Stream of thought on raising teenagers...

I need good teenager stories. Not stories about good teenagers; in fact, keep those to yourself, please. I only want the stories from parents whose kids have grown up and past this phase I find myself drowning within.

I am not one to accept abusive relationships. If you treat me badly, we will part ways. This is the only time in my life that someone I LOVE is anything other than respectful towards me... And I can't leave.

Granted, I don't WANT to leave. I want to be here, in this house, with these people. I want to be living and laughing and struggling through life's crap with all of them. But I never expected that parenting through the teenage years would be more difficult than they were as an actual teen.

I don't know... this shit is rough. Rougher than anything I've really had to deal with before. The absolute astonishment I feel over some of the arguments we've had (over COMPLETE BULLSHIT) have floored me. If I had spoken to MY parents the way that E has spoken to me this past year? HAHAHAHAHA!!! He doesn't know how lucky he IS. And maybe THAT is the key? Do I take everything and everyone away from him? Seclude him from life and hope that his particular personality doesn't react in the opposite of our desired outcome? Some kids, when you punish them THAT way, turn to hatred, drugs, running away... I honestly DO NOT SEE THAT as a possibility for this particular kid, but it's there, in the back of my head. A little voice saying "Does ANY parent REALLY know what goes on inside their child's head?"

Nope. They never do. There would be a lot less tragedies in the world if parents could actually see into their teen's heads...

He's so deceptively difficult. He is the dream teen for everyone else; Helpful, kind, hilarious, etc. This indicates to me that he understands what is expected of him in society and life. It also means that he feels that I am worthy of less respect than the average person on the street.

That's some effed up shit right there.

If my friend or significant other treated me as less than an average person on the street, guess who wouldn't be in my life any longer? JUST GUESS.

My God, I wish he was 7 again. Not that he was a perfect angel, because he was NOT, but at 7, he hugged me voluntarily. At 7, he understood that I was in charge, even though I was willing to talk through situations. At 7, there are clear definitions to the mother/son relationship.

At 14, not so much.

People tend to mock the teen years. They laugh over how stressful they are, how crazy teen hormones are, yadda yadda. This honestly is no laughing matter. It's not fun. It's not rewarding to be on the receiving end of unwarranted anger, resentment, and disrespect on a regular basis. My own life has value that exists outside of being Mom, and DAMNIT I want it to be recognized!

Whatever. I have too much laundry and too many dishes and too many errands and too much school work to help with to spend on here, trying to figure out life. I am hoping and praying that this stream of thought is one of the last about this particular teenager. Maybe he's nearing the end of his hormone issues? Maybe he is ready to really accept responsibility for his actions and tone of voice? I just wish there was a real and true crystal ball that I could look into that will prove to me that he WILL TURN OUT OK and that we WILL have a good relationship as he becomes and adult. I just want my kids to be happy, to be loved, to feel their value. And I just want the same for myself.

Hold 'em or Fold 'em?

My God, it's hard to parent teenagers. For the obvious reasons, it's an emotional journey, but as a nearly former blogger (crickets over here), I am missing the tie that got me through a lot of their younger years: community and camaraderie. The "Been There, Done That" aspect of young motherhood is nearly absent in the teen years of motherhood. Out of respect for my kids and their own need to tell their own stories (or not), I keep quiet. At least 96% of the time, anyway. I find that parenting in this kind of cocoon of silence is the quiet straw that broke this camel's back.

Why was I crying in my car at 9:00 pm all alone? Can't tell you. It's not my story. Except that I'm IN this damn story and the other side of it will most likely become fodder for "Remember when Mom..." lead-in's. 20 years from now, I won't be able to pull this up and say "THIS IS WHY I DID THAT. You were no angel, kid. Just you wait till your own precious babies become teens. Then we'll talk."

Ugh. I hated hearing that when my kids were little. I wanted advice! Show me how to ford through these murky waters! Don't send me out into the seas of teenagers with only one paddle and a slow leak! Teach me how to sail!!

Even now, I struggle to find the words to write that can adequately express how thin and tender my skin is right now; to do so might crush one of my kids' hearts or trust. I CAN'T DO THAT.

But this sucks.

It sucks worse than potty training.

It sucks worse than a high-needs child throwing the 14th tantrum that day in a public setting.

It sucks monkey balls.

AND I CAN'T WRITE ABOUT IT.

This stage scares the shit out of me, and even though I think we're making good choices with a particular teen, there isn't any guarantee that he'll "make it out ok." A lot of teens DON'T make it out ok. A lot of kids who are well-loved and come from "good" families end up...elsewhere.

This is like going to Vegas (I assume; I don't like gambling.) and putting all of your money on one reasonably strong hand of cards. You are fairly certain that this will work...you think... Well, maybe? I mean, what if I have misread the cards already thrown? What if I haven't judged the other players in this game adequately? IS SOMEONE BLUFFING?

Holy hell, I don't want to gamble with my kid's life.

Ramble

I am quite envious of those people who claim that older children are "easier" than babies and toddlers as they either have some pretty easy teenagers with easy-breezy issues or they're big, fat, lying mc-liarpants. Either way, it doesn't seem to be the case with me and my own teens and I am quite tired of this emotional stress and tears in the bathroom but there isn't any TIME for tears right now because I have to drive someone to an activity. All I wanted was some respect for maintaining this house as it falls apart around us all and all I got was an argument that brought me to my knees behind a bathroom door. 

And there isn't TIME to truly communicate with my eldest teen that, even though I am PROUD of his hopes to join the military, I am PETRIFIED of what the potential loss his joining could mean to our family. How do you get through that conversation without crying? Every time? How? There isn't time because it's ticking away and they're growing up and away from me and I am not equipped to handle all of these changes at once but Life doesn't seem to notice or care. 

Tick tick tick and the decisions must be made and I honestly feel like I can go from a mountain top of contentment to a valley of despair in less than 3 seconds. No one is prepared to handle the emotional trauma that parenting teenagers can bring. Just like you can never fully describe childbirth, or what it is like to brave through the first year of parenthood, I cannot do justice to what it feels like to mother these 3 kids at 17, 13, and 10. Please give me a tantruming toddler to hold onto in a corner for 3 hours after a week of not showering. Please give me a collicky infant and sleep deprivation. 

All I Can See Are Ankles

It's happening again.

Sometimes, I notice it most when I'm trying to look forward into a room, and am met with an impenetrable mass of the thickest black waves imaginable, that block my 5'3" view.

Sometimes, it sneaks up on me when he's walking and all I can see are ankles. Ankles, ankles, ankles! Peeking out from under the cuffs of jeans that were purchased so recently, they haven't had a chance to fray or be stained.

Sometimes, I'm upstairs, folding laundry or watching tv, and I hear several men talking downstairs. And I'll pause, and wonder, "Who did my husband invite over? Should I get dressed a little more decently?" It will hit me like a shock wave: it's my son. Not my firstborn teenager, but my second son. My 12 year old who is still all arms and legs is the "man" I hear, the head I can no longer see over, and the one who grows too quickly to keep properly clothed.

It's happening again. My boy is becoming a man.

When Evan was a baby, he was barely on the growth charts. I remember cheering when he cleared the 10th percentile for height and 5th for weight. His smallness allowed me to carry him to my heart's content, which was a good thing because he LOVED to be held! In slings or on my hip, his favorite place to sleep was against my heart, and I LOVED IT.

He still loves being held. Not on my hip, naturally, but he craves physical affection and I somehow manage to get hugs on a regular basis. They may not last quite as long as before, but I'll take what I can get. I am beyond grateful for each hug.

Teenagers are weird creatures.

I know that at 12 1/2, he's not quite a teenager yet. Still, I've been lumping him in with "the teenagers" when I drive groups of kids places or tally the horde of current underagers into categories. Because that teen number is right there on the horizon, folks. He is so close; I have to prepare my heart to let go of my image of the little boy, once and for all...

Would you have ever believed your mother when you were a teenager, if she had told you how much she loved you? How much she KNEW about you and your hopes and fears? How strongly she felt every pain and loss you experienced? Would you have even stopped your own life long enough to consider that yours and hers were so deeply interwoven? No. That is not the nature of teens. They are preprogrammed to pull away and become their own person. Separate and individual; it's the path toward survival and I don't want to deprive any of my kids of their own happiness in Life.

 But it hurts. As a mom, it hurts. Not because of the angry and impatient arguments a teenager brings into your life; those aren't the worst pains, and they're expected. The Real Pain is in acknowledging the subtle changes of daily life that I am no longer included in on. The Real Pain is in knowing that from here on out, the adventures and information he includes me in on will lessen. The space between the seriously good hugs and moments together will increase, to the point that one day, this precious boy will move out and on into the world and a Life of his own.

 This kid... My God, how does it go so fast??

See Saw

Homeschooling a twelve-year-old is like riding a see-saw all day long.

Wheeeee!!! He is so responsible and able! He can do SO MUCH with limited assistance from his mom! I am flying high! There is laughter and cooperation and I am a great mom and he is a fantastic pre-teen! This ROCKS!

CRASH.

The metal bar of the teeter totter bruises my tailbone as my counter balance just jumped off at the ground level; I think I laughed too loudly or didn't appreciate his skills and, instead of a gentle glide to the Earth, he chose to simply abandon our ride and leave me in the dirt. My head aches, my back is twisted. I am shocked at how badly this person can rock me to my core and I can feel the tears pooling up behind my eyes. Have I completely misread our lives? Am I actually a horrible, shitty mother? Through my tears, I can see the fury in his eyes. This sucks. THIS SUCKS BALLS.

And then...

I am slowly elevated a few inches off the ground... He is there, on the other side, pulling it down with his hands, and then lofting himself onto the seat. The fury is forgotten, at least by him, and I am in the air again. He and I cooperate and the see-saw is smoothly shifting, up and down. It is...good, but I am cautious. Is it real? Can it last? When will he leap from his seat again?

Parenting a pre-teen or teenager is full of insanely beautiful highs and soul-crushing lows. This particular 24 hours has been quite the ride and I'm feeling a little sore.

Evanisms at 12

I was minding my own business, watching some fluff tv while I folded laundry on our bed, when Evan walked in and flopped down beside me.

"Sometimes I think it's really hard for you and Daddy to not choose me as the favorite child."

"Excuse me???" I sputtered.

"I just cleaned off the entire kitchen table and neither Corinne or Justin helped and you didn't even remind me. It's hard to not choose me as the favorite, isn't it?"

~~

We were outside the other night, enjoying the starry night around our firepit. I needed to give the coals some more kindling to ignite the damp wood, but, midway through my poking and prodding, the roll of cardboard I was maneuvering fell off in the wrong spot. 

"Shit!"

"What's wrong?" Patrick asked.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. Nevermind."

"Oh, so was that just a random 'shit'?" he laughed.

Evan interjected with, "DUH, Daddy, don't you even know this woman?!?"

~~

This kid. If you have a few free minutes and want a giggle or two, might I suggest you browse through Evanisms through the years...?

Enjoy. 

A Huge Loss

He sighed heavily.

"What's wrong, Evan?"

"It's just not the same."

"What?"

He lifted his WWE action figure guys in a dejected shrug, "Playing with my guys. It's just...not fun anymore. Before, I thought they were real. And now, I know they aren't, and it's just not as much fun..."

Poor kid. He has always been the one with the BIGGEST imagination. From the time he could sit up, he would "play guys" with ANYthing; making his mostaccioli noodles walk around on his high chair tabletop and using his fingers as Star Wars battle figurines when no other toys were available. If ever a birthday or Christmas present was needed, everyone knew that a package of army guys or Lego men would make him THRILLED. 

But now he's 12. When you're twelve, it's still fun to "play" but some of the magic has evaporated, especially when you're on your own. 

I was watching him eat inhale his dinner yesterday and noticed that the contours of his face are less boyish. He's still obviously just a kid, but...less. He's less of a child now, and the lines of how he will look as a man are peeking around the corner. His jawline is sharper, his brows are more pronounced and I can see the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip. This summer feels like it's the end of an era for my middle kid. I hope he embraces all of the time he has right now to climb the trees and shoot the bad guys and be a child...

It's just not the same when you know the wrestlers can't 'feel' the pain you've inflicted. Apparently.

I Can't Even

I woke up this morning and realized that Justin wouldn't be here today. Spring break is over and he's back at school and that kinda...sucks. I completely love and completely hate that he attends public school again. I do think that he's getting a decent education and that we actually get along better when we have a break from each other, but... well...he's my kid. He's almost an adult, for crying out loud. I can literally count the years of "childhood" on one hand with him and it freaking sucks.

Speaking of waxing poetic over the loss of one's childhood, Evan turns 12 tomorrow.

Holy hell, that one is making my heart clutch.

All he wants for his birthday is a cell phone.We have told him, repeatedly, that he is too young for a cell phone. He has pleaded, written out reasons why he IS old enough for one, and basically resigned himself to the fact that his parents are cruel and think he is a baby. He does NOT expect a cell phone.

And we totally got him one.

I do love surprising them on their birthdays. Especially when they honestly believe that they cannot receive the item they truly desire. It's our right as their parents to suck every last drop of enjoyment out of this gig; there are plenty of downsides we never accounted for.

So, yay. He's getting a freaking fantastic birthday present and he will be thrilled...but he's turning TWELVE.

It's impossible. It's inconceivable.

My comedian middle child, so full of love and laughter; so charming and witty. Somehow, he's almost a teenager...

And so goes the theme of my birthday posts for my children. Sunrise, Sunset and Where Has The Time Gone, etc. etc.

Excuse me while I go and snuggle with him and hold him while he's still 11...

I'd like to thank all of the little people who made this possible...

I got this photo and a few others in my inbox this morning from my sister.

My first thoughts were, "Aww. Cute baby! I wonder whose it is?" 

And then I thought, "Why is she sending ME these pictures? I don't know anyone who just had a baby, do I?"

I wracked my brain, trying to figure out who this kid belonged to but came up empty. I began to get frustrated with my sister that she didn't say "Hey so and so had a baby!" I mean, it's kind of rude, right? I definitely needed to send her a snarky email. I really enjoy sending those. I'm pretty good at it, too.

As I began composing a masterpiece of sarcasm, I opened the second email she sent me and found these pictures:

Now THIS kid, this kid I know! That's my little Evan! He must have been only 2 in that picture. I nearly died from the cute! She must have been cleaning out her camera or something.

 I smiled wistfully and decided to edit some of snark from my pre-composed email as a thank-you gesture. I'm a giving sister like that.

And then I paused.

Ho.Lee. Crap. That baby... That baby was EVAN. My own child, and I didn't recognize him?!?

My email was hugely shortened to just 2 sentences:

"Oh my God. I didn't even know it was Evan at first!"

I waited for her comments to follow with justified taunting at my fantastic mothering abilities.

She replied:

"Do you mean the baby or the toddler? That's Corinne! You can see her little line of her birthmark on her head. I was 6 months pregnant, that's why my face is so fat.*"

Yes. That's right. I not only didn't recognize the baby in the photos as one of my own, I totally didn't know WHICH baby it was.

I win. I win alllll the awards. I win all of the prizes. It's official: I am the World's Worst Mother. Though the credit should not fall solely upon my shoulders. I am happy to thank everyone who made this possible. You know, the little people. Without you, none of this would be possible. You know who you are.

All 3 of you.

*You did not look fat. 

DayMares

Evan had a sharp intake of breath on the car ride home from karate last night.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing."

He sniffed and was breathing deeply. I glanced at his seat in the rear view mirror and saw him hunched over, holding his head and slowly rocking back and forth.

"Evan? WHAT is wrong? Are you ok??"

He tells me that he was dreaming while he was awake. He tells me that he doesn't want to talk about it. He tells me all of these things in terse, 3-word sentences and a catch in his voice.

I continue to pepper him with careful questions. I can see how quickly he is spiraling into a melt down, but cannot do anything to stop it. I know he had a vision of something horrific. I know, because he has had them before. I know, because I have them, too. Dreams can wash over us like a tsunami, knocking us off our feet and making it impossible to focus on anything other the immediate emergency in front of us.

"Are you worried about us? About Daddy? About Penny? What are you scared of, Evan?"

"I don't want to talk about it! Can you please just try to hurry home? Please, Mama?"

By some miracle, I caught every green light on the drive home. When you get 9 green lights in a row after your child has has a vision that petrifies him, you start to get a little anxious, as well. He finally lost control once we were safely inside the house. Crying and shaking, I held him in the kitchen for a long time.

"I wish I didn't understand honey, but I do. I'm sorry I gave you such a vivid mind that can have such realistic dreams. But at least you also got my good looks, right?"

He didn't find the humor in the situation and insisted we call his dad who was at basketball practice and wouldn't be home till late. Not till he had his entire family under the same roof could Evan finally come out of his funk. He still won't share what his dream was, and I know better than to pry it out of him.

He'll eventually tell me. It may be days or weeks or even several years from now, but he will tell me in his own time. It will be family-centered and positively horrible and will still upset him as much as it did last night. I know this about him. I know this about him because I know it about myself.

I wish I didn't pass this along to my middle child. Of all of my attributes, this isn't something I enjoy and wish he had been spared. But, as I said before, at least he is shockingly attractive, just like his mom.

Eleven

~I've been here before; you'd think I'd have been more prepared.~

Eleven is sweetness and hugs and still calling me "mama" in front of his friends.

Eleven is sharpness of tongue and rolling of eyes with indignant exclamations over the unfairness of having to change his shirt after 24 hours of use.

Eleven is lengthening arms and legs and joints that seem to have a life of their own; appearing seemingly overnight, because JUST LAST WEEK I was cradling a toddler in the glider, singing him to sleep.

Eleven is hormones and growth spurts and tall girls and short boys and liking girls but not wanting to talk about it; Eleven is becoming embarrassed if pushed to talk about "her" name.

Eleven is riding your bike for hours without your mom knowing where you are... and that's ok.

Eleven is still using imagination in play. 

Eleven is exciting and thrilling and awesome.

Eleven is scary and dangerous and edgy.

Eleven is mood swings and angry spurts and realizations about Life and The World.

Eleven is HARD. So freaking hard. Stuck between little boy and teenager, these tween years are a time of living with a foot in each stage. Watching him teeter and sway is heart-wrenching. Seeing the struggle that is natural and necessary to become an adult makes me misty for him; though it IS normal, that doesn't make it any easier for his own heart.

A Quickie, cuz I'm tired (that's what she said)

Corinne shouts from downstairs, "Daddy, how do you spell 'awesome'?"

Before Pat can respond, we hear Evan's response, "E.V.A.N."

~~~~

As Patrick walks upstairs with coffee for us both to sip as we (i.e. "he") watch the Blackhawks battle against Detroit, he asks Evan about their weekend with Grandma. "Did you have fun? Did you behave yourselves?"

"Yes, Daddy; WE did. Did YOU Behave YOURselves?"

~~~

 Sneaky poker at Indy 500. This picture pretty much sums up the feel of the weekend: FUN.
~~~

When you ask your daughter to take some pics of the "house" map she drew out on the driveway, you will see that her photography style is totally ready for the internet...

 I love how she inserted her feet into the shots. SO INSTAGRAMMABLE.

 Welcome to her home...

 Let's take a walk down the hall...

 To the room that you Live In which makes it the livein room. Makes perfect sense to me.

 We have no need for fancy talkin around here. We're just one big, happy FamLe.

 (her feet are really dirty...)

 Clearly, we need to work on the "ch" sound, but she's only 7. I'm just happy the attempts were close. Evan wouldn't have bothered with any of the vowels at all.

Definitely her mother's daughter.

Matters of the Mouth

After being greeted by THIS last night,

(Yes. I screamed. Yes. I am disturbed.)

...my darling middle son promptly yanked his jaws apart to display the new vacancies on his gumline.

"Two molars at once, Mama! And they didn't even have cavities!* How much do you think they're worth?"

"The same as every other tooth. Trust me on this one."

The teeth were placed in their regular spot for tooth fairy receipt (i.e. in a ziploc on a kitchen shelf because fairies can't fit under pillows - They'd suffocate - DUH) before we went to bed.

I discovered the baggies the next afternoon, emptied of their money but still containing the teeth (because that's just how our fairy rolls, yo). I mentioned that I was tossing them in the trash and he flipped out:

"NO! MAH TEETH! I worked hard to grow those teeth, woman!"

"What were you going to do with them? String them up on a necklace?"

(Ever have the inability to stop words from escaping your lips? Even though you are 10000% aware that they are VERY STUPID WORDS to be uttering?)

He didn't even pause:

"YESSSS!!! That is an AWESOME idea!!"

"Nononononono!! You can't! You can't string your molars around your neck..."

"Like on The Walking Dead! YES! That would be SO COOL!"

He began bouncing around the family room with his friend chanting something inhuman that cannot be recreated for internet purposes. Just trust me that it was a moment of Holy Shit; how have I found myself in this house with these people??

I laid my head on the tabletop. Obviously, I have failed at parenting today.

*Need to clarify with him that "not having cavities" is the goal with teeth; not something to be surprised about.**

**Also need to clarify that my kids don't have tons of rotten teeth. I have no idea why he was all ecstatic about the status of his tooth... probably just to make me look bad.

Truth

The truth is that one of the best parenting decisions of my life was made 12 years ago when I purchased a Wahl adjustable hair clipper set. I swear to God, it has saved me HUNDREDS of dollars.

I may have made a few hair cut boo-boos on my boys' heads over the past dozen years, but I learned from my mistakes and don't make them anymore. Also, judging from the results of the handful of haircuts that my boys received at the barber shops (sometimes Patrick likes to mix things up on me. He's a wild man like that); the haircuts I give are just as good IF NOT BETTER than the trained professionals. I mean, really: how hard is it to buzz a boy's head?

I type this from amid a pile of jet-black, bone-straight hair that fell from the head of Evan just moments ago. His reaction to his freshly unencumbered view of the world:

"AyyyiieEE!!! You chopped off Mah Sideburns!! That was gonna be the 'Evan Do!' It was gonna be bigger than the 'Bieber Do!' "

The other side to this "truth" is that when you cut your kid's hair in your house, you should expect to find bits of his hair in your socks for a few days...

The Favorite Child

"Evan, my feet are cold and I don't want to get up to heat my coffee. Would you do it for me?"

"Oh, FINE, Mama. Sheesh!" He says this with a smile. Evan really doesn't mind helping his family out. He just has a smart-ass reputation to uphold.

He carefully crosses the length of the family room and then kitchen with a half full cup of hazelnut blend and places it in the microwave, chattering the entire time about the football game he's going to play on Xbox once he sits back down beside me.

The microwave dings and my 10 year old son inches back to me; a cup full of steamy heaven in his left hand, an Xbox controller in his right.

"Thank you Evie! You are my favorite and my best!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. See? I told you that all we have to do to become your 'favorite' is to bring you a cup of coffee!"

"Well, then that should make you want bring me coffee every day, right?"

"No way! Because you can LOSE the 'favorite' status just as easy!"

I snort and clarify, "You do know that I am joking about the whole 'favorite' thing, right? You guys are ALL my favorites."

He purses his lips and squints his eyes; head cocked just a tad to the right, "But tell the truth, Mama. I am actually just a LITTLE BIT more of your REAL favorite, right?"

Good Lord. That kid makes me laugh.

The Missing Link

Evan just called me from New York City.

Oh, didn't I mention that my baby is several states away on his super-special-birthday trip with Grandma? Visiting the Statue of Liberty and Chinatown and seeing a Broadway play and going a helicopter ride?

Maybe because I have been out of sorts this week. I thought it was because of hormones. And now I realize it's because I'm missing a part of my heart. My Evie.

"Mama! Guess what!"

"What, Ev?"

"We went to Chinatown and I ate stone crab but I didn't use chopsticks even though I've been practicing at home for weeks and ALSO! Grandma and I went to the Intrepid and I got to see the submarine and the SPACE SHUTTLE and it was huge! AND I saw the Statue of Liberty but we couldn't go inside it but it is SO BIG MAMA and I wanted to street run in Central Park but Grandma said the grass was too wet and the concrete was too dirty to roll on so I just climbed the REALLY BIG ROCKS in Central Park, Mama! AND ALSO I am going on a helicopter ride tonight and I cannot wait and New York City is waaaaay bigger than I thought and I got to see the new Ice Age in our room because the Disney Channel wasn't working so they gave us 2 free movies in our room so I'm going to watch Spiderman tomorrow night! AND MAMA?"

"Yes, Evie?"

"I miss you. I love you."

"I love you too, Evan. I miss you so much...Goodnight, baby."

When I woke up this morning, I had a series of texts from my Mother-in-law about Evan. His feet are hurting and he's tired and she was wondering if skipping the 9-11 memorial was ok with me. Then the next texts noted that the real reason for his reluctance to get up and go is homesickness. She wanted to know if I had any suggestions.

I'm actually amazed that he lasted that long. Evan is definitely an adventurous spirit with an ability to make the whole world laugh with just a few words. But he is also a family-centered homebody who loves to have his parents and siblings around himself. Hopefully he is just really tired and that the droopiness he's feeling will fade away enough so that they can still enjoy their last full day in NYC.

I'm sorry he's a little down. But I'm also a little selfishly glad that he misses us like we miss him...

Evan the Protector

Corinne and Evan love to wrestle. Being the younger sister of 2 brothers, she knows how to take you down with ankle picks and strangle moves. But, being the youngest (and also a girl...it's a stereotype that I loathe, but is totally true) she is fully capable of bawling hysterically when an injury naturally occurs. Though I hate for her to get hurt (and despise listening to her whining cries), something lovely has "developed" because of t.

"Ah-ha-ha-ha-HA! Take THAT!"

~muted thudding of head to the couch~

"You think you're so tough? I DON'T THINK SO!!"

~additional thuds from bodies narrowly avoiding walls and sharp furniture~

A laugh.

A shriek.

THA-THUNK!

Pause.

"Waaaahhhh!!!!"

"Mommmmy! Rinny's hurt!"

Evan's reaction time is much quicker than mine. Either developed from true concern for her well-being or for his own well-being if he were to ignore her cries, he has subsequently grown into her protector.

"MommYY!! Rinny's CRYING!"

6 year olds are prone to crying. At least, MINE is. I therefore tend to wait out those first few bawls. No reason to ruin a perfectly good cozy niche on the couch with my dog and laptop for a simple bonk on the head, right? Since she is still crying and Evan has called more than once, I determine that her pain has a legitimate possibility of being genuine and might not be just another plea for attention. When I enter the family room, I am greeted by a now-familiar site:

Corinne is whimpering on the couch over a bonk to her forehead while Evan is "gently" patting her back, holding a frozen burrito to her head.

He is making a joke about how her hot, sweaty head will help defrost the burrito and then she can eat it for lunch...

And this solves everything.

Giggles dissolve the tears and, before I can even process every step, they've broken into gut-busting laughter, have abandoned the burrito on the couch*, and have resumed their version of WWE.

And I can go back to my cozy niche, confident that my kids are the most awesome ones in the world.


*I lose more burritos that way...

A glimpse...

 I was chopping carrots and cucumbers for a salad the other day and asked the kids if they wanted a few slices. Their eyes bugged out when they saw the cucumber slices. My children have a love/hate relationship with cukes. They love 'em. Then they hate 'em. Apparently, we were on a "love" cycle so I doled out several slices and continued with salad preparations, convinced that I was a fabulous mother whose children ate VEGETABLES for SNACKS.

Grabbing the raspberry vinaigrette and a bowl, I turned to sit at the kitchen table and saw this:

 What? Where did they learn this?

 Also, what is all over her mouth? Chocolate pudding?
FAIL on the healthy eating, after all...

  Truth be told, they DID eat the cucumbers (and carrots!) once they were done with their "spa day". And Evan said the cucumbers made reciting his spelling words much easier to concentrate...

 Just for kicks, I decided to include a few more weird pics of what homeschooling looks like in our house. Corinne not only continued her study of the Iroquois beading project we were doing in co-op, but also did so with a... headdress?

Their block city. Complete with cell towers and exotic zoo and security cameras and recycling facility...

BONUS is the glimpse of ME in the background. You lucky, lucky ducks.

Just Now...

Me as I pour a cup of coffee and notice that Evan is still on the Xbox, "Evan, you're almost done."

Evan, in a British accent, "Wot??"

Me, completely used to his random humor, "Did I stutter?"

Evan, "I do believe you did, Mutha!"

Me, "Speaking in a British accent will not get you more video game time, dude."

Evan, reaaallly laying the Brit accent on now, "You don't know that, Mum! It couldn't hurt to try!"


I haven't had enough coffee to deal with him this morning.

Captive

When you're in the van, driving home from karate with a 10 year old, you are a captive. Captivated? Not always. But Evan does appreciate a good tune on the radio, so some days it's absolutely blissful to rock out with the windows down and pretend that the cute guys in the cars passing by are all checking me out (we are not going to mention that I am driving a mini-van and have my 10 yr old beside me. This is MY FANTASY, yo).

Alas, yesterday was not a rock-it-out day.

The conversation, as I remember it*:

~~~
"Mama? Is this Pink Floyd?" Evan asked as he turned down the radio. (HE TURNED IT DOWN. Oh yes, he did.)

"Yep. It's 'Hey You'." I turned the music back up and commenced with my impersonation of the Olsen twins' version of how to make a perfect pursed lip pose while casually grooving to the music.

Moments later, he turned it down again.

"Isn't this the same song that Mr. Blotto sang at the concert I went to?"

"Yep. They sure did." I turned it back up til the windows shook.

He listens for a second and then he has the GALL to turn it down AGAIN and says "Mr. Blotto sang it better."

Guffawing, I hover my finger over the volume button and sputter, "I'll tell Daddy and Uncle Kelly. I'm sure they're gonna love hearing this one..." and I turned that jam back UP and I rocked it out once more, lips perfectly pursed and mind positively BLOWN...


*Which really is the only opinion that matters here on the blog o'Tracey now, isn't it? Hence the words "MY BLOG and account of what happens in our lives" and not "the FAMILY'S blog and accounts of what they PERCEIVE happens in our lives."