It has been a sort of bittersweet pleasure to see the growth in Dex over the past couple of months. Because of his new schedule, he is gone by 7 am and comes back lots of days at 6:30. He’s either got the meeting of his rock band  or sports or a project he’s working on at school. Then he disappears into the land of homework and we see him every now and then, drifting through for a glass of chocolate milk. And while I am thrilled he is really involved in his studies and doing things he enjoys and making new friends, well, I miss him. And it isn’t just the weekdays, either: his friends have invited him to go away with them on a number of weekends, and so he’s been gone more than he’s been home. When he is home, I ask him about certain subjects, quizzes and things, and he says, ‘Don’t worry mom, I’ve got a handle on it.” And I am sure he does.

And it whacked me upside the head how much I have invested in helping him out.

I said this to a neighbor, who vigorously agreed. Her son, who is older, has had an offer to go to a fantastic prep school– in another state, as a boarder. It is quite an opportunity, but we both smiled weakly when she brought it up. Our boys have hung out together a lot, and they create a fair bit of the energy on our street, so this would change everything. I said it first: “It won’t be the same around here anymore, will it?” I could tell she was fighting back the tears, and I wasn’t too far off myself.

“I’m just going to miss him, that’s all,” she said. “I know he can do it, it’s me I am worried about.”

I sighed. “I hate to say this, but imagine what it will be like when they leave for college?”

She stood up straighter. “Well, I am going to  have a life by then, so it doesn’t decimate me.”

And that’s where it gets bittersweet. We have done a good enough job nurturing independence in our sons, but only when they aren’t around do we realize how much we have invested in seeing them thrive. As we slowly get shut out of their daily experiences, we just have to trust that they are doing okay, and that this is the natural order of things. After all, how much did my parents know about my life after 7th grade? Not much.  I’ve watched it time and time again with nieces and nephews and now it is my turn.

Wish me luck.

NPR’s the Connection had a really provocative discussion about what girls are reading. They had the authors of Beacon Street Girls series as well  as the Gossip Girls series. A main thread was, as long as they are reading who cares what they are reading. You can head the show if you got to their Website.

Another session with Neve’s dramatics leaves me feeling as if i will never figure out girls. I just don’t understand this need to turn everything so extreme, so fast. I suppose you could say I am sort of an unemotional type; if you were nice you might just suggest I am even-keeled. I grew up amidst a whole lot of males, lots of brothers and their friends, so you could say my personal culture is essential male. Controlled and rational to a fault. Mostly, when a guy gets mad at another guy, they have some physical scuffle or tell each other to shut up . . . and it is OVER. Not with Neve. Her emotional life is so rocky, and full of assumed slights and insults.  Neve and a select bunch seem to be in and out of being friends every week. She said this, she said that, she heard this- the whispering and the sideways looks and the tears, the explosions at home. . . I am telling you, I cannot take too much more of this. it seems to be based solely on an utter lack of trust. They have all felt hurt and betrayed by each other at some point, but they stick together. No one is on safe ground in this group of girls, and how they can interact like this all day bewilders me.

It must be exhausting. But my sympathy is waning.

She takes  all of it out on me, in breathtaking ways.. When she is mad at her friends, she comes home loaded for bear. Just this week, I finally got back a chair that I had reupholstered. She came in from school, took one look at the chair, said. “I hate it, it’s ugly, I hate everything you’ve done to this house.” And then she stared at me expectantly as if I was supposed to pick up the chair and walk out to the trash with it. 

Now, all the psychology books would probably tell you to find out what was really bothering her, and slowly say that you were sorry that she felt that way and could we sit and talk about it?

Nah. I looked up from my email, stared at her for a few seconds and said, “That was really mean.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Soooo, I don’t talk to people who say really mean things to me.”

And for the rest of the night I stuck to my guns. I could see her suffering because my attention means so much to her, but I refused to let this one pass. She needs to figure out now, not when she’d 12 or 15 that I am not here for target practice. I am tied of being the dog she kicks when she doesn’t get what she wants. I’ll talk to her about anything, but she needs to realize her potshots have consequences.

I could hear her crying at bedtime because I sent my husband up to say goodnight instead. I could hear him say, “You hurt Mom’s feelings. And you didn’t apologize, which hurt her even more. You need to remember what this feels like.”

The thing is, I hear other moms say they have the same issues with their daughters. Their girls are blasting them for no reason long before the teen years. They are all on emotional overload, and I, for one, am at a loss as to how to help Neve out. I don’t know if you can teach empathy, but my god, we are trying.

t goes without saying that this has been a time of extraordinary stress for all of us, full of worry and fear and speculation about our jobs and our financial security. And over the years I have learned that during these uncontrollable events, I am so grateful that the kids that keep us sane. Kids are so good at reading their parents’ vibe. I always think I am good at hiding my distress from them, but they always call me on it. Dex’s tender wisdom is always right on when someone is sick or dying, Neve is masterful at laying out all the logic of any situation, and both of them are so darn funny, you’re laughing before you know it. This week revealed that  not-yet-2 Colin is just as tuned in as his siblings are. 

After a particularly difficult day, for some stupid reason Tom and I sat there watching 3 grim economists detail the financial forecast on PBS. Colin came trotting through the room. He stopped short, stared at the two of us, and registered the mood. He then grabbed us each by the hand. “Up, Mom.” He pulled my wrist, then Tom’s knee. “Up, Dad, up.” 

“Not now, buddy,” Tom muttered. 

“Yes, Daddy, dance! Now!” Colin stood there determinedly pulling on Tom’s leg, “Dance! Dance!” He was giving us our own medicine. it was exactly the strategy we had used with the kids in the past when they had a bad day or were in foul moods. We’d crank up the stereo and dance, Afro-Celt for Neve, classic rock for Dex, and, it turned out that Colin was a big fan of Coldplay. After a few minutes of watching him groove  as only toddlers can to ‘Viva La Vida”, the ice finally melted and a full-out dance party was in swing.

I got down on one knee between songs and said to Col, “Thanks, pal. we needed that.” But he just shoved me out of the way and yelled, “Dancin’, Momma, dancin’!”

Ah, autumn; leaves and pumpkins, apple cider and sweaters . . . and the first virus of the season. We have been down for the count for ten days, which either means that we will be spared for a few months, or this will be the beginning of a season of illness. I recall the nurse at my son’s school telling me, as I picked him up all pale and sweaty, “make sure he gets lots of extra sleep in the next few weeks!” 

Something about that suggestion just made me totally insolent over the next days as I cared for sickies right and left. How can I make sure anyone gets extra rest? I can send them to bed, but I can’t force them to sleep. I can carefully select organic produce that will sit in my fridge for weeks because no one will actually eat it. I couldn’t figure out why I was so ticked off. Then it hit me:  what bugs me most is this idea that moms can truly, if they are vigilant enough and clean enough and serve enough fruits and vegetables, prevent their children from getting sick. it is a futile task, though. I can be the Sanitary Queen at home, but all it takes is one trip to the bathroom at school to undo all that Cloroxing. 

I have a friend who has spent a good amount of time in developing countries, She once said to me that she used to be a germ freak until she saw the slums of various places she worked. Talk about a potent soup of germs. She decided that we Americans are dumbing down our natural defense systems with all these bacterial cleaners and things. “Go ahead and get sick, build your immunity,” she says.

So, put that spray cleaner down and go get some extra sleep or something.