosser things in life to worry about) and I insisted that we wait the minute after dipping and before decorating that Gina suggested (and in our excitement we disregarded last time). Those two little changes made a huge difference in physical as well as aesthetic results as you can see...





And a little birdie told us this batch was scrumptious too...

Finally She Opens the Gifts

We finally had the big birthday bash to celebrate our three summer birthdays... Kimani’s in June, the Gecko’s in August, and Jade’s in September. I wanted to do it over the summer when it would be hot and sunny but for every weekend I planned it, there was something else... some reason why it wouldn’t work then.

This past Saturday we had a BBQ, Bouncy House, lots of cake, lots of kids, a pinata, lots of friends... lots of excitement. Too much cake and excitement for Kimani. Just before it was time to open presents she signaled that she had to go potty. My husband took her inside, and she did not come back.

She needed a break he explained to me. She needed a nap. She missed opening her presents, and those who thoughtfully brought them to her missed seeing her open them. I felt really bad about this, so we waited until she was rested and most of the other children were asleep, and we set her up on the couch and let her have at it.

She, for the first time ever, paid attention the whole time. She enjoyed herself. She opened most of the packages with little help. She held and explored each gift. And she was full of smiles the whole time. I wanted her friends could see how much their gifts meant to her...

Raising Cain

I remember... when TK was just eleven years old she came home from Easter vacation at her mom’s house with her long beautiful hair dyed black. Black as black can be, and I thought to myself, “Oh no, here we go.” And though my husband cut off all her hair, what drove her did not go away. From there on out, it was a rough ride... not because she began misbehaving but because she was struggling internally: sad, angry, and no positive self image.

I thought it would be so much easier with boys, but now I see that I was wrong. Just the other day when I was searching You Tube for a song, my oldest son—nine year old Gecko, poked his head in my office and said, “Can you play ‘Feel Like a Monster’?” I had heard that song before, probably on the van radio but I couldn’t think of how he would know it. He went on to tell me that it is his song, that he feels that way.

I pulled it up and clicked the Play arrow... and after a couple seconds of an animated icky video, I stopped it. “How did you find that song?” I asked him, concerned about him searching You Tube for anything at all... and he explained that I had the wrong video... there is a video of the Pokemon Zoroark with the song. Hmmm, Pokemon... ok but not really because I do not like the idea that he identifies so strongly with the words to the song.

Now he sings it everyday. Just this morning waiting for the bus, "♪ ♫ I've lost my soul, ♪ ♫ I've lost my heart." Listen if you dare.



I wish, no stronger than that, I ache to be able to go back to when he was just a little toddler and do it over again so that somehow we don’t end up here. (Did my mom think she did it all wrong when I would blare AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ on my stereo everyday?) Isn’t nine a tad young for this kind of angst?

The boy sure is his mother’s son.

As Fate Would Have It

Did I tell you about the little girl my son the Gecko bullied in summer camp? No? Well she teased him about his name, and he pretty much decked her. When I got the call that night from the girl’s mother, I was a mess... shocked, sad, totally embarrassed and horrified by his behavior.

Soooo, can you guess whose mom is Masha’s Kindergarten aide? Yes indeed, and I am really happy about it.



It took a lot for her to call me to tell me what happened, and it also took a lot for my son to write a beautiful letter of apology. The day he delivered it, I ran into the mom in the camp parking lot. We had a wonderful talk and I left the situation feeling good about what had started off as something terrible.

When I brought Masha in to school for the walkthrough, there she was waiting for us with a huge smile. She gave me a hug and told me how excited she was to be able to work with Masha. I was thrilled and quite relieved because I have been worried about who would play this role for Masha.

I admit I had a fear that they would not choose someone who was looking forward to helping and encouraging a little girl with Down syndrome whose mom fought for her to be educated alongside the “regular kids”. I wondered if the aide would be well-educated, bright, caring, and if she would have a real desire to make a difference in Masha’s life. Well no more worries, and Jade (great name don't you think?) has already admitted to me that she is quite smitten with Masha :-) Here’s to a great Kindy start!

Waiting for the bus...

Regular Kids

Masha is going to summer day camp for two weeks. And while her session is for kids with special needs, she does have to ride the big school bus there and back, and I was chastised by someone fairly high up in on school district’s special education committee as she insisted that I must have been “quite forceful” with the camp administrator to get her in because after all, ordinary kid things are “a danger to Masha”.

My two sons are also attending adventure camp and so they can watch out for Masha on the bus. (Although I am not sure how well this is working out since they both announced on their way down the bus steps today that, “Masha really needs a spanking. She was so naughty on the bus.” The bus driver sheepishly confirmed that yes, Masha was standing up on the seat. Ugh.)

Because it was insinuated that Masha is not “high-functioning” enough for this camp, I was very curious about the other kids in the special needs section. What needs do they have and what makes them special? I decided to tactfully get this information from my older son. Below is our conversation.

I started, “Soooo, Gecko, when you see Masha get off and on the bus for her camp, do you see the other kids too?”
“Yeah, they are there too.”
“Are there a lot of kids with her?” I continue.
“I don’t see her whole group. There are like ten kids with her though, not counting Masha.”
“hmm.” I spring the big question. “What are they like?”
Without hesitation he answers, “They are regular kids, just like her.”
Conversation over.

And that my friends is the beauty of true integration. My son does not see a disability. He does not see atypical facial features. He doesn’t see stereotypes. He simply sees Masha, and a bunch of other regular kids.



Next Fall Masha will begin Kindergarten in a regular classroom with ordinary peers from our neighborhood. We pushed the district hard to make this happen for her (even though it is her legal right). We stood her ground because the more time Masha spends with typical peers the more they will see her, not her extra chromosome. And when the focus on the disability disappears, the doors of life will be wide open for Masha and all the other regular kids.

Little Boys and Fireworks

Yesterday I blew up the baby pool. Well, I started to, and then felt woozy so I went to the neighbor’s and borrowed an air pump. I couldn’t wait to get in the pool with Kimani.



What a cute little pool... the roof makes hanging out in it bearable for Kimani. I was looking forward to delightful days with the little ones splashing around... and chewing on it.



And then my husband spent the evening igniting fireworks while the boys ran around with sparklers. “Stay away from the pool!” I warned once, twice, at least five times.

Have you ever seen two little boys jacked up on explosives? No? Well, let me show you what the results look like...

In The Moment

“Be in the moment,” Anonymous said, and I listened.

So now maybe this...



will remind me of this...

The Man Bag

I bought my six year old son a pocketbook. It wasn’t easy.

Tuesday night after dinner, I announced I was going over to the mall to find a nice organizer bag to go inside my new big black pocketbook. My husband gave me that look, the “You’re going to leave me home with all these kids during the bewitching bedtime hours?” So I took the Gecko with me to lighten the load for him.

We headed straight to the Macy’s purse displays. Mmm...delightful... Guess, Nine West, Fossil... We snapped, zipped, flapped, stroked and sniffed. We admired, explored, examined, and counted pockets. I favored a Giani Bernini black, shiny, soft nylon bag with a gorgeous royal purple interior. Gecko wanted its red twin, but not before he pleaded for a black flower-embossed Fossil wallet, a leopard print triple zipper bag, a bright blue leather sac, and a screamingly shiny black Guess satchel with a couple pounds of silver bling on it.

How could I say no? No, Gecko, you can’t have one of these fancy bags with cool hidden pockets because you are a boy. I couldn’t bring myself to say that, so I told him what a man bag is and said we would hunt around the mall until we found the perfect one for him. We hit up several stores and all the while I hoped he would become distracted by something else that I could use as a diversion. Maybe he would then choose on his own not to get a pocketbook.

But he was determined. I guided him away from the sequined evening bags, pointing out how they don’t have enough pockets. I reminded him that pink, silver, and yellow will not match most of his wardrobe so we should stick with black or brown. He finally settled on a black and gold mid-sized bag with front pockets, a back zipper, top zipper, and an inside zip pocket. He carried it up to the counter and proudly gave it to the cashier. She made some comment about how she thought he was carrying his mom’s pocketbook, and I thought, “So it begins.”

We asked her to cut the tags off because he wanted to use it right away. On the way out of the store he swung the bag high over his head and said, “Mom, when I become a soldier I am bringing this bag with me. I am going to fill it with rocks and BAM somebody with it.” Lol, that’s my boy.

Man Feet

My son the Gecko is my first born child. I tend to baby the Gecko a bit... on school mornings I dress him either while he is still half asleep snuggled in his bed, or while he is at the kitchen table enjoying his breakfast. It is a ballet dance between us as he automatically presents an arm or foot just as I am slipping on a sleeve or pant leg.

Yesterday morning, a morning that pretended to be like any other, he swung his foot up to hook the oncoming sock... and I saw it. I caught his foot in one hand and left the sock dangling in the other as I gawked at it. It was a man foot. There were strong tendons fanning out with little dips between them. The toes were individually shaped with the first and middle ones grown longer than the big one. There were indents in the sides of them where they lay tightly against each other when he walks or runs. And there was a faint hint of stinky.

Before I could stop it, out flew an astonished, “Oh my goodness your toes!” Peanut butter and honey toast froze midway to his mouth and he looked down at me with concern. I recovered quickly and made up a little myth about how having your first and middle toes be longer than your big toe meant you are brilliant. I showed him the evidence of his genius and then tugged the sock over it and moved along to the other foot.

It too showed no trace of my baby boy’s scrumptious feet. No longer was it plumped up and covered in silky soft skin, topped off with perfect piggies... one the size of a small grape, the others like tiny treats in a row from biggest to smallest.

Those infant boy feet that I had sung to, feigned eating, massaged with lotion, and squashed against my nose to sniff up the sweetness of babyhood were gone, replaced by man feet. I had made it just fine through his first crew cut, his first day of kindergarten, and the loss of his first tooth but this... this was different.

I knew the second I saw that man foot it was a harbinger. It gave me a vision of something I was not ready to see. One day those man feet will walk out my front door and the boy will not return.

Santa and the Hypocritical Blogger

We took the kids to see the Lights in the Park display... a dazzling spectacle of over 125 holiday scenes made up of Christmas lights. The kids loved it and I have to say it was positively impressive this year.

After the drive, we visited the craft show and had some treats. Can you guess who was there? Uh huh, Santa. Can you guess who let her kids sit on his lap? Yup, yours truly. I even let my husband snap pictures of my hypocrisy for your viewing pleasure.



Seriously though, I am fascinated by how they still want to check him out even though they know the real deal (in fact Gecko even announced it to Santa who promptly responded that he landed a spot on the naughty list for it.) Should I have denied their request to chat with him with a loud, “No way, he might be a pervert! It isn’t safe to take candy from strangers”? Perhaps, but instead I opted for the stranger-danger after talk.

Clearly the “in it/of it” thing is still a little blurry for me.

The Joy of Boys

It is barely 7 a.m. and I am still sleepy. Gecko is eating breakfast in the kitchen, getting ready for school. Little Jade is in the living-room running around still in the buff...

Gecko, yelling loudly: “Hey Jade, if you play tag with your penis, it always wins! Because it is attached to you!”

Jade, yelling back just as loud: “My penis isn’t attacking me!”

Boys are such funny creatures, aren’t they? Do you think Mary ever had to deal with this hilarity?

Umm, Yum Yum Yum

I like to watch my children eat. Not candy or cake, no not sticky or dried-up things.

I like to watch them eat strawberries, watermelon, and icy popsicles. Their little bodies maneuvering however necessary to get a tasty chunk captured and stuffed into place. The juice dripping over lips and down chins. Their eyes lighting up, perhaps fueled with the frenetic energy generated by their taste buds.



I feel great pleasure as I watch.

Sometimes it is a guilty pleasure as I can’t help but think how many children in the world have hardly even a bowl of rice to eat each day while my children eat fresh fruits, vegetables, and treats.



Sometimes it is a confused pleasure as I wonder why I am obsessed with watching them as they devour morsels of egg salad sandwiches and spoonfuls of peanut butter. There is always a bit of the food that gets waylaid and ends up decorating their faces like some artist’s masterpiece. I don’t remind them to wipe it off.

Sometimes it is a horrified pleasure as I watch them use two hands to speed up the process, and elbows to protect their treasure from one another, like junkies.



When my oldest son was just three he used words like delicious, scrumptious, delectable, succulent, tasty, and luscious, and of course, yummy. It became a bit of a game coming up with a string of adjectives whenever he ate something enjoyable.



I think the draw for me might be because my children like to eat. They don’t worry about getting food on their fingers or chins. They aren’t distracted by making meal time conversation. They don’t feel compelled to avoid choosing the biggest berry out of politeness. They aren’t trained yet to eat the things they like the least first.



I realize I am making them sound a bit like wild dogs pouncing greedily on their prey but... Well, maybe so. Maybe it is the naturalness of it that I am so enthralled by.


Picture credit... I don't know who the artist is but my friend Dan bought this painting. I'll bet his wife is thrilled.

Stinky-Winky

Every weekday morning I rise early (6:15... that’s early to me) to get my five year old off to Kindergarten. I am usually so exhausted that I grab the nearest pair of sweats and a tee-shirt to put on until he is safely aboard the bus and I can go about getting ready for the rest of my day. This morning the tee-shirt I happened upon was one of my husband’s and already worn.

Back in the dating days this would have been a real find. I would have reveled in a pheromone-induced stupor, fantasizing about the manliness that produced such a heady aroma. With each sniff, visions of his killer baby blue eyes and naturally muscled body would dance in my mind.

But not this morning. Today I got a whiff of myself while preparing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Gecko’s lunch and thought, to borrow a phrase of his, “Whew, stinky-winky.” My next thought was to put “do some laundry” on my to-do list for the day.

Hmm, sometime in the last twelve years I stopped finding my husband’s dirty tee-shirts enticing. How could this happen? What does it mean? A mini panic attack set in. I tried some concentrated sniffing, far from the adulterating scent of peanuts, eyes closed... Nothing. Well, nothing positive anyway.

I walked my little guy down to the bus-stop and then headed back up to the house. The tee-shirt went directly into the washing machine. While pouring a quarter capful of Tide into the machine, I contemplated love. Ok, so maybe sweaty shirts don’t smell so good to me anymore but here I was at 7 a.m. washing my husband’s clothes... that’s love isn’t it?

In my mind, I called him up at work, “Hey baby, I wore your tee-shirt down to the bus this morning and realized how much I love you.” In reality I tucked his nice fresh clothes into his drawers and thought about what yummy dish I might prepare for his dinner. Sometimes that’s just the way love goes in our house.

Scraps of the Good Life

I arrange photos of my busy children on the 12 by 12 inch patterned paper. Then I rearrange them, wanting to get it just right. It is not a birthday or holiday layout, just an ordinary moment in the backyard. Two boys playing in the dirt pile. I stare into their happy faces and try to think up a catchy page title.

And then it hits me. There is no picture of the older child pushing the younger one face first down the pile. There is no record of the little guy’s muddy face and his frightened, angry screams. There is also no picture of the little one throwing a Tonka truck down the hill into the bigger child’s back. Nothing to remind anyone of how that boy fell over screeching “mama, mama, he hit me.” I’m not scrapping the ugly stuff.

In my defense, it would probably be poor parenting to run for the camera, instead of a washcloth, when your howling two-year-old’s face is caked with dirt. So there really aren’t any pictures of the bad times. But, I didn’t mention it in my page journaling either. Hmmm, I pull out a stack of scrapbooks and flip through them with new vision. I am struck by my lies of omission.

I am recreating their childhood. I am memorializing the parts I am pleased with. I am embellishing the pages and their memories. I am showing them what to keep and hoping that they will forget the trucks to the back, especially the ones I have thrown (put the phone down, it's a metaphor). I take a moment to contemplate this, wondering if it is a bad thing or not.

My nearly pictureless childhood weighs in on the matter. There was so much dirt in my face. Suddenly a great lie of a page title pops into my head, A Little Dirt Never Hurt. Pushing my sad thoughts away, I reach for my die cutting machine.



p.s. Billy has been thinking about memories too. Turns out there is a new name for my style of scrapbooking... propranolol.