Faulted, Flailing, Failing, and Forgiveness (at Forty)

How's that for an alliterative title?

Last night, something, or should I say, someone happened to me. But I have to say something first before I actually write about what that was and who it was. (Okay, it was Eight).

I've never had great confidence in myself, but over the years I've come to accept the things I will never be and the things I probably won't ever have. But, I have also finally decided that there's something that I actually like about myself: I am comfortable with my outgoing personality, my ability to be silly and have fun, and sometimes even my verbosity. I highly believe in the powers of the written and spoken word and encourage people to communicate whenever and however they can, be it by letter, email, face-to-face - whatever.

I noticed from the time Eight was a mere One and A-Half that she was a talker. Her vocabulary was astounding for her age and she amazed her pre-school teachers when, at barely Two, they said she could probably run their class. (Swear to Thirteen Billion, they said that.) And yes, I wrote only days ago how her chatterbox ways were grating on me and yes, I still mean it (although not as emphatically). Over the years, though, it has been becoming my happy realization that Eight is like me in the one way in which it's okay with me that she is: she, like me, is silly and fun, but mostly I'm thrilled that she uses her words. And last night, I found out just how articulately and thoroughly she knows how to express her small self with those words.

We sat together until midnight, the two of us holding hands, the two of us crying. First, she stared at me with her huge, blue eyes and cried while she spewed her innermost feelings about her troubles with school and how she's already worried that she's not smart enough for third grade and will never be smart enough for college because she's struggling with math (for the record, she is quite bright). She confessed to using a calculator when she was struggling. She told me about the mean children at school and her feelings about not having a younger sibling (because as she told me, she would know just how to be the perfect older sister and take wonderful, loving care of a brother or sister); she explained how it makes her feel sad when I am on the phone and how I shoo her away; how she hates herself because she annoys everyone and how nobody calls her first for play-dates and how she's always the one asking. Suddenly her age-appropriate clothing is now ugly, she feels incapable of everything and anything, and she thinks I don't want to spend time with her. She doesn't understand why I do things that she can't do with me and why I get upset with her when she asks me where the ice cream is. She wanted to know why I yell at her all the time.

I looked at my Eight in disbelief.

In my own defense, she gets a disproportionate amount of attention in comparison to Twelve and I most certainly do spend time with her and I have gone above and beyond for her as a class parent and even when I wasn't the class parent. And because she's a child, she seems to need me most when 1) the phone rings (it's always the best time to tell me that she has a hole in her sock or that she can't find her Polly Pockets), 2) we are watching a movie we've seen 18 times and after only getting three hours sleep the night before, I doze a bit, 3) she is fully involved in a movie or a game and I decide to write or check my email because, well... I fucking enjoy doing it , or 4) I go out once every two months and she can't bear to be without me even though she's going to sleep anyway.

Anyone that's a parent can relate to these things, I'm sure. It's quite frustrating to never be able to close the bathroom door to pee without someone trying to break in or tell you a really loooong dream she had through the door. We all know it's impossible to have an uninterrupted adult conversation because even when we walk into another room for privacy, there are always footsteps not far behind. I've tried to talk to Eight about how I need grown-up time and privacy, just like she needs her private time with her little friends. I've tried to let her know that sometimes I need to be able to think a complete thought without it being interrupted. It's not mean, it's just... true. I've also tried to explain to her that she needs to be respectful of me and the very few things I ask of her (and her brother) and to be a good listener. Shit, my kids really have it easy here - too easy. So when I ask either of then to brush their teeth at least once a fucking day, they can comply to the request without an argument. Right?

But she was right on some levels and man, to see my faults and possible misguidances through the eyes and mouth of my Mini-Articulate-Me threw me. Maybe all these years that I thought I had my parenting skills down pretty pat, I didn't. I had always thought since the time my kids were able to move around as infants that it was best to speak to them as small people rather than speaking to them all goofy and babyish all the time, as they would learn better communication skills that way. I was right, too, since my kids both were exceptional speakers and were always able to communicate clearly as soon as they learned their first words. But maybe I went too far. Maybe by trying to reason with them all the time and by me trying to be honest and explain things to them was the wrong way to go. Maybe although bright and communicative, Eight just still wasn't understanding my explanations. How could she not understand that it's rude to interrupt a conversation just because she feels the need to tell people she saw a caterpillar or the dog farted? How could she not understand that if after the tenth, "please brush your teeth" they still weren't brushed, that my yelling isn't because I'm mean, but because I'm frustrated?

But those aren't the real questions. They're: How the hell don't I - Ol'Forty - understand that she is just eight; my Eight? How is it that even though it all sounds reasonable to me, a supposedly reasonable, intelligent adult, that it might be completely unreasonable gibberish to her? How is it that she sat there, so maturely, yet so gripped by her sadness that she just couldn't stop sobbing and saying horribly awful things, that I never realized just how small and vulnerable she truly is?

All I could do was cry with her, apologizing.

Forty-Four came down to see what the commotion was about and just stood over us, glaring down at me. He later chastised me for crying in front of Eight, standing by his belief that it's too scary for kids to see their parents cry. He said she was just in a mood and the gist of the rest of that "conversation" was that I shouldn't have indulged in her alleged "mood."

Maybe I've expected my children to understand too many things that were far beyond their comprehension. Maybe I've been a little harsh here and there because my own private, non-child-related things are pressing on me.

But even if I screwed up in some ways with my kids, I stand by my own belief that they can know their parents are humans and as humans, we are imperfect. Parents make mistakes and should always apologize when they do. There is absolutely nothing wrong with showing emotion to those you love, whether big or small, or with asking for forgiveness, no matter who you are.

I learned a lot in my almost-two weeks of being Ol' Forty. A friend recently told me there's always room for improvement with everything and I applied that to this situation. Certainly, I can always improve my parenting skills and with Eight's confessions and insights about how she feels about things in her life and how she feels about me at times really opened my big, green orbs. I learned that even my child can humble me and that she can also be quite profound. I learned that I have a lot to learn.

That scene will play in my head forever, I am sure. It will serve as a reminder of many things:

- My kids can be exceptionally deep and thoughtful. And everything they say should be considered.
- While they need to be loved and entertained, I still stand by my children needing to learn and respect adult/child boundaries.
- Even if my kids are frustrating the shit out of me, I need to step back and make sure my responses are appropriate and based on their actions and behaviors - not based on anything else.
- The unconditional love we give them is fully reciprocated. Eight told me I was the best mother and how I am never, ever wrong.

But in the end, even if have a wonderfully articulate child, even if I have tried to explain the unexplainable to her in the past and have to learn not to anymore as she is still just a little kid, I still had to make sure she knew and understood that I am human and fallible (of course, in smaller words).

"Mommy was wrong," I told her. "Please forgive me."

And she took my face in her little hands and did.

This is Forty Telling Eight to... SHUT UP!

Nota Bene:

I love my kids more than anything ever in this world. Anything. Morning coffee. That first bite of a hot slice of pizza. More than getting an A when I felt I deserved a B. I even love them more than when I lose five pounds without actually dieting… Now for all that know ol’ Forty, you know that’s love. Big time, huge love. But seriously… my kids are my life. The absolute loves of my life. (Even if I'm totally bashing them on Valentine's Day.)

That being established, as much as I do love them, those two kids of mine are little manipulative, spoiled fuckers.

Part of the reason I don’t sleep at night is because I’m so excited to be watching my television alone on my tattered, worn, ripped and stained ugly fucking floral couch. I sit there exhausted, eyes all blood-shot and burning, yet relishing in the fact that I am finally by myself. In my own quiet. Again, I love those kids, but one of them doesn’t shut the fuck up and the other won’t speak to me unless asking for lunch money, video game paraphernalia or food. So, this blog is dedicated to the big mouth in my life, Eight.

Example:
When I wake up, especially on a weekend morning, I really look forward to my pot of hot, liquid breakfast with a splash of vanilla creamer. No rushing out the door in thirty degree weather with a wet head, no ironing work clothes - it's just me, browsing Crackbook at my leisure, checking all my e-mail and if I'm feeling ambitious, I might do a word scramble to make sure I didn't lose any brain power during my three hours of sleep. But the second my foot hits the bottom step, all I hear is (what starts out to be) a sweet voice coming from the depths of the sagging couch cushions.

Eight: “Mom, I want a bagel.”
Ol’ Forty: “We don’t have bagels.”
Eight: “What do we have?”
Ol’ Forty: “English muffins, toast, pancakes, waffles, eggs, cereal, cereal bars…”
Eight: (who must have apparently lost her hearing during the night) “Can I have a bagel?”
Ol’ Forty: “We don’t HAVE bagels I said.”
Eight: “We don’t have anything!”
Ol’ Fucking Pissed Forty: “How about chocolate chip pancakes?”
Eight pauses. Then: “Can I have a bagel toasted with butter?”

Now this is always in the first three minutes of my (barely) wakefulness. I stand there, vision all blurred because I always forget my glasses and there are always clumps of mascara in my eyes. Plus, I still have to free the morning pee.

Ol’ Pissed, Tired, Already-Impatient Forty: “WE DON’T HAVE ANY BAGELS, DAMN IT!”

Whimpers from the cushions.

Eight: “Why do you always yell at me?”

I ignore the crocodile tears and the incessant chatter that follows which is coming from the living room as I make my pot of breakfast. I wait with my mug under the dripper, willing it to pour out faster so I can sit down. I’m already exhausted.

Just as I sit:

Eight: “Mom, watch ICarly with me.”
Ol’ Forty: “Okay, let me drink my coffee first.”
Eight: “I want coffee.”
Ol’ Forty: “No.”
Eight: “Yes.”
Ol’ Forty: “No.”
Eight: “Yes.”
As I pour her a cup of coffee in her Disney mug, adding a ton of vanilla creamer to it, I think to myself how she can’t possible talk while sipping and it will grant me a few minutes of morning peace.

Eight: “I Carly’s on!”
Ol’ Forty: “Wait until I’m ready. Give me a few minutes.” Pause. “Drink your coffee.”
Eight: “Ok.”

I sip, I read, I think about all kinds of shit I have to do. I glance up at the paused DVR.

Ol’ Forty: “What are you doing?”
Eight: “Waiting for you.”
Ol’ Forty: “No, just watch something else until I am done!”
Eight: “Ok.”

Ten minutes later, she’s staring at the paused screen still.

Eight: “Mom, remember when I was two and I wore that raincoat….?”

I can’t remember making the fucking coffee at the moment.

Eight: “Mom, can I play with someone today?”

Fuck, here comes the barrage of questions, requests, and the “I want that/get me/buy me” demands.

Eight: “Mommy, can we play the Wii? Mom, remember when the dog came home for the first time? Mommy, can we get another dog? Mom, when the cats die can we get another cat? Mommy, can we go to Canteen and get a new shirt? Mom, where’s my bagel?”

I finally tell her she has to SHUT up. Yes, I really do. I am evil but my ears hurt.

While she takes a deep breath to prepare for her next slew of demands, I take advantage of the 30 seconds of quiet and tip toe to the bathroom to pee. The moment I’m in there, the door swings open. Eight forgot to tell me that her teacher made fried rice for snack the day before and that she needs to bring glue to school. I try to make a mental note to lock the door next time, although the little thing knows how to break in anyway.

Forty-five minutes and half the pot of coffee later, I plop myself onto the spring-less, ripped couch that really needs to be brought outside and set fire to. Eight presses ‘play’ on the DVR remote and ICarly comes on. I actually love the show and watching it also gives me an excuse to still remain in a sitting or laying position.

We sing the opening song and then wait for the first scene. A minute into it, Eight is now playing with her bag of Japanese erasers, her American Girl dolls and the dog’s hairbrush, talking and chattering to herself.

I glance over at her.

Ol’ Forty: “Didn’t you beg me to watch this with you?”
Eight: “Yes, I’m watching,“ she says as she’s hanging upside down on the couch, brushing her doll’s hair, singing some Selena Gomez song and yelling at the dog in between verses.
Ol’ Forty: “Shhhhhhhhhhhh already!”

So, there I am, sitting through the show she hounded me to watch from the second I walked down the steps and now that I’m doing what she wants, she lost all interest. I watch it by myself as she ignores me and when it’s over, I get up to do my own thing.

The moment my computer is open, there goes the mouth again.

Eight: “Where’s my bagel?”



(P.S... Happy Valentine's Day, you sweet, demanding, chatterbox.)
(P.S.S. Eight, although slightly miffed at first, gave me her blessing to post this)

Jazz Blues

Tonight I watched my son, Eleven, play his trumpet in one of his last Jazz band concerts in elementary school. This was the third time this week, (and the fourth time in the past two weeks), that I went to whichever school his jazz band "tour" was stopping at to play their groovy tunes. Each time, I couldn't help but stare mostly at the tall boy standing in the back row; the boy who is now taller than his mother; the boy whose mustache has been darkening by the day; the boy who's quickly looking less like a boy and more like a man. I stared simply out of shock because this boy is my son.

I brought my camcorder tonight and zoomed in to watch him as he blew into his trumpet. It was a fight just to get him to go to the concert, partly because he didn't want to miss baseball, and partly because he constantly claims he isn't interested in jazz band, or any band, for that matter, at all. So, we gave him the choice to play most of the game with the option to leave early to get to the concert. He said if he couldn't play the entire ball game, he wasn't going to play at all. This confused me, though, since whenever I tell him he has a baseball game, on nights when there are no conflicting concerts or anything else, he insists he's not going to play ball, either. I can't figure out what this kid wants and that was exactly what I was trying to do as I zoomed in on his face; figure out what was going on inside his head.

He looked sorta bored, sorta sad, even, whenever he removed the trumpet from his lips. His shoulders looked all slumpy, which is not unusual for him, as this posture is his norm when he's not feeling confident in himself. I nudged Forty-Three in the ribs, partly to hurt him, but mostly to get his attention.

Thirty-Nine: "He's all slumpy. He has no confidence."
Forty-Three: " ."

No, that's not a typo; Forty-Three is a man of limited responses. He just sort of nodded in agreement.

But I didn't need any response anyway. As a mother, I knew what I needed to do regardless of whether Forty-Three had anything to grunt in agreement or disagreement about. When the last sounds of Louie Louie faded out and as the children started filing off the stage, I found my son's band teacher and thanked her for the wonderful work with the band and the music program. I also thanked her, as I'm apt to do in my end-of-the-school-year thank you notes, as well, for her utter belief in my son and his innate musical ability. I wanted him to play a solo in the concert and expressed how sad I felt that he simply lacked the desire or the confidence to do so. It was difficult not to break down in tears, as again, I am apt to do when I talk about my kids, when I thanked her for encouraging him endlessly, and even admitted to her that I felt that not only was he letting her down by not practicing his instrument, but that I, too, was letting her down because I couldn't force him to love the trumpet or make him play like she believed he could play. She told me not to give up on him because even though next year in Junior High school he would probably lose interest, (lose even more interest, really), he might get it back. (unfortunately, though, I am not hearing wonderful things about the school's musical department, so.... a big "uh-oh" right there).
By the time we got home to watch my DVR'd American Idol, I still couldn't help thinking about my Eleven: an awesome trumpeter, an impressive home-run-hitter, a phenomenal third-base man. On top of that, he's also a smart, handsome kid with a good heart and a sensitive little soul. I stopped the DVR playback for what turned out to be a good ten minutes in order to tell my unconfident child some things he needed to hear.

I told him that because he has so many people believing in him, he needs to try to believe in himself, as well. Maybe it's wrong to do so on some level, but I told him that I never believed in myself and that I still struggle with that every day of my life - and I'm close to forty years old. I told him that I always allowed other people's negative opinions about me to become my opinions about me instead of believing all the good things I really knew to be true about myself. Every teacher he has ever had since preschool only had glowing things to report about his capabilites. Use them, I told him. Don't waste your youth trying to be too cool, or sitting in front of video games all day. Take the love and encouragement from your teachers and from us to feed your talents. Yes, I'm annoying, yes, I push you, I continued, but all for good reason. I wanted to play the piano and the drums, but I never got to. I never had the push that you have. Take advantage of it, I implored. I only do these things because I see how disappointed you are in yourself, how you don't think you are any good. Youth is when you can explore what you like, what you're good at. This is your time to blossom, I said.

He was laying on the loveseat, his long legs and big feet hanging over the side. I could see the thicker hair on his manlier-looking legs. But the way he was looking up at me was so child-like, so innocent. For the first time in, wow, I don't even know how long, I think he was actually listening to me. And not the one ear to me, one ear to Family Guy kind of listening, but absorbing listening. My tear ducts let one or two drops sneak out. You don't even know the depth of my love or pride, I added.

Eleven didn't turn away from me like he usually would even though I knew he was exhausted and that he just wanted to watch Adam Lambert and Kris Allen sing their final songs. He looked up at me, waiting. I added as much as I could, as much as I could articulate at 11 PM and with only 8 hours of sleep in two days. I, too, was so tired, but I took this "alone time" as an opportunity to share my desires with him as a parent. I begged him to learn from me, not because I am his mom, or only because I'm older, which we all know doesn't always mean wiser, or not because I know everything there is to know, but only because in this instance - the believing in oneself department - I know whereof I speak. The gist of everything I was talking about came down to using his youth, talents, and the push from his educators and parents to his advantage and not to let it slip away before it was too late.

He fell asleep, still in his black pants and white button-down, sprawled on that small couch. It still hurts me that I can no longer lift him up, carry him upstairs, change him into his Spiderman pajamas, and tuck him into bed. But if I can lift him up in other ways, then so be it.

As adults, we always wish we knew then what we know now, and when we were children, we thought we knew everything. I still don't know why my son looked so unhappy on that stage tonight, whether he really was just bored, or if he was feeling anxious just because he's Eleven going on Twelve and that's what eleven year olds going on twelve look like. Was he up there wishing he was at baseball? Was he up there angry that I was clapping proudly in the audience?
Was he up there thinking about a negative observation his friend pointed out earlier today that made him feel self-conscious?

As a mother, I can only guess about these things, but I do hope that now when my son has that certain look on his face, that maybe he's thinking about something important I once told him.