The worse part about being a Mom…

I can feel a lump swelling in my throat as I speak, trying to use my firmest “Mom Voice”

My eyes are stinging.

I blink, over and over again to fight back tears.

This is so hard.

I hate this part.

Ethan is in trouble again at school, and now he is in trouble at home.

I don’t really know if I’m doing the right thing, but what I’ve read says discipline is key.

So I sternly lay out guidelines and rules, and take away his video game and some of his toys.

“This is just the beginning,”

I explain, threatening the loss of more things unless he improves.

And he cries.

The way only a child can.

I hate it.

I want to go to him so badly.

Tell him it will be ok and that I’m on his side.

Explain to him that all that I’m doing is only because of my deep love for him and my desire for him to do better.

But I can’t.

And its hurts me so much.

I must be firm.

He throws himself on the floor in tears and it tears me up inside.

All of this is because he will not complete his work at school, and we don’t know why this has suddenly started.

His teacher is at a loss and we are left bewildered at the disappearance of our obedient, school work-completing child.

After several weeks of bad behavior, something has to be done.

I leave him there, sitting on his bed in a slump, head hanging.

Going into my bedroom, I barely shut the door before I’m sobbing.

I grab a pillow to muffle the sounds, hating that can’t hold it together long enough to get through a proper, ‘your in big trouble mister’ speech.

But I can’t.

I’m heartbroken at the sight of my 6 year old in pieces.

At the thought that maybe his teacher is missing something, or maybe we are.

What if I’m inadequate in some way that has lead to all of this, what if my parenting is flawed, and as a result child suffers?

What if????

I pull my face from the pillow and survey the mascara smeared across the ivory pillowcase.

When is Hank coming home?

I need him right now.

This is definitely the worst part about being a Mom.

The pain.

The fear.

It’s right there with the nauseas feeling I get at the thought that one day, if I’m not watching him close enough, he will take his bike out in front of a car and I will lose him forever.

It’s that feeling that makes me always stand out there watching, every time he goes for a ride.

It’s that feeling that makes me punish him for being bad at school, so he does better, so he learns.

Its love.

Still Scooter Pooping after all these years...

Hank, Ethan and I packed up on Friday afternoon and made the 8 hour drive to Birmingham, Alabama to visit Hank’s Mom.

Mary, aka, Gram.

I don’t know many people that can say this of their mother in law, but she has indeed become one of my most favorite people.

When Hank first took me to meet her, I really didn’t know what to expect.

Hank told me stories of a woman who was loving yet firm, strong willed and stubborn. Raised two boys to be good men by whatever means necessary when dealing with people twice your size.

“She still gets onto me if she thinks I’m getting out of line.” Hank tells me as we walk up to the drive to meet her. He is half joking and half serious.

I can’t determine if she is going to be an aged Mary Poppins or the woman off the Goonies.

Afraid?

A Little.

I’m meeting my future mother in law for Gods sake.

Hank senses my nervousness and wraps an arm around me, pulling me against his side.

“Don’t worry, she’s gonna love ya.”

Right. That’s what they all say.

Hank slides his door key that allows him passage down into the hall where Mary’s room is.

“Remember…”

He starts,

“Ever since the stroke, she has not been able to say very much, just a few little words here and there. She will say a lot of gibberish that will not make any sense, but I can help you understand her, just be patient.”

We walk into her room and Hank greets her warmly,

“Mama, this… is Megan.”

There she sat, a plump, pretty, silver haired lady in a wheelchair.

I will never forget the look on her face.

Mary puts a feeble hand out toward me to pull me closer. Her red lipstick lined mouth is in a great big grin.

Her eyes are wide and bright, even though her mouth may not cooperate; her head knows what’s going on better than half the people I know.

“OOOOhhhh!”

She squeals and looks excitedly up at Hank.

“She’s pretty isn’t she Mamma?”

“YES!”

She says clear as day with a sweet southern drawl.

I later learn this is one word she uses well and often.

I just smile at her,

“Thank you.”

I say, feeling like a little girl.

I never know how to react in these situations, I feel hot and nervous at the attention.

Mary just beams at me, and squeezes my hand.

Hank tells her about our experiences that morning in Birmingham and Mary looks over at me frequently, just smiling, and squeezing my hand.

We take her to lunch and I soon learn how to have a conversation, asking her questions she has a better chance of answering with “yes” or “no” or pointing, sometimes even using little easy words.

Sometimes I ask complicated things and I get gibberish in return.

Since that meeting, I’ve gotten much better at talking to Mary, and I have come to “Love her to Death” as I put it to Hank.

I’ve also learned that much of our communication requires very little speech.

She is full of spunk and life, waving that finger and furrowing those eyebrows of disapproval when Hank does something she doesn’t like.

She is fun to be with and sweet and loving to both Ethan and I.

She has friends that come pick her up and they go off, “Scooter Pooping” as Hank calls it. They eat and shop and do their own thing till she’s tired and ready to come home.

The stroke left her disabled in many ways but she prefers her independence, even wanting to live at the nursing home so that she could have her own room and her own space as opposed to living in ‘someone else’s home’

She would rather pay people to take care of the intimate details than have her family do it.

I respect that.

I respect her.

Every time we leave, I ask Hank.

“Do you think she is ok?”

“Oh yes, he says, this is what she wanted. This is what makes her happy.”

Mary is a darling to me.

This last visit, she gave me something very special.



A charm bracelet from her trip to Europe the summer she graduated from the University of Alabama, 1955.

Her family gave her two choices, the trip or what was at the time, much more popular for a southern lady coming out – a Debutante Ball.

She chose the trip.

The bracelet is to me, a reminder of who she was and still is.

Her own woman.

Ethan, tattle tale face

Ethan looks up with those imploring eyes – trying to convince me that it’s not his fault he got a bad grade in school today.

“You have been doing so well, what happened?”

He takes in a deep breath, as if to prepare himself and perhaps me as well, for an l o n g explanation.

The perils of kindergarten.

Oh the gruesome battleground that it is.

In his studies he does well, but at this age they are graded on behavior and overall classroom conduct, etc.

E = Excellent

S= Satisfactory

N = Needs Improvement

U = Unsatisfactory

Ethan got a U today.

As he goes into the explanation of why, I am not surprised to find that once again, it’s because he is talking out of turn and ‘tattling’.

To be exact, he was talking out of turn in order to tattle.

Double whammy.

My kid loves to tell on the other kids.

“Mommy, you just don’t understand – If I did those things, I would get in trouble. Why should they be able to do stuff and not get in trouble?”

It’s hard to explain this kind of stuff to a 6 year old, when even in my adult years, I barely understand it.

“Ethan, that never stops. People are always going to get away with things, you have to be focused on what you are doing – don’t worry about the kids in your class that are breaking the rules.”

“But Mom! That’s like, the most un-fair thing in the whole world! Other kids can do stuff, but if I do it, I get in big time trouble?!?!”

Two points.

#1 - When did my son become old enough to use ‘like’ in sentences?

#2 – How do you argue the truth? I feel the same way; it is unfair that people get away with wrongdoings. Some get away with these things their entire life. How do I convince my son to focus on his own deeds and not worry about everyone else?

I sit and stare at him for a bit before entering back into another long conversation that is much of the same and he is still not getting it.

It’s not like this is the first time.

Ethan is a repeat offender.

Hank and I have read the books and they say to ignore it, to let the kids settle it themselves, and definitely not to encourage the behavior.

Unless of course it’s an emergency.

So 30 minutes later and Ethan lets out a big sigh,

“So Mom, maybe I can only tell on the other kids a teensy bit?”

“No Ethan”

He slumps into the back of his chair like a disengaged teenager,

“Oooooh Kaaaaayyyyyy.”

Still, nothing registers.

I’m suddenly reminded of one of my favorite quotes,

“I am, indeed, a king, because I know how to rule myself.”
- Pietro Aretino

I think any good person would spend the rest of their life doing just that, ruling themselves.

For a 6 year old boy, born with a driving desire to just ‘BE’ whatever tickles his fancy at the time; this is indeed a hard lesson to learn.

“Ethan…”

I start to explain this to explain this to him, but stop.

Because I’m not sure how.

Hank often tells me I lecture Ethan too hard and too long, I lose him amidst all the grown up words.

“Yes Mam?”

He answers back.

“Ethan…. If you want to be a great man, you must learn to govern yourself. I mean… you will never be any one great if you spend your life focusing on people who are always making mistakes. Focus on yourself and how you can make Ethan better.”

Against my own thriving desire to lecture, I left it at that, which was probably still too much.

How do you sum up so much important information in just a few words?

I have a sinking feeling that I will be hearing about this again, and sooner rather than later.

“Mommy,”

Ethan returns to me with a thoughtful expression and climbs into my lap,

“I will try to be better and think about what I am doing and not what other people are doing.”

My heart soars, ‘Maybe I have gotten through somehow!’

Then he adds,

“But I’m just warnin ya, nobody’s perfect all the time!”

Why I never write in the afternoon.

“Mom….”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing now?”

“Ethan. I’m still writing.”

“Oh.”

“Is hankBert coming home after he shoots the commercial?”

“I’m not sure, but he will be home as soon as he can.”

“Okay……… Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Are you still writing?”

“I just have to finish this one piece, then I will play with you. Give me 15 minutes Ethan, okay?”

“Okay.”

(2 minutes later)

“Mom, can we play now?”

“Not yet Ethan, it’s only been a few minutes.”

“Oh. Did you know that my teacher made the whole class write ‘I will be quiet’ 20 times
yesterday? It took forever. What are you writing?”

I look up,

“I’m writing, ‘I love the eBert’ 50 times”

Ethan giggles.

“No you’re not…..”

“Your right, I’m not – but I am writing about you and hankBert and how much I love you guys and the funny things you do.”

Ethan climbs onto the office chair with the wheels as goes sliding down the hallway, shouting behind him,

“That’s nice Mommy.”

2 minutes later.

“I back Mom.”

“I see that. You didn’t have fun on the chair?”

“No. I got fed up with it, so now I’m back.”

“Please to have you sir, and don't say fed up - it does not sound nice."

With that, I gave up and closed my laptop.

Because when Ethan is around the only work to be done is the work of mothering and that is all.

“Mom?”

“Yes Ethan.”

“If you really want to, maybe you can write while you play with me. You know, play for a minute write for a minute, play for a minute, write for a minute.”

“Thanks Ethan, but I’d rather play with you anyway.”

Which is really the truth.

Because who wants to write when there’s playing to be done?

Certainly not I.

A few things I love about staying home….

Having time to help Ethan put together care packages for Gram.



Picnics with our friends.



Afternoons of Discovery.



And....

Bike Rides

A letter from a reader...

Someone sent me an email yesterday; it was very dear so I asked her if I could post it below:

Dear Megan,

I have been reading your blog for what I suppose has been nearly 3 years and I have never sent you a comment or communicated with you in any way, yet I have been right here with you on your travels all along.

I found your blog though myspace, my great granddaughter made my account so I could look at pictures of her children and somehow one day I pressed a wrong button and found you.

I followed you from there to your website (this is so much easier for me and many others I am sure) and I have been a faithful reader ever since.

I wanted to tell you.

I thought you should know that you have touched my life and I do so hope that you are able to fulfill all your dreams of being a ‘well respected author’.

That and I wondered if you would put up a larger picture of the very small one you have in the corner of your website. My eyes are not what they once were and I simply cannot make out your features, or that darling chain.

I am sure others would feel the same.

Respectfully Yours,
Margaret

P.S.
Did you know that the name Megan derived from Margaret? Just a tidbit for you

I have received many emails over the past few years, many wonderful emails.

Margaret’s email stood out to me because as I suspected, she is well into her 80’s and I am completely flattered and tickled pink to have anyone of her tenor reading and enjoying anything I write.

I have always had a deep admiration and respect for those senior to myself and I think I have so much to learn from them.

We all do.

But that is for another blog.

Margaret, here is the picture below (the necklace was a gift from my husband this past Christmas) and thank you again for your lovely letter.

All I really want...

Is a schedule.

Everything is so topsy turvy, I am discombobulated to say the least.

Every day is a tornado of different goings on, and I just can’t keep up with all that I have to do.

Seriously.

I am disorganized.

So much so, that I made a huge mistake last night and bought 4 tickets to a show Hank and I can’t see (don’t even get me started on how I did that)

I was tired.

It was nearly midnight.

And now I had to learn how to put something on EBay and promise my ever understanding husband that I will indeed fix it somehow.

Crossing my fingers that they sell, Hank is already saying that we are going to lose money on them.

I’m so sick to my stomach over the whole thing; I don’t even want to go see Wicked now.

((Know anyone who wants 4 tickets? I’ll split them up ;-) if you only want 2))

I’m only half kidding.

This made the 3rd evening I had double booked us for outings or events of some kind.

I am totally thrown off my routine.

AND

Not writing.

Or at least, not finishing.

Alas.

Much has to do with the fact that I am still working, this consulting/contracting job – it’s just enough to keep me busy and to keep me from getting into the swing of things at home.

(attention please!)

I would like to have the entire cake in the window and a very large fork please!!!

I just know that Hank rolls his eyes somehow where I can’t see every time I complain about my oh so pitiful schedule issues and how it interferes with my delicate writing time and bike rides in the park on lazy afternoons with Ethan.

Yes.

Poor poor pitiful me.

Ah well.

I’ll get the hang of all this somehow.

It’s just one huge adjustment.

For someone that has been riding one long wacky rollercoaster their entire life, you would think I’d be taking this curve, hands in the air and a smile on my face.

Next week looks better for schedules and such, after all, just last week – Ethan was on Spring Break and I for the first time had to balance a 6 year old full time and work!

I will get it together sooner or later,

hopefully sooner,

than later.