The Blink of An Eye

My son and his friends are looking at Denmark. Or the Netherlands.

Not for a visit, but to move there.

I'd say, "I don't know how I feel about that" but it'd be a lie. I know exactly how I feel about that.

I'm excited at the youth and strength behind such a plan- I remember (not that I'm that old)having much the same thoughts as they do, albeit less farther-focused. My main thought was to get the hell out of Wisconsin. Took me a while, but I did it and have never looked back. Actually crossing the US border and staying across never occurred to me.

I'm proud that we've raised a human with such an independent bent. A free-thinker who knows more about current events and social issues, politics and world events than most adults do. Someone who loves his country but is not brainwashed to believe that the US is #1, that the US must remain #1 and that everyone on earth wants to be us and all other places are backwards shitholes. I'm proud as hell of that. He doesn't HATE America---there's a big ol' middle ground between screaming "We're #1!" while wearing a flag t-shirt and clutching an eagle by the throat... and yelling "Death to America!". Big. Ol'. Middle ground.

I'm terrified that once he boards a plane and is out of my Mama Bear reach, our economy and society will continue on the ungracious, unattractive and (unless something changes RADICALLY QUICKLY) inevitable sliding into the social squalor that is the morning after for all societies that become 'too big for their britches' and I'll never see him again. I do not believe we are in danger of a Mad Max No Food Zombie Apocalypse. But we're NOT #1 anymore, we never WERE the gloriousness of a Leave It to Beaver fictitious utopia, and we're looking like a B-film starlet after one too many cosmetic procedures in a frantic attempt to still look 21 at age 51 instead of...Katherine Hepburn at age 81- gorgeous and not giving a shit, just going about living life.

So it scares the hell out of me.

But then I realize...if we are (and we are)headed for an age of disgruntled frumpiness and depressed economics, still steered by bullheaded backwards financial initiatives and punitive social agendas...where does that put my son, as an American in America?

If he can get college-educated and come out of it with zero debt (and he can in Europe), if he can get a job that can support him and won't kill him with low pay and dangerous workplace conditions as well as short work weeks and hours (and he can in Europe), if he can have access to health care without paying almost 20% of his gross pay in premiums (you see where this is going...), then that's where he needs to be. That's where I WANT him to be.

Until the US gets its head out of its far-right, pseudo-religious, egotistical ass, the only place my son and others like him will have even a marginal shot at having a life that is the Norman Rockwell American Dream...is outside these borders.

And that's a fucking shame.

Last night my son was looking for a 'new' book to read- he'd just finished up the last of the Game of Thrones series and like his parents he HAS to have a book in front of him at all times. He was going through all the shelves in the house that hold a total of about a thousand books- very few fiction other than the 'classics'. He found a medical guide (huge old tome) that was 'new and revised' in 1905. He found a little book of PHOTOGRAPHS (it was capitalized just like that because PHOTOGRAPHS were such a new thing) from a 1800's World's Fair. He found a box of crystals and yak hair that'd been sent to him for his birthday half a dozen birthdays ago.

He looked around this log cabin and said, "Our house is full of weird shit." And he smiled.

The world is full of weird shit, son. Most of it delightful, intoxicating and smile-inducing. I'm so happy we've taught you that, and I hope you never forget it.

Step across the borders and grab the American Human Dream wherever you find it- for yourself, your friends, and all humans.

A blink of an eye ago, I was fifteen and eager to find my spot in the world. Now I'm watching my son do the same. My great-grandparents came to this country looking for a better life and the next two generations stayed put in Southern Wisconsin. I left and came to Texas and now my Texas-born is looking even farther afield.

He has his roots here in a log cabin in East Texas full of weird shit.

No telling where his wings will take him.

It's NOT a Cake

Yanno the Mother Moments I enjoy the most?

The ones where I get to recount a darling story from my children's formative years- stories that are heartwarming, proud-making, humorous or brilliant, but all of them have one common thread.

They embarrass the bejeebers out of my now-grown children.

This is one of those stories.

Sorry, Dave.

The kids (and by "kids" I here refer to my hardly-ever-mentioned-because-they're'all-grown-and-gone elder offspring)were about 4 and 9. David and Erika.

It was their dad's birthday, and in addition to the cards and gifts we had gotten him, Erika decided that they would bake him a cake.

She and Dave followed my loosely supervised instructions and a cake was indeed baked.

The kids were rightfully proud of it.

Their dad left home for work every day before 6am- well before anyone else was up and about, but he'd call home during the day and talk to me, then the kids.

Before handing him the phone, Erika coached her brother upon threat of very real and, "Seriously, David- I'll kill you if you tell him about the cake" death.

Dave, always the Cool One, gave her a reproachful and derisive 'How dumb do you think I am?' look and took the receiver.

"Hi Dad! Guess what? We made you a surprise for your birthday!"

*Daggers flew from Erika's eyes and metaphorically impaled her sibling*

"Nope. Nope. Nope. You'll never ever guess what it is!"

*Dragons exploded in fiery fury from Erika's ears and pummeled her brother about his head and shoulders*

"You can try to guess all day long and you'll never figure it out- whatever you think it might be, IT'S NOT A CAKE!"

*Dave grinned and gave his sister a triumphant Thumbs Up*

It's a curious thing, the motherly ability to simultaneously dissolve in hysterical laughter, intercept a whirling dervish of 9 year old murderous intent and comfort the uncomprehending target of sisterly wrath.

So we leave today for a few days in Houston.

Leaving the farm in the care of Joe, as always, and driving down this afternoon.

Tomorrow we'll spend at the museums and whatnot.

As long as we're there we'll run by MD Anderson and get a head/neck scan, then mosey up to visit Dr. Hanna on Tuesday before we come home.

Hmmmm?

Oh, well ya. There's this little spot that's come up under Ward's eyelid- it's really nothing and I'm certain Dr. Hanna will agree with us on that.

Just a little area of irritation from getting something in there, or maybe a teeny tiny stye.

Whatever it is- it's not cancer.

It's OK- We Didn't Need Any Sleep Tonight

We had a little scare night before last.

Alec woke up in the middle of the night crying, which is very unusual.

He's a stoic boy, not given to being sick and being very brave when hurt.

It was abdominal pain, so severe he couldn't even turn over or sit up or walk.

No fever, no vomiting, no ("MOM- don't say it"), just blinding awful pain.

We tried some Tylenol, then some GasX, and manually shifted him around to see if any other position was better than another. Since the boy opts to sleep on his loveseat, which is about half his body length, we asked if he wouldn't be more comfortable on our bed, but he couldn't get up.

*disclaimer- he HAS a bed- he has THREE mattresses- all of them currently used for piling STUFF on.

Without thinking, Ward picked up his 85 pound son and carried him to the bed. Across the house.

We got him a little more comfortable in the bed, but he was still in awful pain.

In between tears (not like him), informing us he'd never been in so much pain EVER and imploring me to do something to MAKE IT STOP, he started asking to go to the emergency room.

I called the nurse at telecare and she talked to him. When I got back on the phone she said "He's very sincere- it sounds like he's in a lot of pain- even though it's not specifically on his right side, we can't discount appendicitis and I recommend you go to the emergency room NOW".

Ward and I dressed to go and I texted Joe to let him know where we were going, why, and that I'd call him when we knew anything.

I brought clothes into our room for Alec to get dressed in and he said

"Hey. It's gone. The pain is gone. Now I'm really tired."

And he got up, walked back to his room and went to bed.

Ward and I looked at each other. I texted Joe. We got into our jammies and went back to bed.

Ward stared at the ceiling. "I'm too old for this shit".

I've known that ever since Alec was born. The midwife handed me the little person I'd grown inside of me and instead of 8 pounds 4 ounces he seemed to weigh a million pounds and I knew that this one was different. Different from the other two.

Not that he's more special- because he's not.

But that *I'M* different. I'm older. I know the truth.

The truth that slices my heart into shreds when he's sick or hurt.

Because when you're young and you have babies they get sick or hurt and you think "Bummer- poor baby" and you take care of them till they get better.

When you're old your brain flashes every news story about every child who's ever died from the exact same thing yours is currently suffering from.

Over and over and over again until they're better.

So Alec's better. And we're all better.

Every day is a gift. Every moment spent with the ones we love is a blessing.

Life is fragile.

Handle with care.

There's More Than One Way To Skin A Cat

Their eyes pierce straight into our hearts and chill us to the bone.

Images on the screen of armed recruits being trained for wars far away make us uneasy, upset, dismayed and disturbed because the bodies housing the steely eyes and grasping the automatic weapons are tiny. Child Warriors.

Ripped from their homes by force, or given up in despair by parents who have nothing to feed them and no hope of anything later today, or tomorrow, or next week, or ever, the pint-sized soldiers try to find their way in a world that is very dangerous, unbelievably hard, hellishly unforgiving.

And we wonder how something like that could happen- how could an entire society turn its back on its young people, allow- even encourage them- to become pawns of war.

How can they not protect them, do something that would allow families to stay together and be strong, live well, not just survive, but thrive and become instruments of true honor and strength and hope.

And all the while the training of child troops continues- the boys becoming sometimes quickly, sometimes inch by inch, immune to pain and fear and that little voice inside that says "STOP! Killing is wrong".

And after a while they pull the trigger without thinking,

without pausing,

without feeling a thing.

Luckily, we are very far removed from that sort of de-humanization. We live in the lap of luxury, the land of the free, the home of the brave, by the Grace of God, Amen.

That sort of horror could never happen here- we're too smart, too blessed, too wealthy, too in tune with our family values.

So we tuck in our children at night- our children who will not be torn from our arms violently, who we will not abandon due to lack of food, or water, or shelter.

Our children, most of them, will go every day to either day care or school- safe places where they "do their work" while we do ours for many hours each day until we pick them up and go home- after the extracurricular activities are finished and errands are run.

Our children, most of them, have more worldly possessions than most adults the world over- thanks to us and our culture of consumerism, and after dinner and after homework they wrap themselves in their solitary rooms surrounded by tv's and computers and playstations and cell phones.

And we sit in the living room, or in front of our own computer screens- staring mutely and with horror at the babies overseas who are being blatantly trained to kill without thought, without fear, without regret.

while our children sprawl in their rooms filled with technological wonders, and they plug in the latest video game and face virtual foes and monsters, some imaginary and some human and the graphics are amazing, the images indistinguishable from "real life". The first few minutes are spent acclimatizing to the scenery and the creatures and the rules of the game.

But after a while they pull the trigger without thinking,

without pausing,

without feeling a thing.

Because I'm the Child and I Said So

Not me personally- I haven't been a child for many years. But I have children, and I'm still perfectly capable of behaving in a childish manner.

Since I'm not proud of the latter, but very proud of the former, lets talk about the former.

Yesterday we had a well-child visit at the doctor. At my son's request. He was concerned that his tetanus vaccination needed updating, so I called the doctor's office and they said "No- not for another 2 years, but you ARE due for a chicken pox booster". So off to the doctor we went, and my son sat stock still while receiving his shot- he's been blessedly healthy and couldn't remember his last shot (probably about 4 years ago).

And I started thinking about raising children, specifically the difference between how I'm raising this one compared to his brother and sister, both much older than he is.

With the first 2, I did things when the "experts" told me to. And some things need to be that way- vaccinations, exams if there are really concerns or problems, things that will affect their health or well-being.

I'm not sure if that had anything to do with it, or if it's just a difference in personalities, but I remember my older son at about Alec's age at the doctor, needing a booster shot, and I had to literally sit on him to get it done. Luckily I'm a trained veterinary technician, so I know how to hold fractious, possibly dangerous critters. The give-away for the nurse was that I was also scratching him behind the ear to deflect his attention away from the syringe...

And my daughter is deathly afraid of needles. She'll be 30 next year.

Back when Alec was about 4, we went to the dentist. A pediatric dentist since I remembered being scared poopless by imposing, stern, crabby Dr. Newell. The hygienists took the x-rays and cleaned his teeth without incident. All they had left to do was the fluoride treatment and we'd be done. I sat and read my book. Suddenly there was a commotion and when I looked up, the chair was empty and my son was across the room, perched like a spider monkey on a different chair- hissing at the hygienists.

Apparently, they'd hovered over him and started sticking the little "mouth bumpers" in between his teeth and the sides of his mouth without telling him what they were doing and it felt like he was choking and/or suffocating. So he bolted.

They told me they couldn't work with him and we could either wrap him in a blanket and sit on him or drug him for the rest of the procedure. Not sedation, more of a paralyzing drug. So he'd still be afraid, he just couldn't get away. I declined both (awful) options, collected my little spider monkey and walked out.

After that, Ward's illness(es) took front and center of our time and getting Alec to the dentist was not high on our priority list. He brushes regularly and his teeth look fine. A few months ago, Alec said he wanted to go to the dentist.

So we made the appointment and last week he walked into the dentist's office and sat perfectly for the hygienist (different office- this one explained everything beautifully before she did it). He's got good teeth and no cavities.

The difference,other than age, was readiness.

I think too often we don't trust ourselves or our children when it comes to the Proper Way to Go About Growing Up.

I didn't stress about any of them regarding potty training. I figured when they were ready, they'd do it. And they did. My daughter coveted a package of Strawberry Shortcake underpants at about age 2 1/2 and I told her those were for big girls who don't wear diapers. She grabbed the package and never looked back.

My older boy could literally leave wet footprints through the house without concern even at age 3 until...I was director at Girl Scout Day Camp and he wanted to go with his sister and me but couldn't unless...and that was that.

I don't think there was a specific event surrounding Alec's coming of bathroom age, he just worked into it- at his own pace.

The older 2 went to public schools, and we're homeschooling Alec.

My daughter tested into the Gifted and Talented program and has been a driven soul ever since- her basic personality true enough, but at his nursery school, my older son was referred for Speech Therapy- he was "fronting and backing"- leaving off the beginning AND ends of words. WE could understand him, and he was barely 4 years old. If we'd just let him alone, I suspect he would've turned out just fine. I can't think of a single adult who leaves the beginnings and ends off of words.

Alec was slow to talk, and slow to walk- the result of many chronic ear infections that damaged his hearing and tilted his equilibrium till he had those little ear tubes put in. We did not bring him to therapy for either "problem" and even though he wasn't talking or walking at age 2, now try to keep him quiet or still.

Ditto for reading. Luckily, our curriculum stressed that children will learn stuff when they are ready, and even though they SENT reading books starting in 1st grade, if our child didn't seem interested in reading, we were to read TO him until he was. At age 6 Alec was not reading.

At age 7 he was reading adult books. Skipped right over the Dr. Suess stage and into Dragonology. For his 10th birthday he requested Stephen Hawkings Brief History of the Universe.

We trust animals to raise their offspring and the offspring to have certain innate survival instincts. Yet humans "overthink" the whole process.

My first two were crib babies. I'd put them down in their cribs to sleep. If they woke up crying (or went down crying) I'd stand there and rub their backs, or take them out to rock them till they settled down. I was just "wrong" enough to not "let 'em cry it out". By the time Alec came along I was alot older and more tired in general. He slept with us.

We were warned that he'd still be sleeping with us at age 16, but he left on his own and moved into his own bed by the time he was 8. I figure all the stress and worry of his dad's illness(es) postponed his leaving a good 3 years, but the main thing is he's fine. And in his own room.

And here's what I say to the Family Bed Opponents- "I work for a veterinary clinic. If someone called me and said their dog was fixin' to have puppies and they were planning on taking the puppies away from their mom and making them stay in a box in another room- letting them with the momma dog to clean and feed, but then putting them back in the box away from her, I'd call animal control and report them for abuse".

"But your baby needs to learn to be independent and to go to sleep by himself" they said. Apparently they didn't stop to think that my baby (any baby)
-can't walk
-can't talk
-can't open the refrigerator
-can't dial 9-1-1
just how independent do they want that infant to be???

So I'm proud of my older 2 who have become fine adults and who hopefully learned to think alittle outside of the Normal Box because of their ol' hippiechick mom and her sometimes non-conformist ideas, and I'm proud of my youngest boy, proud of the person he's growing up to be on his own schedule, under his own power, using his own instincts of what he needs to know and when.

And I hope I've done even a fair job of not training these people I grew inside of me to fit carelessly into society, of allowing and encouraging them to question anything that seems sketchy no matter what Expert it comes from, and to become the people THEY want to be, and not what anyone else expects of them.