jedimommy

In our house, it had been an unwritten but often discussed presumption that when my son started middle school he would get his first mobile phone. Assuming, that is, that he had demonstrated a certain level of maturity and responsibility.

I anguished over this decision to the point of insanity, like I do with every.single.decision. regarding my kids. One minute I was reading articles about the dangers of teenagers and social media,  the next minute envisioning a natural disaster occurring at middle school with his survival solely contingent on calling me from his cell phone.

But here is the real reason I decided it was time. I know my son. He was ready.

I was expecting some level of emotion around this event but what I wasn’t expecting, as I signed the contract and was given his new number, was the future flashing before my eyes. While I looked at those 10 digits, it struck me that this number, most likely, will be a part of him for the rest of his life. When I was growing up (back when dinosaurs roamed) we had one house phone which was connected to the wall with an actual chord. It had a number assigned to it and when you moved, well, you started over with a new number. There were no programmed contact lists. When you wanted to chat with a friend you physically “dialed” their number which you had committed to memory.

This new number of his will most likely see him through many stages of life. In the next few years how many LOL, XOXO, or OMG’s will he receive? How many times will I dial these numbers when he is in college and become paralyzed with worry when he doesn’t answer…my “mom” brain assuming that he is in a ditch, drunk, and only wearing a toga. I’m sure there will be break-up calls, make-up calls, and Lord help me, booty calls.

Will this be the number that’s called to tell him he’s about to be a dad, or even a grandad.

The Verizon guy probably thought I had stroked out as I sat there glassy eyed imagining the next 50 years. Oh, don’t mind me, I just have an important number to memorize.

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I feel it, it’s coming. Even though it is still hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, even though my hair curls the second I step outside and into the humidity, it’s coming.  It’s in the late afternoon shadows that reach a little farther than the day before, it’s in a quick cool breeze that cuts through the oppressive waves of heat. It’s also in Target’s seasonal section, recently filled with patio furniture and pool floats, now inundated with Crayola markers and 3-ring binders.

Fall, It’s coming and no amount of pleading with Mother Nature will stop it. Don’t get me wrong, I love it just as much as the next person. The thought of sweatshirts, football games, and trick-or-treaters makes me giddy but fall also brings with it a sense of melancholy and nostalgia. It makes me nostalgic for my childhood, for my carefree college days, for people who were once a part my life, and for that short lived time my tweenager thought I was actually cool.

I’ve often wondered if there is a bigger cosmic reason for the intense emotions attached to this time of year. Perhaps the transitions of this season in particular, reminds us of the brevity of life, which in turn brings about personal introspection and reflection. Or maybe, it’s simply that pumpkin spice added to everything, from coffee to Oreos and now M&M’s, yes M&M’s, is just too overwhelming.

Since having kids, this strange seasonal nostalgia factor is ratcheted up a few hundred notches. Fall begins the cycle of a new school year which is a poignant reminder that they are growing up, at warp speed no less, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. As each year passes, time seems less measured by birthdays and more by grade levels, from the tearful first day of kindergarten, to the tearful last day of high school. And when the day comes that I take them to college, I apologize ahead of time. I apologize to my kids, to their roommate, to the university faculty and staff, and to anyone else that comes in contact with this blubbering, hot mess.

While I love to see pictures of the moms on Facebook celebrating their kids returning to school (and I totally understand the desperate need for kid free time), I’m the one crying in carpool line. I’m the one silently willing them to look back and smile as they walk away with their school supply laden backpacks, weighing down their little shoulders. I’m the one wishing for an endless summer.

Yes, even with the incessant sibling bickering, the long days and late bedtimes, the summer Disney vacation (where I swear I could feel the skin literally melting of my body), I would start over and do it all again.

I grew up in the heart of North Carolina where watching college basketball was as essential as breathing air. You either liked Duke OR Carolina, there was no middle ground, and the other team became your life-long sworn enemy.

I’m showing my age by admitting this but when I was in high school, the ACC had only 8 teams. This set up one glorious Friday of nonstop basketball action on the opening day of the conference tournament. All eight teams played, no byes or play in games. Most years my incredibly cool mom would sign me out of school so I could watch at home but the times I was in school, TV’s were wheeled down from the AV department so we could cheer on our teams while in class.  Even as a young girI, for my birthday, I opted for UNC/Duke game day gatherings instead of princess parties. And when it was time to date, you’d have to think long and hard before going out with someone in the opposite camp. Were they really so special that you could overlook such an appalling character flaw? What would others think? And if you were to marry and have kids one day, how would you raise them, a ram or a devil?

I couldn’t wait to start a family and raise up my own little Tar heels. When my first son was born I dressed him head to toe in Carolina blue, started taking him to the games when he could barely walk and sang him the victory song as I rocked him to sleep. Around 4 years old something snapped in him and he betrayed me in the worst way a son could betray his mother. He became a Duke fan.

When my second son was born, I swore that I would not lose him to the “dark (blue) side”. He is a Carolina fan through and through and even with a persuasive older brother constantly trying to lure him over, he is holding strong. I pray it stays this way but I will resort to bribery if the need arises.

It is now NCAA tournament time and as we pore over the statistics and watch hours and hours of sports center to fill out our brackets, I can’t help but notice that many pundits have predicted Duke and Carolina to meet in the Championship game. There is a certain excitement at the thought of answering a previously unanswerable question. We may never know “What happened to ‘B’ batteries?” or “What do you call a male ladybug?”, but we would finally know who has the better team on a national stage. I get chills even typing this. But I am also worried what it might do to our happy little “house divided” because beating your arch enemy in THE national championship game would guarantee bragging rights for at least, well, forever.

I searched my whole life for you even if I couldn’t put a name on it.  I had everything a person could ask for… love, support, happiness, but a piece of me was still missing.  That missing piece was you.

My days are now filled with joyful chaos…birthdays, ballgames, meltdowns, play-dates, sleepovers, homework, late nights, early mornings, snuggles, dancing, tears, laughter and the purest love I have ever known.

And it’s not the big moments or milestones that I treasure the most, it’s the everyday moments that take my breath away like spontaneous dance-offs in the living room when it is already way past bedtime, or all of us piled up like puppies on the couch watching a movie, or seeing your face after you conquer that big waterslide, or rollercoaster or math test.

I sometimes watch you while you sleep. Yes, I know it’s a bit stalker-ish, but in those quiet moments you look so vulnerable and serene that I catch a glimpse of the little, little boy you were just a few short years ago.

You will never be too old to be my “baby”. I want you to always feel like you can come to me with problems, fears, or indiscretions.  I can’t promise that I won’t be mad sometimes but I can promise that I will always love you and that together we can figure anything out.

I hope that you have a gentle spirit, that you are compassionate and kind to all living things, that you follow your dreams with dogged determination, and don’t let anyone tell you that you aren’t worthy of greatness. But mostly I want you to find happiness and embrace it, even in the tough times.

I see big changes in you every year but none more so than this, your 11^th trip around the sun.  And even though you are in that tough place between childhood and young adult, between being fiercely independent and wanting me by your side, between keeping your distance and wanting to hold my hand…you are handling it, sometimes better than I am, and you are going to be ok because you are a rockstar and I am your biggest fan.

Love,                                                                                                                                                       Mom

An open letter to my mom on her 70^th birthday

“You and me against the world.” That was the Helen Reddy song we claimed as our own in the 70’s and it has been our motto ever since.  My mother had me very young and my parents divorced just a few years later.  We started our new journey in a small apartment, not lavish by any means.  I started Kindergarten and mom started her career, working her way up in a man’s corporate world to provide for us.  And even though there were times that we had to make a pound of ground beef last a week, I never went without.  She always found a way to save for a beach vacation, or a themed birthday party, or (even though I didn’t appreciate them at the time), braces.  Her success was an inevitable outcome based on her strong will, her dedication, and her tenacity of spirit.

We went through normal growing pains, the years when a daughter is finding herself and must pull away to do so but I always knew she was a phone call away.  Having kids of my own has bonded us in an even more meaningful way. She’s the strongest person I know and she’s been right beside me through life’s most beautiful moments and most heartbreaking.  Also, who else can you call to find out how to remove red kool-aid from a beige couch? This parenting job is no joke and it’s hard not to judge yourself on a daily basis. I think my proudest moment may have been the first time my mother told me that I was a good mom.  A compliment from Mother Teresa herself couldn’t have meant more.

When my 6 year old is telling me I’m the meanest mom in the world because he can’t wear his Superman cape to school, I just want to say: let’s skip this part. Let’s go right to the part where you realize that I went to three stores to find that cape, when you realize that I sometimes watch you when you sleep and am so utterly overcome with love that it is hard to breathe. And if there are times that you think I’m the meanest mom in the world because I’m making the hard choices then I guess I’m doing my job right. So to all you moms out there (including myself) who think your children will never appreciate you, they will.  It may take having kids themselves, but it will happen.

I’ll end with the part of our song that always makes me cry:

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

You and me against the world”

So happy birthday to my mother, my hero, my best friend.

We are in North Carolina, and while we were by no means the hardest hit area in our state, we were affected by Hurricane Matthews destructive path.   Our power went on a preemptive strike even before the heaviest of the rain and winds had actually arrived leaving us, and our two boys, in the dark….literally.

So how did we fill our many “unplugged” hours?  We played games, actual board games with paper instructions and real 3-d playing pieces.  We made pillow forts and read books by the light coming through the window.  We put on rain boots and jumped in puddles on our flooded neighborhood streets. We even spent a couple of hours cleaning out our garage, one of those chores that always takes a backseat to soccer, or t-ball, or basketball, or…you get the picture. At night, we ate by candlelight and played I Spy using flashlights. When it was time to sleep, we snuggled up downstairs because a power free house at night is a little eerie.

The day reminded me of a powerful Simpsons episode where Marge is compelled to boycott “The Itchy and Scratchy Show” because of the effect its violent theme is having on her kids.  Once the show changes to a more peaceful format, the kids lose interest and are no longer glued to the TV. They venture outside, rubbing their eyes as sunlight floods their dilated pupils, to play at the park, climb trees, and to ride bikes, scooters and skateboards.  But when the show returns to its previous format and the kids flock back to their TV screens, we see the playgrounds of Springdale once again deserted.

So I vote we declare one Saturday of every month “Power Free Day”.  We should flip the proverbial switch of our busy lives and unplug. Go old school. Will this happen? Probably not.  But for one glorious day of being disconnected, we were more connected than ever.