Category Archives: Kids

The day the questions started

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SOS has this elective class in school in which the kids, guided by teachers, debate various subjects, ranging from what are effective recycling methods to whether adoption records should be sealed. 

Adoption.  Yes,  Our lives.  It had to come up.  I didn’t think it was going to be age 10.5.  And for a debating class, no less. 

SOS has always known that a sperm donor helped us have him.  There was never a time he didn’t know that.  He has also always known that POB is his biological mother, but somehow he always thought (however irrationally) that he was connected to me in some way that was in addition to nurture.  Until today.

So we brought out the old records.  Together, we read through the information we had on the donor — his medical history, his academic achievements, his personal statement about funny things that happened to him and his hopes and dreams for his own children.  POB described his voice.  

We showed SOS the petition for adoption and report by the social worker which was submitted to the Court, as required by law.  I didn’t tell SOS this, but the social worker interviewed me for 4.5 hours and made me cry.  She asked about my recently dead mother and other pressure points in my life.  At the end, she asked how would I deal with having a straight son.  I was so emotionally and mentally exhausted that I responded honestly, “It happens in the best of families.  And I understand attraction to women, so I would be totally good with it.”  The social worker was stunned and I thought, “oh, no, I have blown it now.”

Luckily, the social worker’s report was strongly in favor of the adoption.  The judge who originally contorted New York law to allow same-sex couple adoption was the judge who heard SOS’s petition and, as her last act before retiring, she so-ordered our joint adoption of SOS.  We told him that this was a big deal to have this judge approve his adoption.  He asked to feel the official seal on the certified copy of the order.

SOS told me earlier in the day, in anticipation of this afternoon’s discussion, that I am just as much his mom as POB.  I think he was scared and, yet, he was trying to protect me.  But new information can change things.

At the end of the discussion, SOS was concerned because he finally realized that it is “only” nurture that connects him and me and that 50% of him is the donor’s genes.  So we talked about the power of nurture, love and commitment.  I told him that before I adopted him, I could have walked away, without legal liability for his well-being.  But I took on that responsibility and I can never undo that.  I chose to be responsible for him.  That had some resonance, but I could hear the wheels of his brain turning about the donor’s genes.

“Dude, this is not the only conversation we are going to have about this.  You may need to seek out the donor.  It is ok.  I am ok.  You are my baby.  Ok?”

“Ok, [Blogger], I love you.”

“I love you, too, buddy.  More than you will ever know.”

And so ended the first episode of “The Questions”.

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This Week in Dad

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Over the course of the week, Dad’s physical and mental state has improved at a miraculous rate.  He is the comeback kid. But he will never be the same or independent.  He tires quickly and when he is tired, he is confused.  

I learned many things this week about my father and me. 

Lesson 1:  I am in mourning for the end of his independence. 

He still thinks he can be independent again, which is uplifting and heartbreaking in the same moment.   

Lesson 2: Temporary is as temporary does. 

Dad kibbitzes with his home attendants.  He seems rather fond of them and they seem to dote on Dad.  But there is only one person with whom Dad will share a home and Mom is gone.  So, while these home attendant are a diversion for now, he views the situation as a temporary, necessary intrusion into his life.  But, I know temporary lasts until, looking back, you realize it was permanent.   So temporary is fine, as long as it is, in fact, permanent.

Lesson 3:  Unconditional love is tested both ways when a parent is declining.

I imagine we will have numerous conversations about whether and how much assistance he needs and some will not go well.  At some point in his miraculous recovery, my fiercely independent and proud father will be displeased  — righteously indignant, actually — at being told that the 24/7 care will not end.  And he will not understand our insistence on it.  And deep down he will know that we are in control.  Will he know that we are doing what we think is best and that we do what we do because we love him?  I never want Dad to feel let down by his kids.

Lesson 4:  I need to be the Grinch who stole Christmas.

It is my job to look for the chinks in his armor, to make sure that we have the systems in place to control for his deficits.  While I can be thrilled at his recovery, I cannot get lulled into a relaxed mindset.  His safety depends on my being the doomsday sayer.

Lessons 1 – 4 all together:  Being a parent to my father is among the scariest, saddest and most important roles of my life.

 

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Uh, oh, another “Dear Mom” blog

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Dear Mom:

I know you are watching the events as they unfold down here on Earth.  Dad is remarkable in the ability of his body to heal so quickly — and just days shy of his 92nd birthday.  Ok, the mind is another thing.  That is a bit of a mixed bag.

Dad’s week has been packed with life and all of its emotions, from heart-breaking to uplifting, from triumph to quiet desperation, from funny to painful indignity.  And we, the kids, whether in person or on the telephone, have been on the ride along with him.

We went from feelings of sheer terror in taking Dad for a walk around the block (would he fall?) to POB’s dancing with Dad in the house to the sublime — a soft shoe routine in the supermarket, he with his cane (and his home aide ready to catch him) and I with a new mop that we desperately needed.  But later he couldn’t get up from the table without help and was dizzy, so he needed a long recuperative nap.  So, we will do soft shoe when we can, but we aren’t ready to go on the road. We do what he can do and no more.

We spent days going through pictures, reminding him of the family.  He is getting really good at this.  He remembers you, without any sort of coaxing.  One of his home aides told me that Dad talks about you and how he is still married to you and still in love with you, no matter that you died 10 years ago.  He told her the secret — that you appear somewhere in all his paintings.  He knows your spirit lives in the house.  And, of course, your portrait remains as evidence that this is your home.

In a weird way, I think that the home aides are a blessing.  Dad can talk to them all day.  Now I realize what life has been like for Dad these last few years.  If Dad can’t go to the studio to sculpt (he hasn’t been able to for a few months) and he isn’t with us on the weekends, the days between are deafening silent and slow.  I wanted to cry for his loneliness.  But now he sings for his home aides, offers them a cocktail (which they refuse) and the house has noise.

But there are hard moments.  Moments filled with the indignity of aging and a child having to care for a parent as if he were a baby.  And, when he is discombobulated, the air seems to fill with a toxin that hurts my lungs.  There are also less profound crises, like the day there were no bananas for breakfast and Dad was not strong enough to go to the store or be left alone.  Imagine, a reasonably successful New York lawyer unable to answer client emails because she has to bring bananas for breakfast.  Still, he asked, “how much a pound did you pay?”  “Before or after I add in the cost of the cab to hand deliver these to you, Dad?”

At least today, there was levity amidst the crazy talk.  Aunt Glue and Cousins J and K came to visit.  Aunt Glue and Dad were both a little off, but they enjoyed their conversation.  The rest of us didn’t quite understand the conversation, but I tried to let go of reality and roll with it.  Cousin J tried to correct Aunt Glue’s somewhat vague statement, and I asked her, “at this table, what does it matter?”

Aunt Glue and Dad, the remnants of our greatest generation, stronger in body than in mind, gained fortitude and joy from each other’s presence.  Aunt Glue is the only one alive who knows to call Dad by his original, Yiddish, name, Nachum.  “So, Nachy”, she said, “tell me all.”  I wanted to live in that moment because she has said that in the same way for as long as I have been alive (and longer), when they were strong and infallible and blazing the frontier.  When Dad was Dad and you were alive.

At least Dad has you, always.  As do we, your children.  But, in these moments, I wonder why I had to grow up.  I love you, Mom.  And I love Dad, come what may.

Love, Blogger

 

 

 

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Ramblings from our week on vacation

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This year, as in years past, we rented a house near the beach with a pool.  I like having a pool because there are no currents, rip tides or undertows.  With a pool, I don’t have to watch my loved ones drift helplessly away in a strong undertow as I try to swim against the tide to rescue them.  I can just jump into a finite pool of water and drag them to safety.  And this year, it was a salt-water pool (it still has chlorine, but less).

Still, for me, the ocean and its sounds are a lullaby to my sometimes sad and tired soul,  Except, of course, when SOS is swimming in it.  Then, it becomes this mercurial power, able to allow young children to frolic one moment, and drag them out of reach in a fit of anger the next.  I never thought of the sea this way until I became a mom. Then, I remember what a lunatic MOB was about the ocean and her children.  And I know whence the neurosis (psychosis) comes.

Back story: MOB wrote letters to our camp director every summer, complete with clippings, about tragedies that happened at summer camps.  To be fair, lifeguards had to rescue my sister from an powerful undertow while on a camp beach trip in the early 70s.

These letters started as the neurotic rantings of a crazed mom (can’t you do something about the waves at the beach? Tuna fish sandwiches are unsafe if left unrefrigerated for even a MINUTE).

But over twelve years and three Blogger family children having survived camp, they morphed into amusing missives that the camp director enjoyed getting by hand delivery on visiting day.

But those letters did cause tense moments for me.  On visiting days, I was not allowed near water, even a puddle.  I was allowed to play tennis, volleyball and do arts and crafts.  No softball (MOB sent clippings of kids dying from getting smacked in the head by a baseball or softball), no water sports, or anything else that might cause MOB to write a SECOND letter in one summer.

Yet, one visiting, the only option for the first activity was “tippy canoe” (where we canoed out to the middle of the lake, tipped the canoe over and then swam under the canoe to breathe in the air pocket that was created).  In front of the entire camp, the camp director, bellowed, “[Blogger], are you SURE your mother is not coming until the second activity?”  When I nodded yes, she continued, looking at the counselors, “This young lady needs at least two more life preservers than necessary because if her mother is early . . . . ” She trailed off as if everyone knew that the consequences would be the end of life as we know it.

Now, back to the present:

SOS loves the ocean and we let him frolic, but under watchful eyes looking for the slightest change in the tides.  And he ate some serious sand when he wiped out on his boogie-board a few times. He can get scraped up and bruised, even have a lot of water up his nose.  He just cannot drown.

But, thank G-d, he is perfectly happy in a pool.  And I love cement-enclosed, stagnant water (West Nile virus, be damned!), although I actually check the filtration system daily to make sure the water is cleaned.  Call me crazy, because everyone else does.

So, we do a little bit of both, pool and ocean.  And he doesn’t need to know the fear behind these watchful, loving eyes. Until he is old enough to read this blog.

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The beginning of the roller coaster

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SOS is 10 years-old.  Today, he discovered that YouTube isn’t just for videos about locomotives.  He was visiting my office from 2:45pm to 4:15pm while POB needed to be at a meeting.  It seems that between 4:15pm and 6:45pm, he discovered some erotica (and I am being generous here).

How did POB know?  It was eerily quiet in his room.  Computers are not allowed in his room.  Ahhhh, iTouch with wifi.  Smart little whippersnapper.  (Previously, if we were only in ear-shot (as opposed to eyes riveted on the monitor, he would announce if he found “inappropriate” videos and voluntarily turn them off.)

SOS was very embarrassed at the discovery and immediately spilled his guts and broke all confidences (I will miss this reflexive truthfulness as he becomes a conniving teen).

“Don’t be embarrassed, bud.  Women in swimsuits (and without) can be beautiful.  But not every video or picture is about beauty or love.  So you can’t have access to everything.  It is hard to explain where the line is between what is ok and what isn’t.  So, we have to decide that line.”

SOS nodded silently, still not meeting my eyes (which is a problem for him anyway).

He was particularly pleasant at dinner as if trying to make up for having ogled some naked women.  There was a part of me that was weighing the pros and cons of the situation because it was really so nice not having him critique his food and start negotiating about what he didn’t have to eat and still get dessert.

Still, that “some day when SOS is older” is today. Today, SOS is old enough that his not-so-nascent sexual awareness requires that we even more actively monitor his computer time.

I put on all the parental controls I could find on Google, Yahoo and YouTube.  And re-instated browsing history retrievals. My blog is probably off-limits.  The funny thing is that the head of some ultra-conservative movement and I probably have the same filters on our household computers.  How’s that for ironic.

We are now in lock down.  SOS now wears an orange prisoner jumpsuit and cannot be left alone.  He is wifi’ed and dangerous.

Nah, not really.  But POB and I have cross-checked our seat belts and made sure our life insurance is paid up because one of us might not survive this roller coaster ride through the next eight or so years.

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Our Camper

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After a summer of day camp, SOS’s last week at camp was sleep-away.

He was adorable in his red baseball hat and red shirt (that was his color-war team) and his blue shorts.  Our little boy sleeping away from us.  We kissed him good-bye on Monday morning, in the house, because we simply couldn’t in front of his friends.

Sidebar:  I learned the “no-kissing” rule on the prior Tuesday, when I walked him to the bus pick-up and SOS turned to me as we were in the middle of 110th Street, “E-Mom, you can leave me here.”  “DUDE, I am not leaving you in the middle of a busy two-way street!!!” As he was harrruumphing, I walked him to the sidewalk, said hi to his counselor and waved to him as he was off with the other campers.

Our hearts’ heaviness at his being away was, however, immediately lifted by the sheer elation of being untethered to a child’s schedule and needs.  Recall that when you have children under 12, parents can’t spontaneously go for a romantic walk (ok, not so romantic in the sweltering heat of New York City) without having planned for a babysitter.  Which then defeats the spontaneity.

The camp has a website where parents can email children and see pictures of the days’ activities.  We saw SOS in that same cute outfit day after day after day.  While we later learned that he showered and changed his underwear, he still thought it was ok to put on the same muddy clothes each morning.

He is a boy and this is camp.  There is hope:  he changed his clothes for the Thursday night dance with the girls.

Gee, I cannot wait for adolescence.

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An Olympian Lives Here

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SOS loves watching the Olympics.  He is the quintessential spectator (he asks me to play Wii so he can watch) and really gets fired up for the underdog or the athlete who achieves something truly outstanding. 

Of course, I think if you make the Olympic team (except maybe the Jamaican bob-sledding team) you have a superhuman athletic ability.  The level of perfection, the absolute control over mind and body and the punishing practice schedules of these athletes simply amaze me (and it ooks me out a little).

The differences are measured in centimeters, in milli-seconds and toe position. Listening to the commentators — “ooh, a toe went off the mat and this athlete has stumbled in her pursuit of the gold” — can make you want to scream.  When was the last time a “toe fault” deprived you of a career-crowning accolade?  And it didn’t matter which toe — big toe or pinky toe.  In this type of precise competition, one would think that there would be no detail left unparsed when docking an athlete points on a performance.

But I digress.

Because it is the Olympics fortnight, we let SOS stay up later than usual to watch parts of it.  The combination of days at camp running around and late nights spectating with an intense concentration inevitably leads to a bit of a tired-boy tantrum on about day 10.  (It also happens during the winter games.)

Day 10 arrives. POB is already in her jammies and reading a book and I am trying to archive photos in date order.  So, we are ill-prepared for the bi-ennial ritual.

I walk into his room amid the tears and lamentations (biblical, really).  “Dude, listen to me!! Listen to me!! This is awesome!! This is an Olympic-quality tantrum!!  Mommy, come here QUICK!!”

POB runs in:  “OMG, [SOS] you have surged past everyone in your class!!”

I say to him, “The winner from the United States of America, [full name of SOS].  Please stand as the national anthem of the gold medal winner is played.”

SOS looks at us like we are crazy.

“Dude, STAND UP.  WITH YOUR HAND OVER YOUR HEART.  OTHERWISE YOU MAY BE DISQUALIFIED!!!!”

He has medals from camp lying around, so I put one around his neck (without throttling him).  We all stand with our hands over our hearts and belt out the Star Spangled Banner, changing some of the words to reference just how he is torturing us.

As we finished the anthem, I guide him to the bathroom to wash up.

I bet he fell asleep before his head hit his pillow.

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The wonder years

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POB recounted this vignette to me after SOS was asleep.  It makes me realize that while being at home is harder work, it is also a lot more fun and challenging.  (The COB can take credit for this insight.)

POB picked up SOS at the bus stop after day camp. They amiably walked the few blocks to our apartment building.  When the elevator came, a skinny teenage boy with acne and long hair emerged.  [I never described boys like this until I was a mother of one.]

The elevator had a smell that SOS could not identify.  It was, however, immediately obvious to POB.  And I am not talking body odor.

“Mommy, what is that smell?”  A teachable moment arrives.

“Sweetie, that is the smell of pot.”

“Pot?”  No name recognition.

POB tried again.  “Dope? Weed?”  [Hell, this kid is growing up in New York City.]

“Huh?”  [Ok, this parenting thing is getting harder.]  “It smells awful.”  The elevator opened to our floor.

“Sweetie, it is the smell of drugs.  That boy was smoking marijuana, a type of which is commonly known as skunk weed.”  [I taught POB that.]

“Eeewwwww.  I was inhaling drugs?????” he asked in horror.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie, nothing bad is going to happen on that short elevator ride.”

Worry over.  Moment forgotten. Back to play and carefree late afternoons after camp.

A missed teachable moment about that urban legend, “contact high,” to keep our son even farther away from smoking dope.  I hope he reads this blog entry when he is 15 years old and using cheesy aftershave and chewing gum to try to cover his tracks as he squeaks in just under curfew while I am pacing in the foyer.

[Note to SOS at 15:  Just remember, dude, once you thought it was disgusting.  Love, E-Mom.]

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Things I Learned on My Son’s 10th birthday

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SOS climbed into our bed after breakfast.  I was the only one in pajamas, because POB and SOS had been up for a while doing all the usual morning routines for a day at camp.  I love this time in the morning.  My family lets me be lazy until 7:30am.  POB learned very early on — at Camp Wingate — that trying to make me a go-getter in the morning was a losing battle.

Today, SOS wanted to talk about his momentous birthday and think ahead about the next decade of his life.

“Will I change as much as I did in this last decade?” 

“Well,” I said, “physically, probably not — you were a scrawny newborn — but emotionally, intellectually and philosophically?  Absolutely!”

He was quiet.  I had to remember that he is only 10 years old.

“But I will always be your baby.  But not in public anymore.”

Oh, the dreaded “not in public anymore”.  I knew it happened after boys hit the “double-digits” (i.e., 10 and over), but on the day that he turned 10?  Was that soooooo necessary?

SOS had his birthday party before the school year ended, so all his friends could come.  His actual birthday is therefore more low-key.  He wanted a hamburger and fries and some Star Wars action figures.  Easy enough.

We went to the “burger joint” and while we were waiting for his order, he posted:

So, not a good parenting day as far as SOS’s nutritional intake.  But french fries are good for the soul.

On the way back, he took my hand and said,

“I know that I am pretty spoiled, but that is what parents are supposed to do.”

“Sweetie, a parent spoils best when she spoils a child with love.”

“Absolutely, that is number 1, but the toys do come in a really close second.”

I give him a look.  That awesome “Mom look” that immediately establishes control over your child’s life.

“Whaaat?” He whines.  “I’m just sayin’.”

Over dinner (we took the grease extravaganza to go), SOS asked, “E-Mom, remember when you said that Dubai was becoming more of a tourist attraction than an oil producer or distributor?”

“I don’t remember telling you that.  We did discuss that Dubai’s leadership has built the tallest building and various (sinking) islands just off its shore.”

“Oh, yes, I remember: I read it in the Economist.”

From deep thoughts to a child’s scrawling hand-writing to reading business porn, all in the span of one day.  Is he 5, or is he 10 or is he 35?  Depends on the moment.

Time to fasten my seat belt; it is going to be a bumpy decade.

And I don’t want to miss one minute of it.

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A Morning at the Museum

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Today, we went to the Met to see Buddhism along the Silk Road: 5th–8th Century.  SOS really wanted to go.  No joke, and he isn’t even 10 years old (soon).  When I was 10, you could not tear me away from watching cartoons or fighting with BOB.  A museum?  Nevehh.

It was a win-win all around, actually.  I wanted to walk on a beautiful day (to the museum).  DOB was game for something to do on a quiet Sunday. POB was grateful for extreme air conditioning (in the museum).

SOS has so many books and DVDs on the history of the Silk Road.  He is fascinated by the spread of religion and culture through the trading corridor as well as the particularly harsh climate conditions along parts of that ancient route.  Actually, all of us were interested in the subject matter, in varying degrees.   But mostly, the rest of us marveled at our little guy’s enthusiasm: “[Blogger]-mom, let’s pack all of it in today!”

SOS’s knowledge is broad, deep and thoughtful (forget that he is so young).  Every now and again, I try to throw in something I learned from my travels in parts of Asia.  It is a little like a klutz trying to jump double-dutch.

“Hey, bud, over here!!, look at this awesome wood carving from an entrance to a stupa. A stupa is place of worship that —-”

“[Blogger] Mah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahM, I know that a stupa holds a Buddha relic,” said with more than a little exasperation.

DOB, watching this exchanged, looked at me and smiled.  It must be a little fun for him, after all, he and MOB survived three smart-aleck kids.

But then, just then, I heard him telling POB that the Bodhisattva sculptures were all depictions of the Buddha.  Aha!!!  I could tell that not all Bodhisattva sculptures were in fact depictions of the Buddha. So, I whipped out my iPhone and logged into Professor Google and read that that he was a correct to a point — the term has morphed so that it also refers to people recognized as enlightened in their time, hence very different faces of Bodhisattva.

“Hey, buddy, did you know . . . .”

“Gee, [Blogger]mom, thanks for the info!!!”

Paradise regained. 

Sidebar:  Until he is old enough to read this blog, he doesn’t have to know how I knew, right?

Then, off to brunch, where parents re-assumed the mantle of superior knowledge and power.   SOS looked to us for Talmudic rulings on whether he could eat the home fries that came, unbidden, with his omelet and whether, if he ate some of the home fries, would it count against his weekly French Fries quota.

Paradise affirmed.

And the strong and brave parents, POB and I, deserve a nap.

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