Intervention

"Thats it, James! We have to do something! Here's the plan... I am going to the gym and taking your brothers.  While I'm gone I want you to gather all the bags of soda cans that your father is hoarding and put them in the garage.  When I get home we will load them into the minivam and take them to the recycling place."  Then I ignored the fact that my teenager looks at me like I'm the grim-reaper everytime I ask him to do anything and left the house. 

I went to the gym, lifted weights, ran, and looked around with contempt at the women in their too perfect workout ensambles while I picked breakfast off of the t-shirt I slept in.  When I got home, I pushed the garage door button and was met with a horrific sight.  A wall, literally a wall almost as tall as me, of stacked garbage bags filled with aluminum cans loomed before me. I stumbled out of my car and stood in a woozy state of shock untill James came out of the house with a smirk on his face. 

"James", I said in a raspy, desperate voice, "I can't believe this. We need to do an aluminum can intervention." We loaded the bags into the mini-van and almost completely filled up the car and yet could only get half of them in.  Warren thought that sitting in a sea of recycling was awesome.  The baby not so much. 

So, off we went with our load to the recycling center.  There a scary white overlord (nobody does scary better then caucasians) and his crew of hard working Mexican men unloaded my husband's stash.  I jumped out to help, my white guilt making me intrinsically uncomfortable with the scene, but the guys chivalrously waved me away.  James got out to help and they allowed that.  Then came the big moment... the weighing of the cans.... 83 lbs!  83 F-ING lbs of empty soda cans! And this was only the first load... I was ready to ask one of the guys if they had any spare Mexican passports.

We went home and loaded the second half of the cans.  This time our legit hoarder neighbor, Mark, came out to watch and even he was all "shock and awe" over the immense quantity of the aluminum collection. He sat on his stoop with his silly old dog and chuckled while telling us a how he used to collect cans but it never got THAT bad.

To be fair, the hoarding stared off with good intentions.  David thought it would be a fun project for James.  He even ordered him a wall mounted can crusher.  But then it started to get out of hand.  James succumbed to the teenage ailment of laziness and my husband succumbed to hoarding precious metal.  I started to see trash bags of soda cans stashed in every nook and cranny of the garage and basement.  The cans were even making their way home from David's office.  I tried to make an ultimatum that no more cans be collected untill the ones we had were gone but all that happened was that the cans were snuck around behind my back.  I in turn would try to sneak them out in the recycling bin.  This caused road-side domestic disturbances with the two of us playing tug-of-war with the green bin. It was getting weird.

My husband has moderate OCD, which can translate into a lot of great qualities and some scarey ones. I tease him all the time about hoarding because he loves junk and finds usefullness in almost anything. This often leads to silly arugments about the amout of shoes I have.  But please, my shoe collection is the most beautiful thing God created second only to my children.  I recently asked him if he had any hoarders in his family because I heard its genetic. He answers, "I'm Pennsylvania Dutch, love, its in my blood." Crap.

I am annoying in the totally opposite direction. No OCD here! Just CDD Compulsive Disorganized Disorder (I made that up).  But my scatter-brain leaves me with a lot less mental anquish... I am not a perfectionist, I don't tend to get depressed, or have trouble sleeping, housework can come and go, I don't get a lot of road rage, or have trouble throwing or giving things away, and stuff can be "good-enough". My flighty brain leaves me free of a lot of stress that many people have to live with. And I am thankfull for that. Yes, I wish I was more organized and thoughtful... but being free of depression, bi-polar disorder, post-partum depression, sleep-disorders, hoarding, OCD, etc is worth a million bucks and I think its directly related to my careless brain-type.  I am slightly narcissistic and anti-social, but thats for someone else to complain about and this is my blog.

David and I are opposites in many ways.  In fact, he still hasn't told me who he voted for in '08 presidential election and I stopping asking, both of us scared that his answer would cause me to divorce him.  But, I don't like the term, "opposites attract"  because what we find opposite about each other is hardly attractive. 

I'm going to get a little Catholic on you now, but bear with me. During our Pre-Cana (for you non-Catholics, this is Church mandated pre-martial counseling) David and I took a compatiblity test and the Priest bestowed on us the honor of having the worst test results he had ever received. He married us anyway for James's sake, but I can explain the results.  We have a lot of the same ideals and thoughts of how married life should be, but our brains think differently. So, we can take a simple question like, "How important is money to you?" and come up with completely different answers.  David looks at that question and logically answers, "Very Important"  because in David's mind, you need money to live so its very important.  I read that question and answer "Not very important"  because money is important for living but I'm not a "money person" and I'm not marrying a rich dude (just some engineer with a lousy Lehigh degree) so how could I say that money is "very important" to me?  We both know that money is very importnant for living, but we answer the same question differently.

The most important thing I learned in Pre-Cana is the 100% rule that Father James taught us.  It is an amazing way to look at marriage.  You hear a lot of people say that marriage is 50/50.  But Father James said that you should only look at marriage as 100%. You are both trying to get to 100%.  If one person (for whatever reason) can only give 30% at a certain time or for a specific thing the other person has to give 70 to pick up the slack and get to 100%.   If you go about marriage thinking you only have to give your 50% its going to fail because you'll never get to 100.  So, that's what we do... try to pick up the slack for each other, work around each others idiosyncracies, be patient with our opposite brain types, laugh at each other and at ourselves, and do our best to get to 100% even if soda cans are involved.


Speaking of cans, the grand total of the aluminum can collection was 130 lbs and about $75 in our pocket.  James called Dad to tell him the amazing stats.  David said, "Wow! Tell your mother thank you. We will go out to dinner with the money."  So with that the intervention was over. I was rid of the dreaded can collection, and my husband and I had managed to get to 100%.

The Lively Child

It starts out with a text exchange something like this...

Single Male Relative:  Does Warren snore?
Me: Not really. 
Me: What's up about Warren's sleep?
Single Male Relative: Something on the news.  Then no apnea or snoring? Not a mouth breather, either?
Me: Nose breather, I think.  He goes to bed, falls asleep in 5 minutes and is in a coma untill the magical hour of 7 am.


Then I do a little research on this cryptic exchange and find out that a study was done linking children who regularly snore with behavioral and emotional problems.  Really? REALLY? My child is "lively"! Just ask his pre-school teacher!  She told me so! Sigh. 

Life is tough for the parent of a "lively" child.  People are always trying to figure out whats up with your kid.  Why IS he that way?  Does he snore? Does he eat too many products with corn-syrup? Are you disciplining him regularly... and are sticking to what you say?  How were you when you were little?  (I was shy)  How was your husband?  (perfectly well behaved... just ask him and his mom) Do you baby him? Do you beat him? NO, NO, NO! He's just LIVELY!

Don't get me wrong, I had my doubts.  Coming off of a calm, passive first child, Warren took me by storm.  It was a lot to get used to.  From the quiet child who stood dutifully with me in the store... to Warren who runs the 100 yard dash up and down aisles, refuses to leave the lobster tank like someone who chained themself to a tree, and will moan and complain about not getting fruit snacks like an Israelite in the desert for 40 years.  Speaking of which, he went to Bible camp and told me that Moses was WAY awesomer than Jesus.  I mean, come on mom, Moses was like a SUPER HERO! (poor pacifist Jesus didn't leave much of an impression with all that blah blah blah about loving and what-not) But don't worry, he did pay some attention during the boring New Testament stuff, because the next thing I know, he's pretending to nail a kid to the cross at his older brother's swim meet.  And this kid doesn't care about punishments, threats, ultimateums.  Literally, he just does not care.  Whatever it is, he can do without it or go on to something else... it just doesn't matter to him.  So, at one point, I checked with a professional I know.  He's fine... just "lively". 

There is a mysterious exception to this lack of decent behavior and it's preschool.  It's the reason I just go with the flow out here in the real world.  I'll stand in the checkout line and be patient with him when he's trying to sit in the bagging station because the second he steps into preschool he is the perfect citizen.  He's good at sharing,  will play with anyone, and is a kind leader in the classrom.  The teacher told me that school would always be "easy" for Warren. He knows every answer to the point that she has to tell him, "Warren, let other kid's have a turn!"  One exhausting day (I can't remember which, there are so many of them)  I said to his teacher, "But, Mrs. M., he's so... so...."  "Lively", she finishes for me and gives me a knowing smile.  A weight is lifted from shoulders and angels sing. 


So, I no longer worry if his body composition is made up of fun-dip and hawaiian punch or if people wonder if he was raised by wolves.  It's all good, I accept it - My kid is wild... but when you stop and look at things from his little boy eyes there is a lot to be wild about. He has a spirit for everything and everything is exciting... everything is a game to be played, a competition to have, something to get...to get to.  There is just too much to do, to see, to be involved in. He doesn't want to be slowed down by parental authority. There is no time for that in his world. You can keep your rules and restrictions.... ultimatums and silly star charts. If he wants to spend an extra 15 minutes at the lobster tank he's going to do it god damn it! YOU can toe tap all you you want. YOU will just have to wait.  I mean, what on earth could be cooler than a tank of live lobsters, mom? Don't you get it? Don't you see?

Of course there is a time for discipline, health food, and worrisome studies... but if you have a "lively" child sometimes you just have to say, "No, he dosen't snore, he's just awesome!"

The Ghost of Christmas Past

I know this guy who is divorced (I'll call him J) and sometimes he takes himself a little too seriously.  So, on Thanksgiving when J and his girlfriend posed a question to me about Santa Claus,  his 8 year old daughter and his ex-wife, I thought he was taking himself too seriously and I sided with his ex (yikes!).  For me to side with V (that's what I'll call her) on anything is remarkable because, well, I hate her.

V wants to keep the dream alive for her daughter and allow her to believe that Santa is still real.  J says, that if asked, he will tell his daughter the truth because, "He always wants to be truthful with her" and "have a relationship based on honesty" and yada-yada-yada that people say when they take themselves too seriously and think too much.  I think he's really only thinking about himself and not the joy of childhood and the fun of it all for a mother to experience with her only child. 

I tell them what I think, but J seems unconvinced and so shocked that I would agree with V that I don't even think he's really listening.  So, I call over my oldest child who loved Santa Claus with a pure heart longer than most...

I did my absolute best to keep Santa alive for James.  I didn't consider it a lie, I considered it a dream. A beautiful, fantastic dream that I didn't want him to wake from.  And he didn't want to stop believing.

I wrapped the presents in special "Santa" paper and wrote the to/from in special "Santa" hand writing.  One year when James was getting older (8 or 9) Santa left him a note in his stocking so that he would know that he exsisted and that James shouldn't give up.  This was due to mounting pressure from classmates that Santa didn't exsist.  At this point, there were two camps in the classroom - the believers and the believe nots.

The next year, the Wii came out.  James asked Santa for it on his yearly Christmas list that he dutifully wrote and mailed to the North Pole.   When the Wii was under the tree on Christmas morning James beamed with delight.  I thought its was purely because he had received it, but I didn't realize what it really meant to James untill he returned to school from Christmas break.

 I picked him up that first day back and I asked how his day was.  "Great!" He said,  "I told them all that Santa really exsists and that I had proof!".  "Wow!" I said, "What was your proof?"  "The Wii", he said, "I know people had to wait in crazy lines for it and it was hard to find anywhere. So, I told my friends that I knew there was a Santa Claus because I had gotten a Wii and my mom would have NEVER stood in any lines!".  And, alas, he was right.  I hadn't stood in any lines.  My mother had gotten up at 3am to stand in line at Walmart because she had heard a rumor that they were going to have some in stock that day. 

The dream continued untill James was closing in on 12.  That early spring I was having a party and asked James to break down some cardboard boxes and put them out for recycling.  They were Amazon boxes from the mother who not only won't stand in a line at 3am, she won't stand in any store during the entire month of December.  But, I, the "dumbest smart person" (as my husband affectionately calls me) had left the packing receipts in the boxes and my believer saw them.  He awoke from his dream with a shock.  Anger and sadness closed in on him and tears welled up in his eyes.  The movies, the commercials, his special note in his stocking... all a sham.  His dream filled with magic and the man he had been loyal to for so long faded away.  Christmas would never be the same for him or for me.

I cried that night thinking of all that I had lost with this tough growing pain.  James is a special kid...a believer in good, a fighter for his dreams, a heart beating with magic. James is Christmas and Christmas is James.  It would never be the same.  The delight in his eyes, the passion for Santa, the excitment of writing that letter, leaving out the cookies, trying to stay up as late as possible in his bed listening for reindeer because he knows we have a flat-roofed city house and its perfect for Santa to land on.... all were gone.  And it was all replaced with a "knowing".  That "knowing" seemed to make my child grow quicker in the next 3 years than he had in the last 12. 

So, I bekon to my oldest on Thanksgiving (now 14) and pose this question to him, "James, would you have wanted me to tell you the truth about Santa when you were 8 or would you have rather had the 3 extra years of Santa."  Without a pause he answers, "I would take the extra years."  And, so would I (sigh) so would I...

To all you who celebrate Christmas,  cherish your Santa years with your children.  Keep the dream alive, and know that when the "knowing" sets in,  your child will age at the speed of lightning.  Its a beautiful dream filled with hope, magic, and goodness...don't wake them too soon.  If it's a lie, its a "white lie" and God dosen't mind those anyway.

Paralysis can be funny

Be forewarned... my husband didn't proof-read this.  I am a terrible speller and my grammar is only so-so.  My husband is an engineer with perfect hand writing and great spelling. Annoying. My spelling is so bad that in college a professor once asked me if I had a learning disability.  There was a rumor on campus that this guy had a nervous break-down and left a big law practice to teach.  In my opinion, people who get all worked up about spelling are the ones more apt to have nervous break-downs.

This is funny now. It's one of those things that starts out not funny at all, but when it's over, its funny.  You can even think it while it's happening.  "This is going to be a hilarious story one day", you say to yourself while your sobbing, or shaking, or having a heart attack or whatever is happening to you.  And people will say it to you too and you think, "shut the f*ck up and come back and talk to me when it's funny!".  People have different time periods between paralyzing and funny.  Some people take awhile to finally admit to the funny.  Some people are quick with it, like comedians who get in trouble joking about terrible things "too soon".  For me the funny comes with varying time lapses usually averaging at 15 minutes.  So about 10 minutes after the social worker left my house it was funny...

Let me tell you a little about the boys:
David Jr.:  Davey is 8 mos old, so there is not much to say yet except the typical "My baby is the most wonderful creation that ever existed" type of stuff that every parent feels when they are in love with their baby.  And if you have older children, you are even more of an idiot about your baby because well... compared to the other ones, they are just so easy to love.

Warren:  Warren is five years old and a "challenging" child.  This is the word parents use when they have a child that makes them want to lock themselves in their closet for 15 minutes every day.  But he is awesome.  He's everything that I wanted to be when I was his age (and now).  He is confident, social, a joiner, friends galore, talk-a-tive, out-going.  At the same time he is creepy and has a morbid curiosity (which I actually think is kind of cool).  He likes for me to take him to cemeteries and walk around like we are enjoying botanical gardens.  He asks me questions about the tombstones and what they say and who died.  I don't mind, he's pleasant when he's in his element.  He's obsessed with Nightmare Before Christmas and when I hacked my hand with a hedge trimmer he wanted to watch it get sewn back together while I cried and closed my eyes.  I would worry he was Dexter but he's such a people person and so empathetic that I'm leaning more towards doctor (by leaning I mean praying).

James: My oldest is 14, and more like me than I would hope for anyone.  He's an introvert, on the quiet side, a homebody, respectful, kind, just so good, and he has THE BEST sense of humor.  His favorite shows are "The Office" and "Everybody Love Raymond".  He's a freshman in high school and on the swim team.   He was always such an easy child.  People would say to David and I, "James is such a good kid, you two must do such a good job."  I would respond, "No, really, its just the way he is. We can't take too much credit."
So back to that funny story... 

It all started with an assignment for a high school religion class (my kids are in Catholic schools).  But for me it started with a note from Children & Youth on my door on a Friday afternoon.  All weekend we joked about it.  We thought the neighbors called because we have a wussy dog that cries in his crate the second he hears the door close.   We thought maybe they needed foster families.  We didn't think that when I called on Monday to find out what was going on, that the receptionist would say, "Oh yes! We have a file on you! Let me transfer you to your caseworker."  That is where my living with paralysis started. 

I called at 8 am on Monday and the case worker didn't call back until 2 pm at which point the note became a voice.  When I asked what the note was about, a woman's smoker voice with an ambiguous tone replied, "Something regarding a concern about physical discipline in your home."  "What child is this regarding?" I asked, thinking that Warren must have said something crazy to someone.  "It sounds like a past issue from when one of your children was 5."  James? I thought, but he was five nine years ago! "When was this reported?" I asked the voice. "November 15", it replied.  Then I was completely baffled... why would someone call a week ago about a concern from when James was five?  Well, then the voice wanted to schedule an appointment to come to my house and it wanted it scheduled when James would be home.  So, I knew it was he that the voice wanted. 

Immediately after the voice hung up, I had to go pick up James from school.  This is where I learned what went down before the note became a voice.  James wrote a paper for religion class on "motivation".  I guess the jist of the assignment was that the kids had to write about what motivates them.  My son, who's biggest motivation in life is when my father over pays him to do yard-work, wrote that "physical discipline" motivates him.   This sent a red-flag to the teacher who forwarded her concern to the counseling office.  These mensa candidates called James down and spent roughly 5 minutes with him in this question and answer scenario...

C: Have you ever received physical discipline?
J: Yeah, when I was 5 or 6 I sometimes got a spanking.
C: Anything more recently?
J: Not really.
C: Do you have any siblings?
J: Yes, a 5 yr old brother and a baby brother
C: What do your parents do to discipline your 5 yr old brother?
J: Well, they usually just try to talk to him but sometimes he gets spanked.
C: Does it ever leave a mark?
J: No.

Passing grade, right? Wrong.  Someone decided that that was enough information to call children & youth.  So, What do you do when in 2 days a social worker is coming to your house to do an evaluation? You terrify yourself on the internet reading posts from people who swear their kids were removed because they had dirty dishes in the sink.  You also harass every friend you have who works in any field dealing with children, and you forget to eat.  Oh, and if your me, you also get angry and call the counselor 5 times leaving crazy mom voicemails like this, "The most abuse this child has received in his whole life has been this week from YOU!  You have mentally and emotionally abused my son! I want to call C&Y on you!!!!" 

So, Wednesday rolls around and my house is spotless, and James is angry and ready for questions.  But I am worried because I have a little blonde wild card that could and will say anything for a shocking reaction. David is at work.  I didn't want him there, he talks too much. The doorbell rings and the voice becomes a girl fresh out of college with a clipboard and smelling like she just took her last drag.  I automatically think, "That cigarette butt better not be in my bushes!" before I remember that she's here to find out if I beat my kids.  I ask her if she needs Warren to stay.  She replies, "No I just had to see him. He can go now." PHEW! big relief! But that little f-er says, "No, Mommy, I want to stay!" I try using Jedi mind tricks to get him to go upstairs but it doesn't work.  So, we all sit down in the family room where I discover that half of my shirt is open from breastfeeding... can't any of these people help a girl out?

The girl behind the clipboard directs her questions a James first.  They are shockingly boring.  "How do you like school?"  "How are your grades?" "What activities do you do?"  That kid gets softballed!  Now I'm up to bat.  Clipboard asks me, "What do you do when you need to discipline your children?"  Ok, I can handle this.  I begin by explaining that I don't really do anything with James anymore besides empty threats of taking away his PS3 or his laptop or his iphone (wait a second, I'm getting angry just thinking about how spoiled this kid is! How dare he write any papers about us!) Anyway, then I explain about Warren, and this is were I start to feel like things are going to get dicey.  I talk about time-outs and going to his room, and asking what his teacher would say.  I end by saying that when all else fails, he has received a "swat on the butt"  Now I have an out of body experience because a small child pipes up and says, "Sometimes she slaps me in the face! like this..." And he starts repeatedly slapping himself in the face as hard as he can like a looney-toon character and laughing.  I didn't know whether I wanted to laugh hysterically or cry hysterically.  Clipboard is poker-faced... I laugh nervously... James swoops in to the rescue and takes the conversation in another direction.

Clipboard wants to see my the rest of the house.  She checks out the 500 lbs of food in my fridge to keep James and David happy, and then Warren excitedly takes her on a tour of his room and gives a full explanation of Angry Birds.  I consider asking for her number for babysitting because Warren likes her so much, but decide its probably not appropriate. Plus there would be a bunch of cigarette butts in my bushes. Then Clipboard tells me that everything is going to be ok.  That my kids obviously love me and aren't scared of me.  That we have plenty of food and lots of.... stuff for them. Clipboard assures me that this happens all the time... good people get called on and its scary.  Then she leaves.  10 minutes later its funny.

Well, my house got super cleaned, I aged 5 years and lost 5 lbs in 4 days. All have been fixed by my usual disregard for housework, a good eye cream, and my mom's Christmas cookies.  A week after Clipboard left I received a "determination letter" in the mail.  We were determined to be A-okay.  On it, it specifically says, "Mother is kind and loving towards children."  I can't believe it!  I actually have a government document that says I am a good mother.  I hung it proudly on my refrigerator less all these ungrateful people forget!

Next I meet with the principal to explain how this was all very upsetting and scary.  So, I walk into her office and am almost left dumbfounded by the stark contrast she creates there.  This high school is old and Catholic.  The office had obviously spent years as a luxurious space in the company of a men's club of principals.  There was dark shiny wood everywhere, built in bookshelves, and dark carpeting.  It was beautiful and intimidating.  Yet there sitting behind the mammoth mahogany desk was a pleasant looking woman in a pink sweater, coiffed hair, and smiling eyes.  She shook my hand firmly as we greeted and then it took a few seconds for me to stop smirking internally at this irony and get down to business.  She was all understanding and compassion about my side of things, but she explained that "in this climate" this is how they must act.  She explained some other things too, but she was speaking "candidly" and I felt like it was private explanation that I shouldn't share.  But it did make me feel a little better.  I left feeling slightly unsatisfied, but that I understood things a little better.

Moral of the story - Thanks Joe Paterno, Now I can't even spank my kid nine years ago.  Can everyone agree to call the authorities on real abuse so that when my kid writes a stupid paper the teachers don't get all nutso? Yes? Great. Thanks.

In the beginning...

"Mommy, I want to be a homo for halloween!", he announed proudly.
 "A homo?"
 "Yeah! A homo!"
"What do you mean by 'a homo'?"
"You know, those guys that ride around on trains and carry packs on sticks!"
 "Ohhhhh! A HOBO!!!"
Then I ran and hid in the bathroom and died laughing.  That was James... in the beginning there was just James.  And that is where my life really started, with just James. Well, Jamie really, untill he waltzed into kindergarten and told the teacher that he was "just James" to her query about what he likes to be called.  Just James and I were young.  I was the original "I'm 16 and Pregnant" and that child could not have been loved more... until there was David.  And David's love for Just James always seemed more special than mine.  My love for him was natural, biological... but David's was magical, fate-filled, chosen...amazing.  David filled a much needed slot for Just James and I, and my dream of a nuclear "traditional" family was quickly realized.  We had "our wedding" as Just James called it... it was his wedding too.  And then forevermore we were Mommy, Daddy, and Just James.

Fast forward 8 years from Just James's wedding... and today we were shopping for our new mini-van. 14 year old Just James dutifully helped install two car seats for his 5 year old and 8 month old brothers for the test drive. When we were done and all enjoying playing with the various buttons and gadgets, Just James farted.  "Holy Christ! You can't fart in the minivan! We haven't bought it yet!" I shrieked.  "Its going to be like that episode of Seinfeld where they couldn't get the smell out of the car!"

So, that became the inspiration for the title of my new blog.  A blog about my boys of all stages, and me.  Our life is full of laughter and tears and often at the same time.  I hope the world is really full of families like ours, because when its good, its really good.