Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Announcing: An Amnesty Program

ATTENTION ALL FAMILY MEMBERS!

I have recently noticed that certain items have disappeared from the kitchen. They just go... missing. Poof. It's like, one day, my favorite Swiss serrated knife with the red handle was there, and the next day it was nowhere to be found. I just noticed its sister-knife - you know, the one with the birds-beak blade - is also missing. And the one with the white handle, too. 

In addition, there are two large mixing bowls that are MIA. BIG ones. (Where could you possibly have put them??)

And this is to say nothing of the various cups, glasses, bowls, spoons, etc. that I perodically retrieve from your bedrooms.  And also, kitchen shears. Feel free to use 'em - just return 'em.

While I'm at it, I can't help wondering if the persistent dearth of phillips-head screwdrivers in this house is somehow related to the absence of key kitchen implements. I'm no detective, but it seems like more than coincidence to me.

NOW, THEREFORE, in consideration of the aforementioned situation, I am hereby announcing an Amnesty Program. Individuals who return any of these items to their customary location in the kitchen (or, in the case of the screwdrivers, the toolbox) before 11:59 p.m. on December 31, 2012 will not be prosecuted. All fines and penalties will be waived. No questions will be asked.  You don't have to sneak them into the kitchen when I'm not looking; you may simply leave them on the island and walk away a free man. (Or boy.)

In the meantime, I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you that dirty socks do NOT belong in the family room and the shoe basket is NOT a place to "hang" your coats.

Thank you for your compliance.

Love,

Mom

 

A remarkable evening

THERE SHOULD BE NO REASON for me to want to capture in writing just another Monday evening at home. I should not feel compelled to write about sitting on the sofa, fire in the fireplace, sports on the TV. Maybe it's like this every night in your house, but last night was different here.

For starters, all five of us were in the room together. Even Ross the Boss, who, at age 14, would rather convene with friends via xBox Live than watch sports with his family, joined us. Even Seth, now 16, who spends many evenings in his room, his thumping subwoofer pounding out the soundtrack to... whatever it is he does in there.

Peezer, of course, is always around. At 7, he is still of the age where he demands our attention, craves our approval. He is happiest when we are interacting with him: Tossing a ball, playing a game, or simply watching whatever it is he does when he says "Mommy! Mommy! Watch this, Mommy!" And I watch and say, "Wow, Peez!" or whatever half-hearted response, and then feel half-guilty about it, knowing that in a few years he mostly won't care what I think.

The teenagers are long since past that stage. I believe they still want the attention and approval, but they'd rather die than show it or - gasp! - say it.

But last night, Seth asked for another foot rub. It all started on Sunday, when he and I had been on the sofa watching football. (We watch a lot of sports in our house, especially during the fall.) His legs were stretched out and he put his feet on my lap. I started to massage them. Without asking. Something new. He's reluctant to hug me, let alone have me touch him for an extended period of time. But he luuuuuuuved the foot massage. The King of Sarcasm turned into a puppy dog. He didn't want me to stop.

His brothers saw how good this made Seth feel and wanted in on the action. Peezer was next. Predictably, he couldn't get beyond the tickle factor. So his was short.

Then, Ross. He LOVED it! So I rubbed and rubbed some more. Peezer wanted another go at it. I said, "No, Ross hasn't let me touch him for this long in many years; I'm not done yet." Ross just smiled.

And, we talked. I made observations about their feet. Seth, poor kid, has feet like mine: Wide and calloused. There are probably bunions in his future. (Sorry, Seth.) Ross's are narrow and straight, like my sister's. My mom used to take her to a special shoe store to get shoes that fit what the shoe guy called her "aristocratic feet." I think Peezer's are more like Seth's than like Ross's.

We also talked about Homecoming, which is coming up in a couple of weeks. This is the first year Seth has wanted to go, and it's Ross's first year in high school. Seth is going with a big co-ed group of friends and has nothing dressy he could wear, so we were trying to plan a shopping trip. Ross put himself out there last week and asked some girl with a thoughtful, clever Big Ask. She said yes at the moment, but found him at the end of the day and reneged privately. "Was she at least nice about it?" I asked, fighting every urge to unleash my protective Mama Bear. "Yeah, she was," Ross said then. Last night, he says he was only a little bit disappointed, and hasn't decided yet whether he'll go to the dance or not. If he goes, he, too, needs new clothes. But I told him he may not sequester himself in the basement and play xBox that whole evening.

Maybe in your house, this is just another weekday night, but in mine, it was different. I've been joking lately that the teenagers are trying to kill me with their antics. They can be so moody and sarcastic. Selfish. And just downright mean to their little brother. I assure them daily that I don't live to make their lives miserable; they seem unconvinced.

But last night, I saw the other side of what sometimes feels like a giant parenting abyss. Maybe we are connecting with them; we just haven't been witnessing the fruit of our efforts. Last night, they set aside the snark and sarcasm. The big boys went easy on their little brother. They let me touch them. And they opened up and we talked.

And this? This is how I picture it. This is how I want it.

It was just so, so nice.

This post isn't for you, friends - it's for me. I'm coming back to read this one the next time I have to say no. The next time a teenager attempts to twist my words and provokes my ire during what should be a "normal" conversation. The next time one rolls his eyes at me to convey impatience and disgust. The next time one forgets to call or fails a test in school or demands, "Where are all the towels??" or leaves yet another mess of empty soda cans and potato chip bags on the family room table.

Last night seems unremarkable on its surface, but to me, it was worth remembering.

 

Monopoly

I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE PLAYING Monopoly last night...

But the 7-year-old set up the game and counted out the money and pretty much insisted that it was going to happen. And then the 15-year-old heard we were playing and wanted in on the fun. And then I remembered that in 5 or 6 years, the 7 year old isn't going to want to have much to do with his old mom, and when that time rolls around the 15-year-old will already be away at college. And so, on a weeknight, instead of focusing on homework or chores, three of us played Monopoly.

And it was fun.

 

Miscellany

A FEW RANDOM UPDATES from my little corner of the universe:

# # #

SETH IS LEARNING TO DRIVE and I have to say, riding shotgun with him is completely surreal. Even if it's only in an empty parking lot. I gave birth to what is now a young man, who possesses a learner's permit, and now he is learning to drive. A vehicle. Pray for me.

The good news is, I can tell he has inherited the Good Driver Gene from both of his parents. Or maybe it's just the hours and hours he's spent honing his driving skillz on his xBox. Either way; I'm pretty sure it'll be fine. Probably.

# # #

WE SAW A MOUSE last Saturday. We've had 'em before, but it'd been a while. Of course if you see a mouse, it means you have MICE. These seem to be a particularly stupid breed, peeking out in daring fashion from the safety of the gaping hole in the baseboard next to the oven. So, we set a trap and he was all mmmmm, peanut butter and SNAP! Squished mouse-head.

So when that dummy failed to report for Mouse Roll Call on Sunday morning, they drew straws and sent the loser in to investigate. Except this one was even dumber than the last one: He sauntered right into the family room as we were all gathered 'round the tube, eating dinner and watching hockey. We knew there was nowhere for him to go; so Seth used a crutch (don't ask) to goad him out of his corner and I stood on the sofa because eeeeeek! Curt grabbed a Spongebob tennis racket and WHAM! dead mouse. In my family room. During dinner.

I cleaned out all the drawers where they have left evidence of their presence (those aren't blackened sesame seeds, y'all) and placed peppermint oil-soaked cotton pads in the drawers and in the aforementioned gaping hole and now my kitchen smells minty fresh and I think the mice may have finally gotten the hint.

# # #

REJOICE, FOR THE BOSS IS BLOND AGAIN! Those of you who know him will recall that last Halloween, he wanted to go sort of "Goth", so I said sure, why not, and helped him apply a semi-permanent black dye to his medium-blond hair. Only when you put black onto blond, it doesn't fade in 28 washes (as opposed to when you apply it to the wiry grays of someone who was born in the 1960s, in which case it lasts for a week or two, tops).  He liked it, though - it was a change for him. I privately wept at his new look but figured eventually he would outgrow it... which he finally did, yesterday. He ASKED ME to cut his hair all the way down to the blond. So now it's short and you can see his beautiful blue eyes again and he posted it on Facebook and his friends were all THANK YOU! and What took so long? and Yaaaay, your hair's back!. 

# # #

SPRING IS NIGH. We survived February with its insulting extra day, and now the daffodils are blooming and forsythia is coming out and choruses of birds are chirping in tight harmony and this weekend we lose an hour but who cares, because we get extra daylight in the evening and the sun will set here on Sunday just after 7:00 p.m. and friends, if that isn't something to celebrate then I don't know what is.

 

Unbalanced

TODAY IS ONE OF THOSE DAYS - no, weeks - that makes you realize how delicate the balance is of work vs. family... and also humbles you into remembering that sometimes, despite elaborate plans and optimistic intentions, it isn't always possible to do it all. At least not on your own terms.  And for someone like me, with control-freak tendencies, that's hard.

(Lest you think I'm left to deal with this on my own, please know I'm feeling grateful to have a spouse who is more than willing to share the load. His week has been blown up, too. But today it was my turn.)

I'm lucky to have a job where I can flex my hours and arrange my schedule to accommodate the frequent personal crises that come up. I can often telecommute if I need to. But as great as that sounds to someone who doesn't have that option, it's not without cost. Especially if you have a sick or needy kid in the house. Or two! Working at home is one thing when you're alone, but quite another if you're not.

Peezer decided that he had a wicked headache last night, and said he still had it this morning. I'm almost 100% sure he isn't capable of the theatrics that would be necessary to trick this experienced mom into believing he had a malady was anything but legitimate. And let's face it, as much as grown-ups need the occasional mental health day, you have to believe kids do, too. So whatever it was, he wanted his mom, and I said okay.

Seth is still home, and needing extra help (ice, pain medication, waitress services). Yesterday, he got a hard, removable boot, instead of an actual cast, but we're still waiting on approval for an alternative to crutches, which, owing to his left-side weakness, won't work. So today, I set about begging and pleading trying to obtain the blessing  act of Congress Royal Decree approval for Seth to get one of those knee-scooter thingies so he can maneuver at school next week. This involved two calls to the orthopedic doctor's office to request a letter of medical necessity, several calls with the medical supply store, and two calls to the insurance company, which I had to make because apparently the provider's line shuts down at 11:30 a.m. on Fridays. Because I guess people don't have medical needs on weekends. (WTF, Carefirst?)

So much for my mammogram, which I'd finally scheduled for this morning. I've been carrying around the prescription since my annual exam in August and delaying it because... well, I don't know why, it's like there's never a good time to do these things, but I finally did schedule it, largely because of her, and because I know it's ridiculous to postpone these things. Only you can't take a headachey seven year old and prop him in the waiting room with a Nintendo DS and tell him to just hang out till Mommy's done.

Meanwhile, I'm supposed to be telecommuting. Remember that? And that is the other hidden challenge in what may seem on the surface to be a pretty sweet gig: I don't get sick days. I can take off, but I don't get paid. My clients still expect their projects to be completed. But try telling that to the seven year old who's like, "Mama, can I watch that funny video of the preschooler?" when I'm trying to crunch spreadsheets and - ironically - assist an employee whose kid was not properly enrolled for coverage.

And yes, I do understand the irony of blogging instead of finishing that spreadsheet, but my concentration is elsewhere now and my heart just isn't in it. Because two of my kids need me today. And so that is where I need to focus.

That doesn't stop me from fantasizing about martinis and manicures and sneaking away to warm, tropical locations... but unless the Money Fairy drops a big bag o'cash on my front step, I'm going to have to finish my work. But probably not till tomorrow. Because today, I gotta be Mom.