Categories
birthdays

A Forge and a Purse. That’s All We Need. Oh, and Cake. Plus This Candle. And a Bow Staff. A Unicorn.

The baritone saxophone doesn’t so much toot as blare. Rattle. Shake the house. When the boy is practicing, blowing all his lung air into the mouthpiece, conversation in another room is impossible. The floors vibrate; then he finishes a scale and calls out, “Playing this thing is loosening my ear wax!”

Recently, Paco turned twelve.

I want always to remember who he was at this stage of life:  sweet, sensitive, musical, bull-headed, mellow, clever, rules-minded, funny, soft, self-conscious, smart, observant, intuitive, sometimes anxious.

In other words, he’s exactly who he’s always been–only with every passing year, he’s less of a Creature Who Needs Tending and more of a Comfortable Conversation Companion. He just gets better.

All of the traits that were in him when he was two are magnified a decade later. The only difference now is that he accessorizes less when he sings his happy little songs.

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In the week before his birthday, Paco took part in two activities that illustrate the breadth of his abilities. First, he completed a day-long blacksmithing class, the foundational course in a series; six days later, he went purse shopping with his mother.

He could have handled either of these as a two-year-old, as well, but the parent in me was grateful he’d outgrown his clown wig phase before standing over the fire in a forge. Too much risk of a stray spark igniting a purple patch of whizzy curls before leaping cheek to smolder on the red nose. I’m also fairly certain the two-year-old Paco, had he been drafted into helping select a new purse, would have been more interested in choosing a shiny gold one with rivets, leopard spots, and a dangling whistle for himself than counseling his mother into the best choice of bag.

True confession: part of me wishes my twelve-year-old were still interested in choosing a shiny gold purse with rivets, leopard spots, and a dangling whistle for himself. We would use it to tote scones and bottles of mineral water when shoe shopping–and to signal each other when stumbling across a noteworthy find (Trumpet that whistle: Dansk clogs are on clearance!).

Alas. His interest these days is weaponry. That’s what led him to the forge: he wants to make a sword.  Of course, the road to a sword starts with a single step, in this case Blacksmithing 101, during which he learned to build and tend the fire before whacking at rods of rebar with a hammer for six hours.

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The day after the class, our almost-twelve-year-old was whupped. This was not surprising; one of the descriptors listed above with regards to this lad should also have been “low energy” or, phrased more gently, “easily sapped by activity.” He gets that from his mother. After a day of significant exertion, he feels run over; there is no quick rebound or shout of “Where’s the unicycle? I need a balance challenge!” Nae. This kid will need to lie on the couch for a good ten hours the day after effort, persistently promoting the nuances of his sore neck. He will sleep with a heating pad for two nights. He will accept ibuprofen and massages. He will nestle his brain stem on only the softest of fleecy fabrics. When the bathroom calls, he will walk gingerly, guarding his person against offending walls.

I feel this child. I am this child.

Seriously. One time I had a C-section, and from the way I still go on about it, you’d think the surgeon used nothing but a dull butter knife and her left incisor to cut me open.

Interestingly, the ball of blood and tears the surgeon gnawed out of me that day was this very kid, the one who’s just turned twelve.

When he forgets to moan, there is no one better. He works diligently at learning to spin his new bow staff, acting out Daffy Duck and Porky Pig’s famous “Guard! Turn! Parry! Dodge! Thrust!” scene as he twirls.

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He loves his softie buddies in the bed and invites them to read in the dark with him, using a head lamp to illuminate a Nate the Great or Rick Riordan book.

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And he goes purse shopping with his mother.

It was a spontaneous outing. I’d noticed that my year-old purse’s straps had worn through and were on the verge of giving way entirely. I figured that at some point I’d dash into my favorite store and seek out a new one.

That opportunity presented itself the night before Paco’s birthday. He and I–teeming with vitality and non-sore necks when I suggested an expedition to check out the newest series of Lego mini-figures–had driven to the shopping area in town and done some focused groping of various bags of mini-figs, attempting to discern which figures might be held within the mystery packets. More than anything, we were hoping to detect a unicorn horn; to turn twelve the next day while clutching a Lego unicorn would be, well, like being the forty-seven-year-old mother of a twelve-year-old clutching a Lego unicorn: THE APEX OF AWESOME.

Once we selected our bags of figures and made our way out to the car (“I’m going to open one now and one tomorrow on my birthday; since I’m not having a party this year, that gives me something to look forward to”), I noted that we were conveniently near my favorite store.

“Paco, I feel The Mothership calling. The computer chip in my brain that’s linked to the main hive is pinging and pinging. Can we answer its call? Do you mind doing a little more dinkin’ around before we head home?”

The immediate response confirmed his status as Best Playmate. “What are you asking? I LOVE dinkin’ around.”

When we got to The Mothership, he had no interest in wandering off and looking at things that might interest him. He never does. Always and forever, he would rather stick close. Better conversation that way.

Hip to hip, we entered the square footage of Purse.

“So, what kind of purse are you looking for, exactly, Mom?”

He posed a hard question–for the criteria are variable, so long as the purse speaks. It’s a love thing.

“Hmmm. Well, you know the colors I like. Actually, even though I don’t usually like oranges and reds, I could do them in a purse. I just would need to be careful never to hold the purse next to my face, and the only time I can imagine my face ever nearing my purse would be when I’m digging for a quarter, Kleenex, lip balm, bandaid, dental floss, car keys, phone, or wallet, so what I mean to say is no reds or oranges. Also, I really hate blingy stuff, and all the random hardware they like to attach these days feels painfully Try Hard to me. Let’s just say we’re looking for a classic purse without a lot of crap jammed onto it. Oh, and also: always remember that fringe is the devil’s work.”

Having processed my words, Paco wandered over to a luscious navy blue dreamboat and gave it a heft. “How about this one? Nope, wait: it’s open across the top, and you need a zipper so all your stuff doesn’t spill out.”

Carry on, small man.

Moving to the next navy blue bag, he noted, “I like the shape of this one, and it’s so soft. Do you need a long strap, or do you just want to wear the handles over your shoulder?”

Negotiable, kid. I won’t know ’til I see it. It’s a love thing.

Then he looked at the price tag. “Oh, no. I’m worried about the cost of this one. It’s pretty high. That’s why it’s so nice.”

Teachable moment: you get what you pay for, buddy. Sometimes, when a purse has nice shape and is soft, that’s because it’s well made.

“Okay, then,” he continued. “You should carry that one around for a little bit to test it out. Also, it’s the last one, and you don’t want anyone else to take it until you’ve decided.”

I clutched it to my chest and petted the softness, just as I had this boy when he was a baby.

We wandered to the next display. “Yuck,” Paco noted. “Beiges and whites won’t be practical. They’ll get dirty so fast. Plus, they’re boring, and you like fun. Keep walking.”

Moving to the clearance rack, our eyes were drawn to a bright blue bag, smallish, zippered-but-not-too-much. “Ooh, I like that one,” I got squealy.

“But isn’t it too small, Mom? Your wallet won’t even fit in it.”

“Yea, but I could use it when I travel and only want to take the essentials–some cash, a credit card, a Burt’s Bees lip balm, ibuprofen, and a unicorn mini-figure. Those things would all fit easily!”

I grabbed the bright blue purse and smashed it against the navy blue one. Cuddling two babies, I followed my young man.

“Hey, Paco, wait! Isn’t this one kind of funky? The flap is asymmetrical, and it has two different chains for each shoulder strap. That’s fun, right?”

I’d gotten so off track, my counselor had to turn and give me a dead-on corrective stink eye. His gaze burned into mine, laser-like, as he countered my whimsy. “Mom. No. This purse is red. Would you say it’s ‘classic’? Can you undo that button on the flap easily every time you get in and out of your purse? No, Mom. No.”

He was right. In fact, rack after rack, every time I tried to derail my original intentions (Jocelyn Superpower #47) and get excited about impractical, silly, or ridiculous, the last-night-as-an-eleven-year-old’s voice brought me back from the edge.

“When you put that one on, it juts out really far. You’ll always be knocking things over with it. Since I’m always one step behind you, I could lose an eye.”

“I don’t think you should get two purses. That gets too expensive, and how many purses do you take out with you each day? ONE.”

“You think that’s cute right now, but when you look at it next week, you’ll realize it’s ugly.”

“That looks like a dead lizard on a string. You can’t.”

“I don’t want to know someone who would carry that heap of sequins on her shoulder.”

“Look at the lining inside that one. It will rip by Tuesday. And it looks like barf.”

Then.

We turned a corner.

And saw.

The racks of green purses.

Green and I have a history. Green might actually be Paco’s father.

Exhibit A:

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Our steps slowed; our fingertips grazed. Green was promising.

While I soaked in the big picture, Paco went specific and started digging to a barely visible hook in the back. “Mom! Look at this one! Lime green! And you know how we feel about lime green!”

I helped him extract it from the tangle of purses. It was lime green all right.

“And it doesn’t have dangly junk or bling, either. It’s like a real purse. Would it hold all your stuff? ‘Cause, Mom? I think this is the one. This is the best one, right? Let’s look at the price. Hey, not so bad! You have to get this one, don’t you? No question about it! LOOK AT THE GREEN! Mom, we love it; don’t we love it?”

Fortunately, I’m open to lime green. Fortunately, it was a good size. Fortunately, it was a good price. Fortunately, it was well made. Fortunately,

even if I’d been on the fence, unsure if it spoke to me, not completely sold,

I realized that–on the cusp of my son’s twelfth birthday–this was a moment to tuck into my heart. The next few years will see him moving further away from me, separating healthily and painfully; he will always be my boy, but he’s about to become less and less my boy, more and more the world’s man. He will always be part of my pulse, yet I will miss him forever.

Rather than yielding to the wash of melancholy that threatened, I focused on what he was right then, in that moment, in The Mothership, standing next to the green purses, enthusiastically holding up his choice.

Almost as tall as I, this young man was sweet, sensitive, musical, bull-headed, mellow, clever, rules-minded, funny, soft, self-conscious, smart, observant, intuitive, sometimes anxious. And he was applying all of his everything to helping me with my cause.

There was no question. Even if he’d been holding up a red purse dripping with sequins and fringe gilded with seven gold chains, I would have bought it.

It’s a love thing.

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Categories
Teenagers

But Wilt Thou Woo This Wild Cat?

She’s doing her nightly thing: listening to music; checking her social media, chipping away at homework. When a favorite song comes on, the volume goes up. When a new text comes in, her fingers tap. When a page of Spanish is memorized, I hear it flip.

I’m standing eight feet away, folding laundry. She has no idea I’m engaging in one of my most-successful strategies for parenting a teenager. From where she sits, I’m pairing socks, folding sheets, making stacks of shirts. From where I stand, I’m conveniently nearby in case my fourteen-year-old cares to share. Although the patent is still pending, this strategy is known as Catching the Conversational Crumb, or C3.

Fourteen is not an age that responds well to direct questions. If I ask, “So how was your day? Anything up in your world?” she’s apt to stare silently at me for a beat and then bend her head over her backpack and start rustling around, in search of an important pencil. If she’s in a chatty mood, she might allow, “What would be up in my world? I’m fourteen. I went to school. Now I’m home.”

I actually enjoy such answers. They give me a chance to spout nonsense: “Yea, but what if one day Selena Gomez stopped by gym class and taught you all how to gaze mournfully into a camera while singing about ex-boyfriends? And what if you forgot to tell me unless I asked?”

Her terse answers also let me appreciate that the girl who was once labeled a “no-bullshit baby” is growing up true to self.  Even more, her unwillingness to let conversations with her parents become interviews is, in its I-Will-Shut-You-Down fashion, somehow charming. Indeed, while teenagers may strike adults as close-lipped or stubbornly removed, there’s another way to view it.  If I flip the dynamic and consider being greeted at the door with “How was your day? Anything new happen? Learn anything interesting? What’s up with your friends? Are you hungry? Do you have anything due tomorrow?”–the whole scenario makes me screamy because FOR THE LOVE OF BIEBER, A LITTLE SPACE, PLEASE.

Teenagers are cats, not dogs. I get that.

Thus, my  C3 laundry-folding strategy is feline. I’m not in the room because of her. I don’t need to look at or talk to her. I’m just there, doing my thing. I can take or leave her.

Naturally, my indifference is attractive. Like a prickly Siamese, she crawls–figuratively–into my lap, kneading her paws and claws into my thigh before settling in. I keep my back to her, and she offers, “I love this new song,” turning it up.

Still not looking at her, I ask, “Is it off a new album?” She tells me about tour dates and opening acts. On the heels of that, she tells me how her friend Amy stumbled across a really great cover of this one awesome song on YouTube.

“Can I hear it?” I dare.

Nothing would give her more pleasure, in fact. While the cover of the really awesome song plays, she tells me something corny her geometry teacher said. Still not looking at her, still folding clothes, I do not ask a question; instead I note, “I really liked Mrs. Peterson when we went to the open house at the start of the school year. She seemed like someone I would have enjoyed as an English teacher–very in touch, in love with books, down-to-earth…”

And with that, my kitten becomes a puppy. The light inside her flips on, and she bounces in her chair. “Oh my God, that reminds me of something that happened in English! It was so funny!”

Now that she’s in dog mode, I can pet her. Turning, looking at her, I give her my full attention and demand, “Do tell.”

Sitting with one foot tucked under her, spinning around in the desk chair, she recaps, “When we were reading Romeo and Juliet out loud today, there was this moment at the ball when a couple of the characters announced they were going off into another room to have some drinks. After we read that part, a boy in my class goes, ‘My mom calls that book group.’

I hoot. She giggles. We repeat her classmate’s line and agree: that’s hilarious.

Apparently, Mrs. Peterson thought so, too. After snorting with laughter, she told the wise-cracking student, “I don’t know your mom, but I think I like her.”

And then. My teenager, who sometimes can’t be bothered to say “Fine” when asked about her day, makes mine.

She tells me, “When he said that about his mom, I immediately thought of you, too. In a good way.”

Flattered to have been a thought in my fourteen-year-old’s mind, I acknowledge, “I surely do love to go into a room with friends and have some drinks.”

“I know. I mean, you’re not a crazy lady who has to drink all the time, but you’re a lady who is crazy for her drinks.”

With that subtle, accurate parsing of her mother’s controlled but passionate love of a cocktail, my girl confirmed it: between her observational skills and her ability to make connections, she’d make one hell of an English major.

Actually, she’ll make one hell of an anything.

Even though she’s currently in the feline teenage years, all of her everything is there, inside her, ripening. Sometimes I know what’s in there. Many days, I don’t.

However, no matter how much or little she feels like sharing, one thing is certain: tumbling around with her music and her friends and her skiing and her running and her homework and her classmates and her love of travel and her passion for chocolate, I am inside her, too–fermenting more than ripening, but I’m there.

And being there is one of the greatest honors of my life.

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Epilogue:

I could type more about my teenager and her astute observations, but she’s on the floor next to me right now, having crawled into the living room on her knees, holding open a book of cities around the world, propping it on my lap while reading aloud about super cool island cities that she wants to visit.

All it took to get her there, on her knees beside me, was this:

I left her in the kitchen alone and ignored her.

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Categories
kids

They Delight Me

I sat in the stylist’s chair, getting my mane snipped.  As another tuft of hair floated to the floor, the stylist made conversation, asking, “So what’s it like, parenting a 14-year-old girl?”

It was a nominal question, meant to fill time, to keep us from silence. Even before I responded, the stylist anticipated the tone and content of my answer; she knew it would strike a note of exasperation before veering into a rant and closing with a sentiment of “Thanks for letting me vent. I guess I needed that.” Instinctively, the stylist knew I would roll my eyes while detailing the

Indeed, much has been made of the difficulty of adolescence and adolescents. Stereotypes and lore have it that teenagers are difficult, snotty, full of attitude. With a box of Kleenex and a bottle of vodka at the ready, we treat parents of teens with something like pity, asking about their daily lives with careful concern, anticipating responses of

However, at the risk of sounding smug, this mother of a (nearly) 12-year-old and a full-on-14-year-old had to break it to the stylist that

she’s not feeling the pain.

Unquestionably, I’ve never liked my kids more than I do currently. Some of this has to do with me:

I wasn’t cut out for the quirkiness of infancy;

I didn’t always excel at the unrelenting physical demands of toddlerhood;

I often longed for the hours to pass more quickly when they were preschoolers;

I happily stuffed them onto the school bus during the elementary years;

and somewhere along the way, they became interesting individuals who surprise me with their competency, intelligence, and humor.

Because I like interesting individuals and being surprised, their adolescence thus far has been great fun. As well, perhaps because I’m an arrested juvenile myself–and aren’t we ripe with jokes about “arrested juvenile”?–I gravitate towards teenagers. At family or holiday gatherings, I’d just as soon sit in the corner with the high schoolers as the adults. Maybe it’s that I’ve taught college students for so long, or maybe it’s that teenagers are a flossy batter of bright-eyed possibility stirred with dawning potential coated with a sifting of goofy energy. It also helps that they very much like talking about themselves and I, despite this blog’s massive evidence to the contrary, have very little desire to talk about myself. Every social interaction is blessedly less exhausting if I can ask a question and then settle in to listening to the answer with little threat of equal self-disclosure expected in return. Teenagers are masters of this dynamic, and I love them for their complete lack of interest beyond the toes of their Uggs.

Then again, I’m being unfair. My kids, while appropriately self-absorbed, display significant interest in the world outside of themselves. The girl has always been fascinated by how those in other countries live. She enjoys books because of the people watching they allow her.  Frequently, she asks, “So how was your day?”

Also (because I’ve decided to truly commit to the GIFtravaganza that is this post), here’s evidence of an external awareness. First, she is all teen: playing cute, looking to garner attention while the camera is on. Out of nowhere, she bombs the video:

In performing her elfin leap, however, she manages to whack Byron. A mere nanosecond after she thunks his back, she is sorry. It’s so sweet, so indicative of her true character; I could watch her apologetic hand pat a thousand times.

Oh, wait, I have.

Similarly, Paco breaks the stereotype of adolescence. Yes, he can be moody, even sullen, but I’m proud to say those traits will always be with him–they are not a phase that will fade away once his body is fully washed with hormones. Primarily, and this too will accompany him throughout life, he is kind. For example, if I mention to him that my back is sore from unaccustomed swimming yesterday, I know he will offer to give me a massage. He is unflaggingly lovely to his peers; we continue to marvel at how safe and secure all kids feel with him. He notes when his teachers have had a tough day and wonders what might have caused that. He is interested to hear about the foibles of my students, mostly because the stories make his jaw drop. Like his sister, he is already aware that people’s lives exist outside his.

It’s an endless source of gratitude for me, being able to like my kids so cleanly and deeply.

In recent weeks, they have given me even more fodder for The Liking of Them.

Allegra currently loooooves Taylor Swift. We’ll not hear a word against T-Swizzle in our household, in fact. Once ticket sales opened for Swift’s upcoming concert (9 months from now), we went through a day-long emotional journey, as tickets sold out immediately but then became available through the racket that is a ticket outlet seller. There are few things our girl wants, but seeing Taylor Swift in concert is one of them. Although the outlet had marked each ticket up by about 50%, Allegra was undeterred in her desire to get. to. that. concert. Ultimately, even though we’re paying for a bit of her ticket as her Christmas present, she is still shelling out the equivalent of 28 hours of babysitting to cover the rest.

In addition to that, there was the matter of Taylor Swift’s birthday. On that day, Swift’s website generously offered up free shipping on all merchandise. Since Allegra lives in a state of perma-fangirl, she could not ignore this opportunity and snapped up another 14 hours of babysitting’s worth of goods.

What’s more, Superfan Allegra also spent the afternoon of Taylor’s birthday baking brownies for her idol. She went through minor agonies when it came time to spell out “Happy Bday” in M & Ms and “Taylor” in sprinkles.

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The entire Taylor-based production took me back to my own years of fangirling (Oh, Steve Perry, that replacement front man for Journey is serviceable enough, but his vocals are thin trickles of water compared to your rich creme brulee), years which, to be honest, continue because Jimmy Carter, Willie Nelson, and Ruth Bader Ginsberg already.

At any rate, to have a daughter who baked brownies for Taylor Swift’s birthday is a source of great delight to me.

I am similarly delighted by Paco’s passion for narwhals. They’ve really been a “thing” for him the past year or two, and his love continues to grow.  Appreciating soft buddies, he would respond excitedly to a plush narwhal, but those I’ve found online aren’t worthy. Fortunately, we have a talented friend who is into sewing small creatures, and she allowed me to commission her skills for the narwhal you see at the top of this post. Paco has yet to see it, as it’s tucked away until his birthday next week. With great confidence, I can tell you that this narwhal will have a most-excellent life.

Thanks to  Paco, a real-life narwhal will also benefit from greater protection. You see, before the holidays, the kid got really quiet one day, the sure sign of a brain at work. Then he asked, “Don’t Oma and Grandpa Jay usually make some sort of donation for everyone as a gift, like buying chickens or a goat for a less-fortunate family?”

Yup.

“How much do they usually donate?”

Not sure. Maybe $25?

“Oh, that’s PERFECT. I’ve been doing some research, and for that amount, they could make a donation and adopt a narwhal in my name. Could I ask them to do that?”

Hell, yea.

“And if I get to name the narwhal they adopt, I was thinking Rutherford sounds perfect.”

Without question, kid. What narwhal wouldn’t want to be named Rutherford? Heck, I want to be named Rutherford.

And so it happened that on Christmas morning, young Paco’s delightful wish came true. After opening his gifts, he laid them out, proudly displaying photos and cards from the World Wildlife Fund of Rutherford, the planet’s most-beloved narwhal.

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I didn’t tell the stylist about adopted narwhals or birthday brownies for Taylor Swift. Even though she would have heard those stories and thought my kids were “cute,” they are so much more than that.

They are human beings in the midst of one of life’s most difficult stages, yet they are grand. For that, I not only like them; I respect them.

Whimsical, silly, bright, healthy, thoughtful, unexpected, they are my boon companions.

They make me want to sit in the kitchen and watch them forever.

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