A love letter to my son

Dear Nick,

I dreamed for so long about becoming a parent and although you are my second born there was a moment and I don't recall exactly when that was, but there was a second when I thought about the perfection of the cycle and how amazing a gift you were; another chance to experience it again. One night when you were just a baby, your dad held you on his chest and you were asleep and he mouthed to me, "This one's mine." Funny, but ultimately true in so many ways. Watching you grow and change and reach the milestones that you've hit these past 10 years has been like watching a film of everything that was good and right and memorable about my own childhood, like reaching for a sea star in the clearest ocean water on the warmest summer day. Perfect really.
I wish that I could take all of the gentle moments, the smiles and the contentment and somehow insert them into the mainstream of your mind so that when the difficult times come, you have that reel of feelings and memories to call to the front of your mind, to your heart to help you overcome the pain. Watching you deal with the difficulties recently and the pain that has accompanied them has brought out every survival instinct that I have and that I now hope to pass along to you.
I love you, Mom

In considering scenarios where children bully other children and this includes ignoring them, I have to pause and ask myself how much responsibility falls on the parents of these children and how much falls on the child themselves. I ask myself this and then I realize that, in the end, it doesn't matter; finger pointing doesn't matter and really, it just exacerbates a problem that plagues everyone: the community, the school, the classroom, the family, the child. Blaming someone else does not make the situation any better because unless that person is willing to take accountability for their actions, then what is the point? And what does that teach my child?
If you are a parent who does not know how your children are treating other children, then shame on you. And, if you have a child who is being picked on, made fun of, or generally ostracized for being different or just for being themselves, then you have my whole hearted empathy because as I watch my son try to deal with things in his life that are monumentally difficult already, I have to ask myself where the boundaries are between protecting him and helping him to cope. And, unfortunately, I have yet to find those boundaries.

What frightens me and bothers me every single day is the idea that a bunch of children would gang up on another child just for fun. That a student can just come out and say that they hate another child for no apparant reason. That children think that they have the right to tell a child that he can't sit at their table to eat lunch or that they don't want to sit next to him in class. And if it bothers me, think of how the child must feel.
The conclusion I've come to is this: kids suck. That's it, no Freud 101 or pop psychology here. I am the first one to say if and when my own children fuck up and believe me, they do. So, I am also the first one to say, if your kid is bullying my kid, you better know that I'm going to find out and when I do, you and your kid will deal with me and then the school and then the school district and what's more, if your kid is bullying anyone and you don't know about it, then it's your fault for being ignorant.

There is no excuse for ridiculing or hurting another human being, even in the most dire of situations and it most certainly should not be happening on a public school campus so often that a child no longer wants to go to school. Shame on those children who think that they are being funny and who think that they are finding solidarity by harming another child. Shame on any parent who thinks that their child is not capable of this kind of behavior. Shame on everyone who thinks that this kind of a thing isn't a real problem that exists in real life, real days and real time. Because it does. Just pick up People magazine.
It's one thing not to like someone, but it's entirely another thing to humiliate them.

Cradling your child, nursing them, reading to them, taking walks with them, teaching them to tie their shoes, sending them off to school... you wish that you could keep them safe from harm and yet, you give them to the world willingly and you hope for the best, remembering the little smiles and the squeals and the days that they ran around naked in the backyard content with just the hose for a companion and you remind yourself that it will be okay; you remind yourself that with love and support and hope that your children will come out of it and not want to hurt themselves or others or give up on life. You remind yourself to try and do everything you can to keep that soul, that precious, unique gift that belongs to him, in tact through it all. You pray and you hope...

Words

I am fascinated by words, really, I always have been. I remember the first time that I swore, come to think of it. I was in second grade, probably about 7 and I was shooting baskets by myself. I don't really like basketball, but because of that I suppose that it fits right in with a possible "reason" why I swore. Whenever I missed a basket, I'd say, "Beaver's Dam!" under my breath and as I missed more, my voice grew just a bit louder until it sounded like this, "BEAVER'S DAM!" and even then, it just wasn't enough. It was like drinking Lowfat hot chocolate or sleeping with pajamas (bet you didn't expect that image right then). Anyway, on the next shot, when the basketball rolled around the rim and then fell off to the side, I did it. I let loose, I challenged the system at a young, impressionable age and I screamed the word at the top of my lungs as if I had been saying it forever, "DAMN!" and then, like the scared shitless, guilt laden, "most everything is a sin" girl I was, I ducked for cover, my hands over my head, fear seeping out of my pores in the form of sweat and I waited for judgment. A full two or three minutes passed and then...nothing. I slowly uncurled myself from the standing fetal position that I'd created and I looked up at the sky. I'd been given a reprieve! Hallelujiah! Oh, I put my hand to my chest and breathed in the victory of parental and religious defiance. I savored the moment and when I was finished exulting, I picked up the basketball and shot it again. And this time when I missed, there was no fear, but, instead, a calmness, an acceptance as I shouted out the word. Little did I know then that this would only lead to a life filled with foul language and other types of debauchery (not really, but I love the word debauchery).

So, we're at the baseball field last week and Ty, the maniac, so appropriately dubbed, partly because he's 3 and partly because he's a maniac, is sitting with me in the stands while we pretend to watch Nick's (the 10 year old's) game. He's eating a Reese's peanut butter cup and I'm faking interest in the "I'd much rather be getting an enema" minor baseball game when all of a sudden I hear, "Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck" and I am appalled. Who is saying that at a kid's baseball game; of course, I'm completely in denial because, you guessed it, it's Ty. I don't even have the sense to be embarrassed. Instead, I just hand him another peanut butter cup and I tell him not to let this one get "STUCK." He thinks he can embarrass me. But then, one of the mothers asks, "Did he just say what I thought he said?" but in a laughing tone which, by the way, is the worst thing that you can do when a kid swears and you know why. So, I just shrugged and said, "Yeah." But then, I had one of those moments where you know that you're supposed to do the "right parenting" thing and I grabbed his arm and pulled him off the bench. Chocolate flying out of his already filthy (yes that is a double entendre) mouth, he asked, "Where we going?" We're almost to the car when I tell him, "We're going home buddy, you can't swear at the fucking baseball field." To which he replies, "Okay mom."

I realize that I am completely to blame for the bad language and I make no apologies; I like to swear. I like the feel of the forbidden words as they roll off my tongue. My therapist told me that in order to change the behavior that I was going to have to make substitutions with words; I can use whatever I want, but instead of "Shut the fuck up" I'll have to go with something like, "Shut the bananas up" or "Shut the, there is no possible alternative substitute for the word fuck that will correctly convey my feelings of anger and resentment, up!" Well, at least being out of breath might keep me from saying the "F" word so much. Just today, my brother said it in the car when we were driving home from a hike and Ty turned to him and said, "Uncle Teed (Steve), don't say dat, say dawnit!) Substitutions, they work apparantly, but I'm still not convinced.

I'd like to mention one more thing about words, well, maybe two. If we are going to continue to berate and publicly humiliate people and, because we are Americans, of course we will; it's part of our charm and, partly, the reason why other countries often hate us. But, if we are going to call it what it is, let's do it in the most colorful and traditional way, using words that we are all familiar with. She steals your husband, story is on the cover of people magazine, she's not "misunderstood" or "the other woman;" No! She's a whore. Your best friend "borrows" money and forgets to pay it back; he's not "forgetful," he's a good for nothing prick. Your kid gets punched by another kid at school, you don't tell him to "defend" himself, you tell him to "kick that kid's ass!" Lastly, if someone bothers you and you are one of those two faced bitches who turns around and completely screws the person you were just talking to, well then, you're just a ... hey already took care of that one.

Words are important; they convey truth and because they do, they should be treasured in all forms, in all mediums and if you can't handle that, then put your dial on mute and the next time someone pisses you off, just flip them the bird; that one will always be universal.

Virgin blog

It's official. With this post, I have lost my blogger virginity and you know, it was hardly as painful as losing my actual virginity although it's been so long now that I can hardly remember all of the details associated with that monumental and poignant memory. Speaking of virginity, I was talking to a friend of mine the other day who told me that the average age that a boy lost "it" in 2009 was 13 1/2. Let me pause and let that sink in although some of you jackasses are saying to yourselves right now, "Duh, really, I thought it was 12. 13 1/2 is much better." If that happens to be you, I don't like stupid people and you are officially uninvited from this site as of right now. If you continue to read on, your head will explode and I will personally deliver your eulogy and let me assure you, it will not be flattering. So, back to 13 1/2, my eldest son will be 13 in less than a month and the mere thought of him and his "special" body parts up next to a girl that is not made of celluloid or blow up plastic, to me, is horrifying. Whoreifying! That's not a misspelling. By the way, digressions are abound here so just go with me on this. When I taught middle school many years ago (well, 11), girls were accused and one was even suspended for giving blow jobs (well, she apparantly only gave 1 but who knows?) in the restroom at school. I wonder if it was the girl's restroom or the boy's? Anyway, this girl was in seventh grade at the time, a mere 12 years old and, like so many other "sexually mature and responsible" seventh graders she admitted that it wasn't like "real sex" and that she was still a virgin. Now, anatomy lesson aside and many of you have not only read this argument before but you've seen clips or videos or discussions on Oprah in which the topic of "oral" sex is discussed. Really the only thing that I can add to this notion is that, from having friends and discussing sex with friends, most of my friends lost "it" before they gave head for the first time. Now, when prompted about this subject, most of them brashly replied, "Not my favorite activity" or "Way more personal than intercourse" or "I only do THAT if I really like a guy" guess that means that you can just kinda like him and still bone him. Whatever, my point and I suppose I have one here is that when I look at my son and he's watching Dirty Jobs or he's reading his little brother a story or he's sleeping and I'm peeking at him, yes, this is common practice, I think to myself in the kindest way possible; he better not be getting blowjobs in the bathroom at school. But then, the last part of that equation is, well, what are you going to do if he is or if he does or when he does or what if it's happening in your house or in your car or, god forbid, in your bed when you and Tim are on vacation somewhere? What are you going to do then?

What are we going to do? Let me know if you figure it out? Until then, lock the doors, screen the facebook page, check the texts and lock up the peni. Let them enjoy their virginity as long as they can because soon enough, they'll be fucking anything that will let them and you won't have a say anymore who or when or how or what. All you'll be able to do is remind yourself that you were there once too and that maybe it wasn't quite as horrible as you remember. Aside from the David Bowie playing in the background and the sounds of the party in the next room that wasn't supposed to be happening and the smell of his teenage boy room. Maybe it was U2 in the background...