Parenting the Uni-mind

It’s completely my fault. They remind me constantly it’s how I raised them. 

They look like a couple of normal college kids, right?

Don’t let the image fool you. I’m pretty sure they have the skills to serve as top-secret espionagers.

Before my empty-nester days, I prided myself in knowing all the details of the secret lives of my four kids. Then two of them went off to college, and I felt more out-numbered by this younger duo than I did with all four. These two could get their story straight with barely a glimpse across the room. We call them…the uni—mind.

My empty nest has done nothing to diminish the outnumbered feeling. In fact, now that they are young adults living three hours away, the cahoots they’re in involves more than staying out after curfew or which one stole my secret Little Debbies stash. Now it includes covering up adult things—like surgery.

One innocent Thursday, I expected my two college kids home sometime in the evening. Instead, I received a call admitting a change in plans. “I won’t be home tonight, mom, because I’m having surgery in the morning.” What’s more, she didn’t need me to come. That would just be weird.

Uh…what?

It was a minor procedure to remove a small bone chip in her knee that had been bothering her for some time. I knew about the chip. I didn’t know about the surgery. Still, this Roaring Mom had a major freak-out. My son, at nineteen years old, would be going with her to check her out after and drive her home. Everything was taken care—except the huge taffy-pull on my heart that happens when your kids no longer need you for stuff that you need them to need you for.

I had a way around it, though. I called my son, one-hundred percent certain he wouldn’t want the responsibility. The call went something like this:

ME: So, what’s the plan tomorrow morning?

HIM: What plan?

ME: I need you to tell me what’s happening tomorrow.

HIM: (Hesitantly) I don’t know. What do you think is happening tomorrow?

It went on like this for five minutes.

The loyalty of the uni-mind is strong. Not even the I-gave-birth-to-you could crack it.

Apparently, however, what had worked (maybe too well) was my daily repeated mantra from their childhood: You-guys-were-born-16 months-apart-on-purpose-so-you-could-keep-each-other-entertained-so-go-play.

I’m continually blamed for their independence and strong will and opinionated voice. “You told us to be true to ourselves. You told us to be independent. You told us not to make decisions based on what other people think.”

It is mindboggling, satisfying and terrifying to watch them grow up. The surgery went fine, and I survived not being there for it. So, if this bit of adulting is my fault, I’ll take the blame.

But moms, even when they no longer need us for what we need them to need us for, we shouldn’t let go too much.  In the midst of my freak-out and my son’s assurance that they “got this”, he paused just long enough to let me know he’ll always need me for something.

                HIM: You should be proud that we are mature and responsible enough to handle this. Oh, and while I have you on the phone, can get twenty bucks for a haircut?

Roaring Mom Win! I think I set a speed record on Square Cash.

You know, if he’d been really smart, he would have asked for fifty right then.

Guess my work isn’t done after all.

How to Love Your Life

You know that friend you have who, when you ask her how things are going, spews all over you? I mean, that’s what friends are for, right? And if I didn’t want to know, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m all for love and support, but I gotta tell you about another kind of friend.

I am blessed to meet up with my friend Lori about two or three times a year. There comes a point during every one of our catch-up conversations where she looks me in the eye, displays a giggly grin and says, “Man, I love my life.”

She’s also tall and trim and beautiful and smart and funny. But don’t start hating her. Her life is not perfect.

If you knew her, you might be tempted to say...but she has a great husband. No wonder she’s happy. She has great kids (eight of them, I might add). She has a beautiful home. She never has to worry about finances. She doesn’t deal with disease. She doesn’t have the problems the rest of us have.

My answer to that---BULLSHIT!  (By the way, she has this terrible habit that is one of my favorite things about her. Let’s just say the swear word jar in her house is for the parents.)

She has a great husband because she married a great guy. In other words, she chose judiciously. Their marriage isn’t perfect. No one’s is. But they work on it. Sometimes together, sometimes individually.

She has great kids because she constantly reflects and seeks out better ways to parent. She struggles. They struggle. She tries and fails and tries again--just like every other parent. More than once have we mused on how we’ve scarred our kids--not on purpose, but because every parent does.

She has a beautiful home because they worked and saved and prayed for it. Then created it.

She doesn’t worry about finances? Ha! She has eight kids, remember? And we all deal with disease and illness and health...and death. And so has she.

So how is it that she never fails so exclaim, “Man, I love my life”?

Consider this. What if “I love my life” didn’t meant what we think it means? What if it didn’t mean I enjoy my life? Or my life is perfect? Or I have no stress?

What if we thought of love as an action verb? What if we “loved” our lives the way we love our pets or our children? To love another is to care for it, right? What if “I love my  life” meant

I seek out peace.

I’m open minded and humble enough to learn how to be a better parent or person.

I reject harmful people and substances and places and activities.

I actively seek out nourishing people and substances and places and activities.

I practice gratitude.

What if loving our lives meant taking care of our lives?

I wonder what would happen if we started all our catch-up conversations with “I love my life”? I wonder what would happen if we started every day that way?

Lori creates a life she loves because she cares enough about her life to nourish it. Even in turmoil and tragedy, she chooses to love her life. Love is a choice, and life is a series of choices.

Choose judiciously. Choose love.

How Do I Empty Nest?

When you have a parenting blog and all your kids become adults, you kind of run out of material.

You know, there aren’t a lot of parenting blogs even for parenting teens, unless it’s for troubled kids and how to get them to behave.

Maybe that’s because our teens are so intertwined with social media, we Mom Bloggers are afraid we’ll embarrass them. That is certainly the case for me. Once they became social media savvy, certain moments were off limits. I can’t count the number of times I heard “Don’t blog that” once they turned thirteen.

Well, thirteen passed a long time ago. I’m now an empty-nester. One of my kids is closer to thirty than she is to teenage. In fact, she has a kid of her own.

How do I suddenly not parent?

Remember when you first became a parent? Maybe some of you took those childhood development classes. Maybe some of you changed the diapers of your younger siblings. Maybe some of you ran babysitting services. I did none of the above. Suddenly having no children is just as unfamiliar as when I suddenly had a child. I have no clue how to do this.

You know all that stuff you wish your teen would share with you but they would rather cut their tongues out than tell you? Well, once they are adults, they start telling. And you sometimes wish they had cut their tongues out. There’s just some stuff you don’t want to know. But you can’t not listen. It’s your duty, isn’t it? Because they still need advice and encouragement and celebrations and shoulders to cry on. But they don’t need dinner. Or homework reminders. Or permissions slips signed. Or permission at all.

Last week I called my mom and asked her for some information that I knew I could find if I put forth an effort, but it was easier to call Mom. I’m nearly half a century old, and I’m still calling mom to bail me out and give me advice and encouragement and celebrations and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on.. It’s good to know as much as things change, some things never will.

And then I think back to when my oldest was five and learned how to tie her shoes. “Pretty soon you won’t need me at all,” I said.

“But mom, I’ll always use you.”

I hope so. I really do.

Guy Power

It's everywhere! Girl Power music, Girl Power movies. Girl Power memes and messages and mentors. As a mom of 3 daughters, I could not be happier for it.

As a mom of a son, I wonder where all the Guy Power stuff is.

My son is the youngest of my crew. The soundtrack of his childhood includes Hillary Duff, Kelly Clarkson, Avril Lavigne, and Cheetah Girls. Barbie and her Malibu house and jeep and massive wardrobe, who is employed as a CEO, a veterinarian, a teacher, an astronaut, and looks hot in a bikini, inhabited the play room. Even Blue from Blue's Clues is a girl.

I recently read one of those lists of 20 things every mom should teach her teenage daughter. It included things like "Pizza is always a good idea" and "your weight does not signify your worth". Maybe it's time someone made a list of 20 things every woman should teach her teenage son. If I made a list it might include the following.

1. Don't be afraid to open the door for her. If she gives you a dirty look because she can open her own damn door, try not to let it close on her.

2. Even though too many young ladies can't distinguish between kindness and "into her", be kind anyway. That's her problem.

3. Don't stress over the perfect Promposal that will look good on social media. If she's worth anything, she'll want to go with you just because she wants to go with you.

4. Check her Twitter before asking her out. If she airs everything to everyone (even passive aggressively), don't walk away...RUN!

5. Yes, guys are clueless (including you), but teenage girls are crazy. All of them. If you really want a girlfriend, choose your crazy.

6. It's important to hang our with your buddies without the girls. If she cries about it, let her cry. You deserve to have your own friends and your own time.

7. Regardless of the media portrayals, your muscle mass does not signify your worth.

8. Some teenage girls might fall all over themselves for attention from super athletic gym rats, but those aren't the girls you'll be happy with anyway.

9.  Confidence is attractive. Arrogance is not.

10. You don't need a girlfriend to complete you.

11. Yes, pizza is usually a good idea. So are grapefruit and carrots. Try them every now and then.

12. Life is expensive. Don't feel uncomfortable or embarrassed to discuss with your date who will pay for what. But if you invite her, be prepared to pay. If you decide to do an activity together, discuss the finances.

13. For most girls, sex = love. Don't do it unless you truly love her. Hint: You won't truly know you love her until you are willing to NOT do it for the health of your relationship. Even if she is willing, don't do it yet. You'll hurt her in ways you didn't mean to.

14. Don't kiss and tell. Just smile and make them wonder. In any case, defend her honor and your own.

15. You are enough. Just as you are. Your body, your face, your hair, your brain is all enough.

16. Guys think insulting each other is as funny as a soccer ball to the groin. Remember, a soccer ball to the groin is painful, too.

17. It is perfectly fine to appreciate beauty. And guess what else? It is perfectly fine, when you are with your buddies, to comment on a girl's fine ass and great rack and luscious legs. Don't let females fool you. We are doing the same thing regarding the guys.

18. Even though showing emotion is fine, it is also fine to "suck it up" and "be a man". Again, don't let us fool you. We like a strong man. We like to have a strong heart to fall apart on. Have you heard  "Break on Me" by Keith Urban?

19. Learn to cook.

20. In the history of the world, most of the great poets and musicians and entrepreneurs and military leaders and inventors and doctors and philosophers have been men. Don't apologize for that. They have made mistakes. So have the women in this world. But great men have done great things. Be proud to be part of that heritage.

I'm not sure this is an exhaustive list. I don't even know if it's a good list, but I did hit on some important parts. The biggest message I want young men to understand is really the same one we've been preaching to our girls. That is--don't give up your own power by believing belittling messages. Even if there is no such thing as Guy Power music or movies, create your own power. You are enough. You are perfect. You are Man, Hear you Roar. In numbers too big to ignore...

Wow. You guys really do need your own Power Music, don't you?

Recuperating from Grandma Camp

Ten things I gained in one month of living the three-year-old dream life (aka Camp Grandma):

10. A nasty cold that his mother gave me when she dropped him off. (Thanks.)

9.  A fist-sized bruise on my butt from the giant cracked slide that I would let him go down only on my lap. (So he wouldn't get a fist-sized bruise. Duh!)

8. A wounded handed that felt like a freaking dog bite from the same Monster Slide.

7. Elbow rug burns from wrestling on my carpeted floor.

6. A ferocious ear infection from having pool water splashed directly in my ear canal. (I might never hear right again.)

5. Two steps closer to senility because half of my brain now has the Thomas the Tank Engine theme song on permanent replay. (They're two. They're four. They're six. They're eight.)

4. Five extra pounds on my Roaring Grandmom's belly because every time I bribed him with ice cream, I rewarded myself with the same.  (He doesn't share food. Ever. Unless he's eating mine.)

3. A now neurotic cat who has developed a fear of anyone under three feet tall. 

2. The need for a new mattress. (I'm sure you can guess.)

1. A full heart.

After all, none of the rest matters.

In the Zone

Meet Joan. She's the beautiful one with the got-it-all-together look in the family vacation photo. Joan is the mother of a high schooler, a middle schooler, a grade schooler, and a two-year old. Joan is a Roaring Mom. Joan is a super hero. Joan is nuts!

She doesn't look nuts, does she? She looks calm and in control. But I know that's not possible.

I know because for the last month, my apartment has been Camp Grandma to my three-year-old grandson.

I've always said God gave me good children because he knew I wouldn't know what to do with bad ones. Same goes for the grandkid. He's a good kid. Polite (especially when bribed with ice cream). Potty-trained (mostly). Cooperative (sort-of). He's three, remember? His version of all these trait is quite different from the rest of the world.

Still, I'm sure there are more than a few folks who think I might be a child abductor. In fact, one man and his three kids followed me from the playground to the park restrooms while I madhandled the banshee-screaming toddler. I was only trying to keep him from pulling down his pants and peeing on the merry-go-round, but they didn't know that.They listened at the door while I promised all kinds of candy and cookies and and Dr. Pepper, if he would only cooperate already. I endured 30 more minutes of playtime with this man's skeptical eye on me. Can you even imagine this scene with a frustrated grade schooler, an annoyed middle schooler, and an embarrassed high schooler in tow?

At one time in my life, I had four kids under the age of seven. I don't know how I did it. I really don't. Was I on autopilot? Was I daily teetering on the brink of sanity? Did I ever accomplish anything other than getting from one hour to the next?

Some things have come back to me. The necessity of opera lunch. Did you know singing during lunch makes it magically more fun to eat?  Ice cream for dinner. If you throw some fruit on it, you've covered two food groups. Bribery without guilt. I will promise anything if he will just go to sleep or put on his shoes or leave the new toilet paper roll in tact. Examine Exhibit A. He came to Camp Grandma with three Hot Wheels cars. Three.

I know for a fact life was easier when I had four under seven, and I think it's because I was in that zone--that Teflon, ten-second-rule-believing, dirty-face-tolerating, Dora the Explorer binge-watching, Super Mom cape-wearing zone. For the past decade, I've been in the eye-rolling, dirty-shin gaurd-smelling, teen-drama-dealing, never-enough-food-in-the-house mode. I can't even imagine Joan's life. She's living in all four zones at once. I bow to you, Joan. (Nice job working that insanity camouflage.)

Shout out to all parents in every Roaring Mom zone. You're crushing it today. If all you do is get through the next hour, you're right where you need to be. Even if you had to bribe yourself with ice cream to get there!

Sounds Like Life

My son is in the next room strumming beautifully on a guitar he didn’t even know how to play this time last year. His voice joins in harmony with his friend’s as they practice for an upcoming audition. She does this wonderful, improvised thing and he stops.

“Oh yeah! That’s great.”

I can hear the smiles.

It’s the sound of joy reverberating through my home. Joy and perseverance and belief and self-doubt and trial and error and passion.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The ball beats a passionate rhythm against the wall. My family room seconds as a soccer field. This is why we can’t have nice things—because I’d rather have a soccer field in my home than nice things. The thumping grows faster and harder, then a miss, followed by an expletive. Then the rhythm starts again. Slow and steady and sure. Then faster.

It’s the sound of persistence, consistency, determination, sweat, aches, pains, skinned knees and pulled muscles. It’s the sound of missed goals and trophies not won and championships celebrated and hard fought victories.

I stand outside my daughter’s bedroom and listen to her reminisce on the phone with her friends over last night’s dance. They already regret things they didn’t say, dance moves they shouldn’t have tried, and the photo they didn’t take of the three of them while their hair and make-up was still on point. But they laugh it off. There’s still time.

My son comes up behind me and tells me not to eavesdrop, that privacy is a right. “Not in this house,” I joke. “Never has been.”

What he doesn’t realize is that I’m not eavesdropping. I’m not trying to listen in on a conversation. I’m only hearing the sound. I am breathing in the sounds of their voices and laughter and tears and lives.

There’s not much time. In eighteen months, my last two kids will have flown the coop. They will take their noises with them. They will also take with them their triumphs and sorrows and tenaciousness and doubt and faith. And my heart.

I’m not looking forward to the silence. 

I Told You So

I've often heard the parenting advice that we should never tell our children, "I told you so." I think that advice should actually be

You should never tell your children "I told you so" 

unless it's a really big freaking deal for which 

you totally deserve credit forever and all time.

That's my kind of parenting advice.

Ten years ago, I picked up my oldest daughter from another day of middle school. Another awful, sucky, aggravating day of middle school full of stupid mean kids that said stupid, mean things.

I had already tried all the nice, forgiving, Catholic school mom stuff I was supposed to say. None of it had helped. So I finally told her what I really thought.

Kate, don't worry about it. One day you are gonna be in California doing your thing and all those kids who made fun of you and made you feel unattractive or weird or not good enough are gonna be sitting on their couches in Wichita, Kansas, eating corn chips and watching some show on TV that you worked on. 

Today, I can say I TOLD YOU SO! Today, those Roaring Moms words come true. Today, in fact all this week, the productions she has been working on for months are entertaining the corn-chip eating couch potatoes!

While this post might seem like one big Roaring Mom Brag, that's not totally my intention. You all know how I feel about bragging on our kids. Yes and Always! My point, however, is more that it is perfectly fine to say "I told you so"! Sometimes our kids need to remember that we got it right. Sometimes. we need to remember that we got it right.

This morning, in that same church parking lot, I had a similar conversation with another child o' mine. I reminded him that sometimes the doors we want to open remain closed so that a better door can open later on. Had Kate been hired on with Facebook she wouldn't have still been looking for employment when the CBS job opened up. Working for Facebook would have been cool, but I'm not sure it would have been getting-paid-to-hang-out-with-Jeff Goldblum-cool!

What was cool was what happened when church started. The commentator explained the readings for the day. Simon had failed at fishing all day which left the door open for Jesus to instruct him to throw the nets again. Simon's failure had literally allowed him a chance to grow his faith. If he'd been hauling in the fish all day, he wouldn't not have experienced the opportunity for something greater.

I smiled at my son. I told you so!

If the Gospel backing up your Roaring Mom Words of Wisdom isn't enough reason to say "I told you so", surely Jeff Goldblum is.

Roar On!

Failing Forward

Fail Forward! Have you ever heard those words?

Those words make me cringe. When I hear them, I always imagine myself tripping up the stairs in front of important people at a Black Tie affair, breaking my shoes, ripping my dress, tripping the host—that kind of thing. Going forward, yes. Even going up. But it is not pretty.

Who wants that kind of embarrassment? It would take days to get past the humiliation of the fall before you even began dealing with the I’m-a-loser mentality that inevitably comes along with the failure. And have you noticed that the I’m-a-loser mentality is a mental magnet. The moment you ponder one failure, the rest come rushing at you! It can go something like this:

I forgot the grocery list, so I came home without buying toilet paper.

I also forgot to buy Valentines for my kids’ classrooms.

I didn’t work out.

I ate a donut five donuts.

I forgot to pay that credit card bill from Christmas for presents everyone has already forgotten.

I haven’t taken down Christmas and it’s Valentine’s Day.

I burned dinner.

My hungry, Valentine-less children hate me.

I am Valentine-less, too.

I ate six donuts.

I’m going to die alone. And fat.

I am going to die and I haven’t yet made my will.

And I haven’t saved for retirement.

So there is nothing to will to anyone anyway.

I have to pee and there’s no toilet paper. 

I have failed at life.

See what I mean?

A wise man (AKA, my father, the wisest man I know) sees failure differently. He says that failure is the common thread to learning and knowledge. Failure to recognize failure is the common thread of fools. Failure is the first step to beginning again. The opportunity to begin again is one of God’s gifts. He says he knows this because of the number of opportunities available. A new year, a new month, a new week, a new day, a new hour, a new minute.

If failing, the opportunity to begin again, is one of God’s gifts, who am I to want or expect something different? Even if the opportunity comes with embarrassment and humiliation? If you think about it, who wouldn’t want the opportunity to begin again? I mean, if you got it right the first time, beginning again allows you to repeat the joy of a successful experience. If you got it wrong, of course you want a do-over!

So what if your kids assuage their hunger with half a dozen donuts and you spend the last of their tiny inheritance on delivery pizza. So what if they were the only kids that year with homemade Valentines. And so what if you discover that too much aloe-infused Kleenex can clog a toilet? The next day is a do-over. The next week. The next month. The next year.

God is good. Life is good. And so, it seems, is failure.

No Elves on this Shelf

I can't think of a creepier concept than telling your kids that you've invited some big-headed, lanky

armed freaky thing into your house to stare at them...for Santa. It's bad enough that we threaten/bribe our kids all year long with a promise that some big, bearded guy won't crawl down the chimney in the middle of the night if they don't behave. Now we are adding the Elf on a Shelf.

If you notice, it's not even enough to hide him around the house. Now people have to  be creative. He takes selfies with kids' phones when they aren't looking. He has tea with Barbies.
 He even gets crazy with the baking supplies.

As creepy as the little guy..girl...creature is, the real reason I celebrate the fact that the Elf wasn't added to the list of holiday lies we tell our children until after mine were to old for it, is this-- Elf on a Shelf would have simply been one more Mom Fail for me.

Case in point: The Tooth Fairy

When I was a kid and I pulled a tooth, I placed it in the "tooth glass" (a.k.a Dad's shot glass) that was filled with water and put it on my nightstand. In the morning, without fail, the tooth would be gone and in its place would be a couple quarters or a 50 cent piece.

When my kids pulled their teeth, it usually took about 3 days for the busy, busy tooth fairy to finally get to our house. By that time, the Mom Fail guilt from a string of morning cries because "the Tooth Fairy forgot" had hit and a five dollar bill would miraculously appear under the pillow--for one tooth. At that rate of return, I'm surprised the kids weren't pull them left and right and gumming their food. Five bucks for one little molar! Geesh!

The Easter Bunny was only slightly better. The furry guy never forgot to leave a basket, but there was that one mishap when he left a trail of jelly beans. The kids never saw the trail, but the dog did. Cleaning up rainbow colored dog vomit isn't as fun as you might think.

If I had had to care for that creepy creature, I'm sure that at some point, the stress of adding one more Big Holiday Bribe/Threat would have shredded my last bit of sanity and the inevitable would have happened. Yes, the torturous treatment of the devilish elf. Buzz Lightyear to the Rescue, folks!

Here's the thing I don't get. I know folks with no little kids who are inviting this eerie little elf into their homes. Sometimes, when we don't have the sweet souls of three-year-olds to reign us in, the humor goes right down the toilet pretty fast. Just ask my brother-in-law whose youngest is 21. His day to take care of "Clyde" resulted in an ugly, ugly trip to the crapper.

So maybe I can think of something creepier than bribing our toddlers with mischievous, stalking doll.

Adults, Grown Up People, Parents of Teens and Older Children Everywhere, hear me roar: You are off the hook! You do not need to shelve your elves. It's your turn to smile and smirk at the tired parents of toddlers who awaken on Christmas morning after only 30 minutes of sleep and 10 hours of constructing playhouses and forts and train tracks and weeks of creatively displaying Clyde.  Kick up your heels, sit down and relax, celebrate. You've earned it.

Cool Kid

Roaring Moms don't play have favorites when it comes to their children. At least that's the official position right?

When my kids accused me of having favorites, I would answer, "You're right. My favorite is whichever kid is doing what I ask without complaining."

Yeah...I must admit I never saw that comment suggested in any parent book. After four kids, the filter doesn't always work.

So even though there is no favorite child, from time to time there is a coolest kid.

The coolest kid title doesn't really have any specific criteria. One time the coolest kid was the one who reported cyber bullying to the principal at the risk of social repercussions. The coolest kid was once the one who lettered in two varsity sports and made the honor roll, too. Once it was the one who performed on Broadway. More than once, it's been the one who could make us all laugh, even when not much seemed laughable. Very often, it's been the kid who cleaned the kitchen or did the laundry without being asked. Or the one with the best sarcastic comeback. Because we value that in our family. Probably too much.

Anyway, last week the coolest kid was my oldest--not just because she hung out with Mumford and Sons, Billy Idol and Elton John all in one weekend, but because she recognized and appreciated the absolute, drop everything, importance of such an opportunity. Furthermore, she immediately called me to report this Proud Mom moment and the kept me updated all weekend. She thanked me repeatedly that she grew up on good music--a lot of 80s rock, some 70s and 60s, classic stuff. Even classical stuff. A fair amount of Broadway and even some decent country.

So as my Cool Kid enjoyed the final moments of Elton John in concert, she struck up a conversation with a Cool Lady. She looked 30, but was actually 46. Exactly my age. The lady was immensely impressed with my Cool Kid's knowledge and appreciation of great music. I think my daughter's answer was something like, "Thank God my mom didn't fill our heads with stupid Brittany Spears bullshit." The Cool Lady approved. "I think I like your mom," she replied.

So there you have it. I have the approval of a Cool Lady hanging backstage with my daughter and Elton John. I'm not sure it gets much better than that.

Getting Real

I plan my Parent Nags. I practice them. In the shower. In the car. In my head. Even with my 4^th kid just 2 years from flying the nest, I still hold on to the idea that Perfectly Practiced Parent Nag is my best weapon of choice.

Today’s message wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t even planned.

 As the Carmen part of the Frank-n-Carmen was on the floor beside me, sweatin’ it out in a torturous abs work out, the other part of that duo sat on the couch repeating, “I don’t want to run. I don’t want to run.”

Let me explain right now that I completely, totally, wholeheartedly understand that sentiment. In fact, I think people who want to run are a little weird. I took a poll once back when I first contemplated self-loathing through 5K training. I asked about a dozen runners what they liked most about running. Every single one of them said the same answer—stopping. So all of these folks were forcing themselves to take up a hobby that the most enjoyable part of occurred once they stopped doing it? What. The. Hell.

But my immediate response to my son was not that I understood his mantra. Instead I broke out the Emphatic Voice with a strong encouragement to get off his lazy ass and go run because his team was scrimmaging next week and even if he didn’t do it now, he would be sorry later if he didn’t so he should stop whining and just do it already. (Okay, so the kids are right, my Emphatic Voice sounded a lot like my Angry Voice. Also, my strong encouragement sounded a lot like a nagging nag.)

My oh-so-wise son shot back, “Geez mom, since you’ve been on this health kick, you’re really getting on to us about working out.”

Hmm…that was not my plan. That was not what I had practiced. It was time to improvise. It was time to get real.

I explained that my attitude really had nothing to do with a health kick. It had everything to do with how much 2015 has sucked. It started with the death of my beautiful friend in January, followed by the pointless still-born birth of a co-workers baby. Then my daughter’s future mother-in-law was found dead. A few weeks ago, another daughter attended the wedding of her dear friends, just to turn around and attend the funeral of the newlywed husband two weeks later. Last week, my third daughter’s classmate unexpectedly lost his dad to a brain aneurism.  Just this week I was informed of the suicide of one my students. It’s only June, folks. It’s only fucking JUNE!  

So I told him that if nothing else, 2015 has given me an intolerance for bullshit and excuses. If you want something, you’d better go get it now. Life is short. We don’t know if we’ll have a tomorrow. So what the hell are we waiting for?

He said, “Wow, Mom. That makes a lot of sense. That was probably the most motivational thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Wow is right! Maybe the Perfectly Practiced Parent Nag isn’t my best parenting option.  Maybe real life is enough all by itself. In this case anyway, I couldn’t have motivated more if I had planned it. 

When Your Kids Don't Need You Anymore

She was about five when she tied her shoe by herself for the first time. I smiled, all teary, at her and said, "Pretty soon you aren't going to need me anymore."

She gave me a giant hug and said, "But Mommy, I'll always use you!"

I hope it's true. I hope they always, always use me. That way at least I'll feel like they need me for something.

This week I listened proudly as my oldest daughter told me about her job interview with a company that is looking to expand. She excitedly explained how she was the right one for the job. She knows what they need to do to succeed and is confident in her ability to make it happen--all while she's planning a wedding and raising her two-year-old son.

My second daughter drove herself all over the Mid-west like it was no big deal. From Kansas to Oklahoma to Dallas to New Mexico. No big deal. Now she's in LA, where she knows almost no one, training to accomplish her life's dream. No big deal.

My son (my baby) drove himself all over--well, not the Midwest--but far enough for this Mom, anyway. He also decided he'd teach himself to play the guitar. Two weeks and TEN SONGS later, he's already performing for family and friends.

My 17-yr-old flew unaccompanied half-way across the country. Her first tweet from San Francisco informed the world that she was never coming back. She's already chosen her California college. Just last week, she insisted she was attending a Kansas university only 3 hours away. That was enough to kill me. Now it's San Francisco.

No. Big. Deal.

Here's the flip side.

Just this week my oldest daughter just had to call me all excited about this new job opportunity, so she could discuss with me the pros and cons. My second daughter cried in my arms as she mourned the loss of a dear friend. She knew I understood. My son didn't need me to nag him to practice the guitar, but still required some gentle persuasion to do his homework. My senior texted me all jealous that my first Instagram picture was of her brother--not her. ( I also know she's quietly excited that I'm redo-ing her room for her while she's gone--just in case she does decide to come back.)

There is a definite longing for younger days when your young-uns gain their independence. There is a tugging at the heart, a sort-of-happy sadness. It sucks. And it's beautiful.

Watch out all you Moms of Toddlers. There will come a day when they no longer need you. I guess the good news is, they will always use you.

UPDATE: As I write this, I just received a picture from my second daughter of the latest long underarm hair craze because, apparently, she's jumped on this bandwagon. I'm shipping her an assortment of razors and shaving cream first thing tomorrow, along with a sternly worded note to have some self-respect and consideration for the folks around her. I guess maybe sometimes they need us more than they know. If only so we can help them help themselves. Roaring Mom to the rescue once again!!

How I Saved My Daughter's Sanity or Scarred Her For Life--The Jury's Still Out

We've always claimed that Carmen is our family’s best hope for normal. I often wonder if she wasn't shamed into it. By her mother.

You see, when she was younger—maybe nine or ten—she started showing definite OCD behavior. She had to touch certain spots on the floor before she left a room. She had to touch certain pieces of furniture or sections of the wall. She counted stuff. I handled this quirkiness in my usual fashion—with humor because patience has never been my strong suit.

Then it happened. An OCD quirk I couldn't laugh away.

The Quiet and Calculating One developed this truly awful habit of interrupting her speech with little humming patterns.

“So, Mom, when are we…mmm mmm mmm…going to the pool?”

“What’s…mmm mmm mmm…for dinner?”

“Can I…mmm mmm mmm… have friends over?”

I think I managed to ignore it a total of two times. Then things got real. My loving and compassionate response was, “Stop doing that! It’s annoying and people will think you are weird!”

Eventually I shortened it to, “OCD!” Every time she would start the hum, I would yell, “OCD!”

And when she asked what “OCD” meant, I snapped, “It means Oh Carmen Don’t! Because it’s annoying and people will think you are weird.”

Fast forward 7 years. I’m watching a documentary that followed kids with OCD from grade school through high school. I’m truly amazed at the struggles and challenges these kids and their families faced. One girl had to move in with her grandmother because she thought her family was contaminated. Another girl stayed home from school for three months for the same reason. Yet another took four hours to get dressed every day because of the washing rituals.

Why had my daughter not succumb to her OCD tendencies which, even though I’m making light of them here, were very real?

So I asked. She answered, “Because you shamed me out of it. You told me it was annoying and everyone would think I was weird. I didn't want to be annoying and weird, so I forced myself to stop.”

It’s true. She actually was shamed into it by her mother! I’m putting this one in the win column anyway. After all, I did stop her from a life of struggle and possibly never being able to enter a department store. Right? 

Besides, she is still our best hope for normal even if I have to shame her into it.

Even Roaring Moms don’t always get it right. What’s your not-so-proud parenting moment that somehow worked out anyway?

For the Love of Food

During a serious parenting conversation with one of my favorite Roaring Moms, she divulged a problem with one of her children frequently stealing food from her siblings and hiding it. Stuff like treats from school parties or special snacks would disappear. Then they would find the wrapper in the culprit’s room. My heart went out to her as she was truly disturbed by what had become a real point of contention in her family. I racked my brain for the right thing to say, but my mind was stuck on one thing: the contraband two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper I was currently hiding in the trunk of my car!

When she asked how long I thought her daughter would have this problem, I came clean. Yes. I’m forty-something and fabulous and I hide soda in my car, smuggle it into my home, and hide it from my kids. All the time.

I have food issues, and I have successfully passed them on to my kids.

Back when I was a married Roaring Mom, it wasn’t uncommon for us to sit down to dinner and have at least one kid ask for soda. I would explain we didn’t have any soda. Water was better for them anyway. Then one would lean forward and whisper, “Go get it from dad’s secret stash.” Then another would take me by the hand to their dad’s closet and point to the top shelf.

It’s also not uncommon to find sticky notes in the fridge threatening death or worse to anyone who touches the last helping of banana pudding. My kids are not above the Lick Method, either. “I licked that cookie. It’s mine!” As for school party treats? Anything not eaten within 24 hours of said party is fair game. Halloween candy? Well, you better sleep with your bag under your pillow if want to have anything other than popcorn balls left in the morning.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to teach will power by frequently reading Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad Story “Cookies.” They try everything to not eat all the cookies. Finally, they give the cookies to the birds. They have no more cookies, but lots and lots of willpower. So, Toad goes home to bake a cake.

After all, what’s willpower without cake?  (Click here to check out the story for yourself.)

All I can do is try to set a better example, right? So when I bake the weekly cake because I’m an emotional baker and I still get depressed when the kids go to their dad’s, but there’s no one there to eat it but me, I work up my willpower! I don’t eat a single piece. I do take a nibble, just to taste, but I don’t actually serve a single slice. A day later when I notice it’s half gone (even though I never actually served a slice), I realize I’ve got a problem. I can’t let them come home and see I’ve eaten half a cake myself, so I do the right thing. I make the sacrifice. Then I have no more cake, but lots and lots of willpower.

Just so we’re clear…I didn’t feed it to the birds.

It’s sad, but the best advice I can give my Roaring Mom friend is a wish for willpower. In the meantime, go buy a case of sticky notes.

Bad Kid!

He’s a bad kid! The words came from an adult, passing judgment on a boy she didn’t know. I corrected her. He’s not a bad kid. He’s a good kid who made some stupid decisions, but he’s still a good kid. She pointed to his stupid decisions and relentlessly insisted he was a bad kid! In sticking up for him, I found myself raising my voice and angrily gesturing. I actually started shaking, I was so mad and the boy isn’t even my kid! I wanted to point out to her the stupid shit most teenagers pull from time to time and how we are called not to label them for their stupid actions. This woman, who works diligently with multi-cultural issues such as inclusion and acceptance, was labeling a child she didn’t know based on gossip. Her judgment rattled me for the rest of the afternoon, but also got me thinking. What exactly is a “bad kid”? There are extreme examples, like school shooters and such. But what about everyday examples? What separates the Ornery Kid from the Bad Kid? The Stupid Decision Maker from the Purposeful Instigator? The Peer Pressure Caver from the Willing Participant? What gives parents that gut feeling that we don’t want our children hanging out with THAT kid? Furthermore, what separates the Judgmental Mom from the Gut Truster Mom? Honestly, if most of us knew exactly what our own children were texting and tweeting and chatting and drinking and doing outside of the prying eyes of parents, we might condemn them, too. I’m not saying all kids who make stupid decisions are blameless. I’m also not excusing poor behavior because everyone else is probably doing it. I guess I’m simply empathizing with those my friend calls “Bad Kids”. I would not want to be a teen in today’s world. The pressure, temptations, justifications, opportunities, disturbing role models, and mixed societal messages have magnified a million times compared to earlier generations. When otherwise good, decent young people fall into some of that muck, I don’t think our first reaction should be to label him “Bad” and spread his dirty secrets. After all, we adults have created the muck, isn’t it our obligation to help teens avoid it or help rescue them when they don’t? Don’t misunderstand; I still believe there are young people who are bad influences. I’ve witnessed good kids go down bad paths, led by some pretty bad kids. There are people of all ages out there who give me that gut feeling. But I think it’s fair to say that there are some kids out there who give me the opposite kind of gut feeling. There really are good kids who make stupid decisions. And apparently, there are good adults who say stupid things. I guess that doesn’t necessarily make them bad adults.

I've Just Been So Busy...

I've been meaning to post glorious, insightful parenting gems for weeks. I've just been so busy. At least that's my excuse.

Today, as I was busily scrolling through Facebook, I saw this:

And I stopped. Immediately. The message slapped me awake. It's what we do, isn't it? We glorify our "busy".

Now, some of what we do--of what I do--is legitimate busy. I do have teens with hectic schedules and without vehicles. It seems that their practices are always scheduled at the same time on the opposite ends of town. And of course, they are scheduled on the same day as important meetings I've been mandated to attend. There are days I am fully in favor of human cloning!

Today's Facebook post brought some perspective, however. When did society begin glorifying busy. We all know those Super Moms who spearhead every community service project and decorate personalized cupcakes for every student in her son's class for party treats and creates 50 page scrap books from found art and recycled bridal bouquets for teacher gifts and organizes the soccer treat schedule, but brings treats to every game anyway just in case someone forgets and just ran a marathon last week and NEVER has a perfectly highlighted hair out of place! We all stand in awe. How on earth does she do all of that? It makes us feel guilty when we send the bag of Oreos to school and  have to rely on Super Mom because we did, in fact, forget soccer treats. And our hair is never perfectly anything. And yet we feel so busy. In fact, we beat ourselves up if we aren't busy.

So what is the pay off for busy? Does it make us feel like Super Moms, even if we aren't crafty or won't ever run a marathon? Does busy help us feel justified for our parenting choices? Does Working Mom glorify busy as a way to make up for not staying home? Does Work-at-Home Mom glorify busy as a way to make up for not doing it all, like Working Mom does? I've had the opportunity to be both. If I stop my busy long enough to think about it, the answer (for me) is this. Busy does make us feel like we are sacrificing for our families. When we run--or rather drag our tired butts--through the finish line at the end of the day, we feel some satisfaction that we gave our all to our kids. That's a good feeling, but it might not be such a good lesson.

Have you noticed that our kids now glorify busy to the point that they don't know what to do with leisure? They get nervous if they aren't Tweeting or chatting or listening to music or watching TV. We can hardly blame them, though. It's how we raised them. We dragged them to Scouts and soccer and cheer and gymnastics and baseball and dance and Tae Kwon Do. We even equipped our cars with TVs and DVD players, so they wouldn't be bored while eating MacDonald's on the way to swim team. If we are honest with ourselves, there were probably many times they told us they did NOT want to go to practice or games in 100 degree weather or rain or after a late night. Looking back, I wonder why all that busy was so important. I think I'd like to have a little bit of that busy back.

Praise for the Super Nag

I thought I knew all the parenting tricks. I really did. Then something interesting happened. My teenage daughter said I could nag her. In fact, she insisted I nag her! Now that's a new twist in motherhood I never expected. The same teen who tells me I care too much and that it makes her angry when I praise her asked me to nag her into submission!

You see, she's got a fitness goal. I'm really proud of her for making this goal. She's new to high school sports and wants to make sure she can compete. I tell her she's awesome. She's great! She can compete with the best of them. Her response--the ol' Huff and Puff followed by the ever effective Eye Roll. Sometimes there's even a bit of "You don't know anything, Mom" or "You have to say that. You're my mom."

And yet she comes to me, Roaring Mom, for the Super Nag! YESS!!! All those years of perfectly punctuated lectures have paid off. 

Who knew that the perfectly punctuated lecture was the desired parenting procedure, even over the perfectly punctuated praise. I sure didn't. But that's the thing about parenting--we learn more from them than they probably ever learn from us.

So, I eagerly awaited my first nagging opportunity. It didn't take long. It was only later that week, in fact. She'd been sitting in one position, staring at her phone screen so long that muscular atrophy was only minutes away.   Here was my chance and I jumped right in!

"You need to work out. Get off that phone. If you wanna earn your spot, you gotta work harder than everyone else. Stop staring at that phone. Don't be so lazy. Get up and get going! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go!" 

"Mom!"

"Come on! Let's go! You said I could nag you. You think Hope Solo stares at her phone for hours on end? Let's go! Let's go! LET'S GO!!!"

"Mom!"

"What? You said I could nag you."

"Yeah, I said you could nag me. I didn't say you could be annoying!"

"Oh. Is there a difference?"

"I guess not with you."

"Well, I'm just gonna keep on being annoying until you get up and go. So deal with it!'

"Fine."

"Fine."

And she got up and go-ed! Yes!  Success!

Funny, all the Roaring Mom Praise in the world couldn't motivate her, but the Super Nag did the job splendidly. 

Guess you can teach an old Roaring Mom new tricks! 

Who Gets the Tradition?

Before I was a single mom, I spent Thanksgiving gobbling up traditional trappings at an intimate gathering of...oh, about 70 people. Sometimes the gatherings were at someone's house; sometimes they were at a rented church hall. Marrying into this kind of holiday tradition was a change for me, but I tried my darnedest to fit right in. But as you know, if you've read any Roaring Moms posts at all, we have a Murphy's Law Life. What can go wrong, will go wrong.

There was the year I hosted the event at our Painted Lady Victorian Home. The only bathroom available to the hoards of family was upstairs, which was problematic enough. When the toilet boycotted and started spewing everything back up until it drained through the cracks in the ceiling and into the living room football lounge, that's when the real trouble started--and the guests left. Then there was the year I caught some nasty influenza virus literally the night before. Feeling it was too late to change venues and because it was potluck anyway, the hubby decided I could quarantine myself in the bedroom. You know, it might not have been too bad to lay in bed all day while someone else catered the meal and cleaned up, if I hadn't been on fire with fever and coughing up blood. It was awful!

Most Thanksgivings weren't so cursed. Just mine, of course. Nevertheless, chaotic, messy, noisy, crowded Thanksgivings have blessed my kids their entire lives. Their father and I deciding we would live in separate houses didn't need to change that for them.

For the past several years, my Thanksgivings have been comparatively smaller affairs--sometimes spent with my family, sometimes with my kids, sometimes with my friends, and once alone. That was fine too, because I treated myself to a big ol' stack of IHOP blueberry pancakes and no one was around to tell me that IHOP blueberry pancakes aren't Thanksgiving worthy. I've truly come to savor the small Thanksgiving. Our lives are chaotic, noisy, and messy on a daily basis. A quiet holiday that comes right after soccer and theatre season is quite welcome. There is nothing like a cozy fireplace, a cup of cocoa, the Macy's parade, a simple gathering, and a quiet day to pump me up for the Christmas season. At the end of it, I am honestly grateful that my children spent a crazy couple of hours with the cousins and battled Black Friday with that side of the family while I sat in my pajamas, stuffing my face. And I have never again had to plunge another toilet on Thanksgiving Day.

So regardless of what "the papers" that all divorced couples refer to like they are the third tablet to come down from Mt. Sinai say, the kids still get their chaotic Thanksgiving tradition with their cousins and aunts and uncles. And that's the way it should be. Through divorce, you might be able to split furniture and bank accounts evenly, but not traditions.

I hope any moms and dads from split families, blended families, and even dysfunctional families who might be reading this understand--you have your childhood holiday memories. It's time to make sure your kids get theirs. Whether that memory comes from a day with you or a with someone else who loves them shouldn't matter. Don't you want them to smile back on it for years to come? It's not the hours logged at one house that makes the memories. It's the laughter, the noise, the chaos, the cousins, the cozy cocoa, the quiet day. And maybe even the plunged toilets.

What are your most disastrous or most wonderful Thanksgiving memories?

It Sneaks Up On You

I truly never thought this day would come. I really didn't. They all kept telling me to "just wait", and I laughed. HA! My sweet boy would never turn into... a teenager.

I gloated when he turned 13 and didn't turn into that alien other parents describe as invading their children's bodies. I pitied the poor mothers whose sons exuded more attitude than all of my teenage girls put together. Those poor mothers. Those poor, poor mothers.

Then it happened. It was a small and sudden change. It could have easily been disregarded or explained away if it had been an isolated thing. But it wasn't.

Just today, after forcing...er, I mean inviting...Frank to join me on Saturday errand running, the following occurred:

ME: (Random funny comment)
FRANK: eye roll
ME: Hey, did you hear me, I said...
FRANK: I heard it. It was funny. I just didn't laugh.

It wasn't really so much what he said, (although he used to ALWAYS laugh, even when it wasn't funny) as it was the way he said it. And the eye roll! What was the deal with that eye roll?!

Then we got home and he disappeared. I found him hours later in his room chatting it up with his Facebook friends. This was the same kid who incessantly harassed his older sister last year for her Facebook obsession. I forced...er, I mean invited, him to join us in the family room. I watched carefully for the eye roll. Luckily, it didn't come. However, it was replaced by the resigned, "Fiiiiiine." I guess I should be grateful it wasn't followed by the Huff and Stomp.

It's happened. It has really happened. I guess I blinked or something. My saving hope is that he's a good kid, he's not female, and he's watched his poor, poor mother go through the teenage thing with his three sisters, so maybe he'll take it easy on me.

Nevertheless, this Roaring Mom's advice to all parents whose kids aren't yet teens--don't blink.