Susiej

He interrupted my writing time – that time I try to carve out in the early morning hours before the light creates shadows and reveals to me what the world really does look like, rather than what appears in my imagination. It was his right to do this; it’s his birthday.

So I told him the story about that day, when, at about this time, his brothers were eating the blueberry pancakes his father had made for them, and how our neighbor came over to baby-sit while we went to the hospital. “You would arrive in about two more hours, and then my mom was on her way over to relieve the neighbor and wait with your brothers. Your brother, the one who is now in 8th grade, missed morning kindergarten that day.”

“Why?”

“Because his parents were busy.”

The day before there was snow all over the ground, just like today, and there were ice bumps in random spots all over the streets.

“So, that would have been Tuesday?”

“Yes, and I almost fell holding the bikes up for your brothers while they tried to ride them through the ice and snow.” (Why didn’t they use sleds?”)

And then we made snicker doodles, and ate them and waited for you to come.

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“So, Mom, I’m wondering what we’ll have for my birthday dinner?”

Thinking to myself: Get real. After the time and work involved in getting your present, hiding your present, catering this and that for the school end of year parties, planning your party… there is NO SPECIAL DINNER!!!

In my calmest voice possible I say, “Well sweetie. There will be pizza at your birthday party. Remember?’

“Well, that’s not actually on my birthday. That’s the day before.”

“Hmmm,” I say biting my tongue.

“I think you should make fried chicken; you know, your Mom’s recipe. Then, for a side dish, ravioli with cheese.”

I am flattered he likes the recipe. Despite the frazzleness of these last days of school, I am amazed that he thinks that’s all I’m really thinking about is how to make his birthday dinner spectacular.

Still, we’ll probably order pizza tonight. There is no time today, on this last day of school, for frying chickens. We need quiet, unrushed, unhurried time, to sit and enjoy the space we occupy together with, and feel a bit free and bored. When he was 4, I was a much more naive Mom, and I would have fried the chicken; and be frazzled. Now, that he’s 11, I am much more experienced and perhaps a bit lazy. Lazy can be a good thing if it keeps you sane.

He’s already mastered no-bake cookies. A better gift, I see as I’m writing this, is to teach him my Mom’s recipe (actually my Mom’s technique, but the secret spices are those I added from an evil stepmother my Dad married after my parents divorced. She was so evil, she once stole my pillow.) and fry it with him. I’ll clear a day, and space in my kitchen to spend time with him to teach him this master recipe. Now that is the ideal birthday present for a witty boy, who just turned 11.

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A few days after the 7-year-old hosted his friends to a rip-roaring birthday party that included ball-pit fun, and gambling away tokens at the slot machines, I presented him with his Thank You cards.

“You never told me this!  You should have warned me before I invited everyone.”

Clutching his colored pencil like a bear trying to scratch his way through the forest, he reluctantly scrawls out the words, “Thank you for the Bakugan.” The words sprawl out in an uneven script covering the text and photo on the front of the cards.

Here’s my interpretation of the scowl of his face:

“I can’t BELIEVE she has the audacity to make me write something that has nothing to do with school or homework.”

As he begins to write the next card, he stops and says, “Wait a minute. These cards already say ‘thank you.’  I only have to write Camp Set.”

So, that’s exactly what he did.

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You were show and tell

Seven years past, you were born

and your big brother

was so very proud.

He donned his power ranger

costume, went to school

and took you along

Of course we waited until

you were big enough.

He showed all his friends

how he’s careful with your head.

Then, he washed you clean.

Thanks for the memories, big guy.  And Happy 7th Birthday.

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I’ve always heard scary things about parenting a teen; so far all of them are true. The trick, I think, is to not let them know you’re alarmed by their behavior; and really, there is no reason to be afraid. I keep telling myself that the arrogance, the self-righteousness, and the rudeness are just part of a river that’s running down the stream. He once had colic, and now he doesn’t; so this all too will pass. Yet, sometimes he shines like a precious stone.

He crossed that line to 13. I woke at 7 a.m. to guitar rips from Guitar Hero World Tour, blaring out of the basement: Welcome to your new world; you’ve entered the realm of adolescence. We’re all in this world; Mom, Dad, right down to the youngest who’s in preschool. This awakening was not that much unlike his 7:30 a.m. birth, 13 years earlier. The shock at that hour was the same then as now.

Finding that constant part of him that is pure and timeless is now my new challenge. At one time, at age 4, I could see him so clearly, as he clearly stated what he felt and what he wanted. Now a soft barrier keeps those pieces from view; sometimes you know him clear as a bell, while there are moments when the familar parts of him are locked up and hidden away; I wonder if he even knows where to find them. Uncovering those gems can give me an edge when I try to reason with him, and maybe even a lifeline for him. Seeing all the great gems inside of him, even when they’re hidden, I hope, will ease the transition. As vital as seeing the good is, this is sometimes a hard thing to do.

Sometimes though, a teen doesn’t need reasoning. Whether they like it or not, they just need to hear your limits — and the consequences. Within those boundaries, teens find their room to grow, and a parent finds peace.

Still, it was gratifying to hear him say, “Mom, the Guitar Hero World Tour was the best birthday present I could have ever got.” I swear, he said that same thing when he was 4, and he found Buzz Lightyear (with the wings that popped out) standing under the Christmas Tree.

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Dove Soap seems to be his favorite. I picked up a tiny Dove sample at the doctor’s office, and it sits in his soap collection box, right beside the “daddy” Dove soap. This is next to the Irish Spring, the Oil of Olay and the Ivory. He didn’t like the Johnson’s Baby bar too much at first, and offered it to me as a present. Then, he changed his mind, and took it back. Can I just add here, that since he started carrying that Irish Spring, Deers have stayed clear away from him… as if that was EVER an issue.

One would think Bath and Body Works, the Mecca of cleanliness, would be a haven of bar soap shapes and colors. But alas, I’ve learned this is not the case. They carry only two bars of soap in t-h-e e-n-t-i-r-e store; and they were ugly. Bars are out, I’m telling you. Just talk to any clerk at Bath and Body Works, and she’ll tell ya’.

At Target the pickins’ were slim.Sure, they had all the major brands – Dial, Dove and Ivory – but I needed something special. I almost picked up Aveeno’s oatmeal bar; but it wasn’t spiffy enough.

Finally, I hit the jack pot. I found these two cute pink whales.

They’re a little nicked up; but they should incite some glee in his heart.
Further down the aisle, I entered the dark side, and found Every Man Jack Soap.

What is so great about this soap is that the soap has texture to make it actually look like wood grain. My boy will recognize, and appreciate the care, quality and forethought that went into the making of this soap.

This I expect from a kid who uses his Dove soap box as a bank to hold his birthday money, and his frog sale money.

Because, on his birthday, I just want him to know that I “hear him.” I know where’s he’s coming from; and if you want soap, Lunar Baby, I’ll get you some soap.

P.S. I’m giving away the latest Veggie Tale DVD this week.  Click here for more information.

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