Raising An Only

Roberto is short. I’d call it a dirty little secret, except for the fact that it’s impossible to hide. We didn’t notice anything was different about his height until the second grade, when the other kids grew like weeds and Roberto . . .  didn’t. It was then that we noticed the difference and worse, he felt the difference among his peers.

He started asking me, “When am I going to grow?” “Why aren’t I taller?” “When am I going to be tall?” Much like the questions he asked me over and over when he was 5 and 6 years old about when was he going to have a brother?

At Kennywood two years ago, when Roberto was 8 and 47 inches tall, Rob and I fretted over him not being able to go on all the rides with his friends. But we smoked-and-mirrored our way onto all the rides that day, until the very end. After he had already ridden The Racers a bunch of times, the ride operator wouldn’t let him on. But his friends  and even strangers begged on his behalf and the operator said he could go on. It was a great moment for short kids everywhere!

Roberto’s friends were so sweet. They were honestly concerned about whether he would be able to get on the rides, offering to trade shoes with him if they thought their shoes looked bigger, offering to hide Roberto between them so that the ride operator wouldn’t notice Roberto going on. It really was touching and I thought “Wow! People are SO wrong! Kids are nice!”

Fast forward two years later . . .  Roberto is 10 now and just about 52 inches. That is pretty doggone short, and kids are definitely not so nice.

Short Man Syndrome. Napoleon Complex. Whatever you want to call it, there are a host of negative ways to describe men (and women, but mostly men) who are short.  It’s no coincidence that short men may tend to act in similar ways as adults–they’ve all endured basically the same childhood. But if you took a physical trait, no matter what it was, and made fun of a person for having it for his or her entire childhood, I’m pretty sure there would be a “syndrome” for that trait too.

When a man is short, it is almost always the first thing someone says about him–even though his height has no bearing whatsoever on his career, his other talents, the kind of person he is, or how much money he makes. His height is totally irrelevant to the life he leads and would be even moreso, if society would let it be. But a man’s height, unfortunately, seems to be the greatest physical measure there is.

So what short boys experience on a day to day basis is something that only their moms and dads know . . . they endure a lot. They get teased a lot. And it’s not that Roberto is being bullied by one kid or a small group of kids. It’s not that he doesn’t have friends.

What he endures are the constant reminders that he’s short and that his shortness makes him different and lacking in some way. The almost daily reminders from his friends that he’s the littlest kid in the class. The teasing that often goes too far. His teacher-given password of “short 82″ for an online game. The girls who already send the message that they like the tall boys, even though Roberto is one of the most handsome kids I’ve ever seen.  

The good news is that Roberto has a lot of friends and cousins and grandparents who adore him. He is a straight A student who learns without even having to study or try. His confidence remains high and he is a happy, high spirited kid. He plays sports like baseball and golf where height and size aren’t required for success. And of course, video games  . . .

But the most helpful advice I’ve received as the mom of a short boy didn’t come from talking to a short adult man or from a self-help book or from another parent going through something similar. It came from Roberto himself, who for all his silliness, is an incredibly mature kid.

We were talking about his height and how he feels about it and whether it bothers him and he said: 

“Mom, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter how short I am because how tall or short someone is has nothing to do with anything. You and dad always tell me that and I know that. Plus, I have way stronger feelings than anyone I know. The only time I ever cried was on the first day of school because I wasn’t expecting to get teased. The kids in my class cry over everything that happens to them but I never cry about anything because I can take stuff and they can’t.”

As a mother, it breaks my heart to think about how and why Roberto has built up such a thick skin by the tender age of 10, but the end result for him as an adult will be awesome.

In looking for inspiration for a new post, I stumbled across this article on only children published in American Baby magazine. This post is going to be a long one, folks. Brace yourselves. My comments are in bold.

10 Tips for Parenting Only Children, By Jocelyn Voo

How to handle your overly mature, diligent, conscientious, perfectionist only child.

Ummmmm, Ummmmmm. Really? No one who fits this description lives at my house—man, woman, and certainly not child. 

She’s the love of your life. Your pride and joy. Your little baby and your big girl. She’s the only child, and — for better or worse — she’s going to get all your love and attention.

This is the ONLY part of this article that’s true. 

Because of that fact, only children tend to mature quickly, live to please others, and are born leaders.

Absolutely not true. So every only child is a born leader? At least in this one sentence, she was savvy enough to use the words “tend to.”

Here’s how to use birth order traits to your parenting advantage.

Last time I checked, the only advantage that parents have is that we are bigger, carry the wallet, and can take things away. 

1. Mini-Me, you complete me. Only children often grow up as mini-adults, very obedient and eager to please authority — namely, you. But only children “need time and space with freedom to do what he or she wants,” write Cliff Isaacson and Kris Radish in The Birth Order Effect (Schwartz Books). Mothers need to realize that their 6-year-old daughter won’t be the Olympic-grade gymnast that she never was, and fathers must come to terms with the fact that their son won’t be a doctor, lawyer, Mensa member, and Grammy-winning rock star (oh, and a multimillionaire) by the time he turns 30. Your only child is your only child, not your second chance at redemption, so don’t push your own agenda on him. Instead, let him explore his own interests without interference. Your little guy may not be the next Elvis, but he might be the next Einstein. That it’s unfair to pin your unfulfilled hopes and dreams on your kid is true for ANY child, not just an only child. And I don’t know any child who is eager to please authority. I think they stopped making kids like that somewhere around 1950.
   
2. Resist the urge to interfere. Only children tend to be perfectionists, so if you try to “redo” every little thing they do, like remaking their bed or redusting a shelf they just cleaned, you’re only going to reinforce their perfectionist habits. As Dr. Kevin Leman, author of The Birth Order Book: Why You Are the Way You Are (Revell), writes, “Don’t be an ‘improver’ on everything your firstborn or only child says or does.”  EPIC FAIL. Where are these children who are dusting shelves and making beds?
   
3. Dethroning the king of the hill. Without any siblings, “Lonely onlies tend to be critical — and even more than a bit self-centered,” Leman writes, which means some only children have a hard time learning how to share, negotiate, or employ tact. Only children tend to project their thoughts, feelings, and motives onto others, even interrupting them if necessary. As a parent, it’s important that you exercise control and discipline your child as necessary, showing him that he can’t get away with inexcusable behaviors.OMG—NOT INTERRUPTING! ANYTHING BUT THAT! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!! Is this woman serious? Has she raised anything other than a pet rock? Interrupting has nothing to do with being an only child. CHILDREN INTERRUPT. They all do it—that’s their MO until you teach them otherwise. And why would a kid without siblings naturally be more critical than any other child? I would think it would be the opposite because who is the only child criticizing? His pillow? The air? His pet? Siblings can spend hours thinking of fun and exciting ways to say hurtful things to each other.
   
4. Jumping the high bar. Your 3-year-old feels down in the dumps because he didn’t get a get the lead in the preschool parents’ day play? Say hello to what Leman calls the “discouraged perfectionist.” According to Leman, only children “are very structured, with high expectations for themselves and others.” Inevitably, setting unrealistically high expectations for oneself will lead to failure, but what’s crucial is how the child deals with failure. First, you must not let your only child indulge in negative self-talk, like, “I knew this would happen to me! It always happens to me!” Instead, help him examine the situation closely. Was it because he was chosen as a dancer because he has great rhythm, or maybe he didn’t memorize his lines because he was too busy with tumbling classes and swim lessons? Let him see that it’s okay that he got a supporting character role instead of the lead. After all, being the best at everything isn’t everything.Again, this behavior has nothing to do with being an only child! Only children are the only ones who are sad when they try for something and then don’t get the part? Ridiculous.
   
5. Stop and smell the roses. Only children tend to be ambitious, enterprising, energetic, and willing to make sacrifices to be a success, writes Leman. However, this can lead your piano-loving 10-year-old to putting undue stress and pressure on himself to learn the entire works of Tchaikovsky before bedtime. Let your child know that it’s good to set goals — but that there are other things in life than just work, and that you won’t be any less proud of him if he doesn’t end up at Carnegie Hall by middle school — or ever.Ok, now I feel like a loser. My kid doesn’t dust, make his bed, or know the complete works of Tchaikovsky, and it’s already 8:30 p.m. I suck. AND I have two brothers.
   
6. Unleash the beast. (Sort of.) Since your daughter (or son) is your only child, you’re probably going to devote a good portion of your waking hours to her needs. While this might translate into your helping her master her times-tables more quickly than she would have on her own, it can also mean she never learns how to do anything by herself. It’s good to be close to your child and act as her teacher, but it’s also important to expose her to uncertainty at times so she can develop problem-solving skills and assert her independence. In the long run, she will make mistakes and have to remedy the situation without your help. After all, it’s cute when your 5-year-old daughter clings to your skirt and is afraid to go to her first day of kindergarten. It’s not cute when your 18-year-old does it on her first day of college.This is totally true, except for the part about the 18 year clinging to her mother’s skirt on the first day of college. I’m pretty sure kids like that don’t get in to college.
   
7. Avoid the “Lonely Only.” Since they have no siblings, only children can become lonely, warns Isaacson and Radish, and to keep from feeling this way, they often develop imaginary friends or ties to inanimate objects, such as dolls or stuffed animals. It doesn’t matter how much attention you lavish upon an only child; sometimes, they just need someone their own age to relate to. In this light, make an extra effort to have your child socialize with his peers. Have your 7-year-old join a scout troop, enroll him in soccer lessons, or take him to the park or neighborhood playground where he can interact with other kids.This is a mixed message. So the subtext is that it’s ok to ‘lavish’ your child with attention so that he or she doesn’t have a scary imaginary friend that might come and kill you in your sleep . . . but that same attention leads to the hideous personality failings described in numbers 2 through 6. And what child these days isn’t involved in so many activities that they are busier than their parents?
   
8. Laugh! According to Leman, only children can be so logical, scholarly, and straight-thinking that they may become overly serious and fail to see humor in things. While there’s no set way to “teach” someone to have a light-hearted sense of humor, be a good role model: Avoid being an iron-fisted disciplinarian, and smile and laugh openly with your kid. Chances are, he’ll follow suit.Logical? Scholarly? Straight thinking? All because you are an only child? This is more of a stretch than some of the advanced yoga poses on P90X! This woman needs to spend a few hours with Roberto and watch him do armpit farts.
9. Do away with the lists. Only children are list-makers, Leman writes, but that means that they may become too boxed in with the details to see the big picture. Is your 10-year-old daughter too concerned that her she’s going to forget her dance routine steps in the fifth-grade talent show? Remind her that it’s just for fun — it’s not every day that she gets to reenact Madonna’s “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” in a fuchsia Marilyn Monroe costume, blonde wig, beauty mark, and all.Yes, because only “onlies” worry about forgetting dance steps . . . And damn that kid of mine for not making my grocery list! I forget the milk, again!
   
10. “No” means “no.” And it’s important for your only child to remember it. Only children live to please their parents, so it can be difficult for Mom and Dad to turn down requests and offers. But does your daughter really have time to (or even want to) help you give Fido a bath? Let her know that being selective about her activities at home and at school isn’t going to disappoint you or hurt your feelings. By learning to say “no,” your only child is better equipped to prioritize her day — and the zillion things on her to-do list.So the message here is that you should encourage your child to say no to you. So, we bought Fido for you, honey, but by all means, go play with your friends and DON’T be responsible for the dog by helping me give it a bath. Go do what you want! Wow! Saying NO to your parents is clearly a message that more of today’s youth need to hear and understand.

It goes without saying that every child is different. You may have an only child, or a second, third, or fourth child who fits perfectly into the above ten points. But for this woman and Kevin Leman–the author of the book that this writer sources–to suggest that any of these personality traits are because a child is an only child is irresponsible and hurtful. Parents are the only ones responsible for shaping their children and their behavior, no matter how many of them there are. Only children are not joyless, list making, dust-rag wielding, overachieving, parent-pleasing automatons no matter how much you sometimes wish your kid was (that’s a joke). Do you know a kid like this? I sure don’t, and I couldn’t be happier!

If you are in search of good reading about raising an only child, check out The Seven Common Sins of Parenting an Only, by Carolyn White. It’s logical, relevant, and full of useful information that parents of onlies won’t find totally insulting.

A nice warm blog for what is hopefully the last cold and snowy Monday morning . . .

What kind of mother am I?

I know the answer to this question. Because I’ve been told, straight out, by my loving child, verbatim, that I am:

” . . . the worst kind of mother in the strict way because you won’t let me have Text Free on my iPad and you won’t let me watch Bad Teacher.”

Wow. So I guess I am strict, by today’s standards. And unfortunately, for Roberto anyway, that is not something that is going to change any time soon.

Here’s what I believe:

• Ten year old boys shouldn’t wear Axe deodorant.
• Ten year old boys shouldn’t swear in the presence of, and most especially at their parents.
• Ten year old boys shouldn’t watch Bad Teacher.
• Ten year old boys shouldn’t be allowed to text girls.

I also believe a whoooollllleeeeee bunch of other stuff, but I’ll just leave it at this short list for now because you wouldn’t believe how hard it is, in today’s world, to stick to four points above.

Lest you feel sorry for Roberto and think that our idea of a fun Friday night is holding hands and singing Kumbaya . . . at this very moment, Roberto is playing Black Ops on Xbox and trying to get an 8 year old across the country to tell him all the “inappropriate” things he knows . . . and I’m OK with that, sort of. Well, actually not at all but I have to give in somewhere. Some parents give in with other stuff. I give in with war-based video games. Not gangster-based . . . war-based.

Roberto says I treat him like a baby and I don’t want him to grow up. Of course, part of that is true. I think that’s true for a lot of parents.

It’s true that because he’s my only child and he’s at cusp of learning who he is and figuring out his place in the world and REALLY pushing me away in just a year or two when I’ll even give up my blog because I won’t be able to write about him because I’ll own no part of him the way I still sort of do now that I’ve got my heels dug in a little now. (Don’t worry about me giving up blogging altogether. After this one, I plan to blog about how much I loathe everyone.)

So yes, I’m holding onto what is left of my child. After all, at ten, he’s still my baby. Not A baby, but MY baby.

Honestly, though, the problem isn’t that I see Roberto as a baby. The problem is that I see myself as a baby. I remember vividly being 10 years old . . . and then I imagine talking to my parents the way Roberto talks to us on occasion, or watching what he watches on TV or playing the video games he plays and hearing what he hears through Xbox Live, or listening to music with lyrics about drugs and sex and alcohol and S&M, or imagine wearing perfume because I cared so much about what boys thought when I was in the 4th grade.

Do you know what I was doing when I was 10? Playing with dolls. Well, actually only Barbie dolls, which I tortured and maimed with my best friend. Running around outside until dark. Watching cartoons. Reading constantly. Hanging out with my brothers and having secret crushes on my older brother’s friends. Being very much a kid. A YOUNG kid.

Would I have ever in my wildest dreams attempted to contact a boy? I’d rather have died. Would I have sworn in front of my parents? I still don’t swear in front of my parents.

The problem isn’t that I don’t want Roberto to grow up . . . the problem is that I keep comparing my idyllic, innocent childhood to Roberto’s oversexed, fastpaced, grow-up-in-a-hurry childhood and I hate it for him and for all of the kids today because they don’t know how sad it is what they are being deprived of.

Sure, today’s kids have awesome stuff that people who grew up in the 70s and early 80s didn’t have–the “olden days” as Roberto calls them–cell phones, texting, video games, computers, electricity. But we had so much more. We got to be kids for longer. We weren’t worried about impressing the opposite sex in the 3rd or 4th grade and then worried about it for THE NEXT 70 YEARS.

And now that 60 is the new 40 and you can live to be 100 through the miracle of modern medicine, who wants to stop being a kid any faster than they have to? But you can’t tell that to a 10 year old who wants to be 17, or to a 17 year old weighed down by a relationship instead of living it up.

Youth really is wasted on the young.

Sorry for the delay in posts. We spent a week in San Francisco, and between getting ready for that, being on vacation, and then recovering from the trip, I have not had a single moment to write a post. I do plan on writing about our trip in the very near future–what a great city!

Before I left, my dear friend Helene sent me an article that immediately hit a nerve. The title is “Who says raising boys is easier?”

This article asks one of the most annoying and stupid questions that can be asked on the planet Earth. People are strangely in love with questions that can’t be properly answered. Like “Do these pants make me look fat,” and “Guess how old I am,” and “Have you stopped beating your wife?”

For every pro to having a boy, there is an equal con. For every pro to having a girl, there is an equal con.

Examples–

Boy Pro: They carry on the family name.

Boy Con: They will turf your grass when they start driving.

Girl Pro: They are more likely than boys to sit still when needed.

Girl Con: They cry more.

When I was pregnant with Roberto, we did NOT find out what we were having. We wanted to be surprised. I can’t tell you how many people were annoyed by this decision. They questioned us about how can we plan if we don’t know what we’re having? How can we stand the suspense? Wouldn’t we be so upset if all we got was yellow or green clothing? How could we properly decorate a nursery? (assuming that it MUST be pink if it’s a girl and blue if it’s a boy . . .)

But the reeeeaaaaal reason so many people were interested in the sex of our unborn child wasn’t out of concern for our level of preparedness (and if you know me, you know that I am the ultimate preparer), it was so they could start casting judgments, prebirth, about what is the “better” sex baby to have–boy or girl.

Which is easier? Which is more fun? Which costs less? Which gets the “ohhhhh!!!!!!” with six exclamation points and which gets the “ohhhhh!!!” with three.

We were robbing them of their joy of crushing us with their opinion and they didn’t like it.

Back then, I didn’t know that I would have one child. The decision to not find out, in retrospect, remains one of the best decisions I have ever made. Hearing the words “It’s a boy!” from the doctor after being in labor for over 36 hours was a joy that cannot be described and one that neither I nor Rob would have felt had we known the sex of our child going into the delivery room.

And don’t even bother trying to argue with me here because you won’t win. 

If I had a penny for every time I was asked when I was pregnant, “What do you want to have . . . a boy or a girl?” let’s just say I’d be holed up in a suite in NYC recovering from extensive cosmetic surgery right now. 

I did back then for myself and still do today take great umbrage with this question whenever I hear it being asked. I believe it should be against the law to ask this question because it is rude and offensive and forever tarnishes the child/parent relationship if answered the wrong way. 

Appropriate answers to this question are:
1. None of your <expletive> business.
2. A human being.
3. A healthy baby.
4. A baby who grows up into a person who has more sense than to ask a pregnant woman what sex child she hopes she is having.

You see, if you ask a pregnant woman what she hopes she is having and she says “a boy” and then she has a girl . . . ummmm can you say awkward moment? “Gee, one-second-old-baby  . . . what I REALLY wanted was for you to have a penis, but since I’m stuck with you, I guess I’ll have to love you anyway.”

What kind of start to the mother-daughter relationship is that? It’s built on a foundation of “I wish you were someone else.” AND YOU’VE TOLD PEOPLE.

Another super annoying thing, especially when you have an only child, is when people imply or straight out tell you that the gender of child they have is better than the gender of child you have.

• “You deserve to have a girl.”
• “Having a boy is great, but there is nothing like the relationship between a father and a daughter.” 
• “I don’t know . . . there is just something so special about having a daughter.”
• “Girls are the best.”

Believe it or not, these are all comments that I have heard over the years, word for word.

It’s clear, or it should be to any parent with a functioning brain,  that  no sex is easier or better or more fun or more special to raise than the other. The level of “specialness” in a parent/child relationship has nothing to do with the gender of either, but the quality of communication skills and the love between the two.

I have one of the best fathers in the world whom I love with all of my heart . . . and I’m smart enough to know that our great relationship is not just because I’m his daughter–it’s because our relationship is built on trust and love and understanding and mutual respect.

So although I could complain and bitch and moan until the end of time (you should try living with me!), I will now answer the question at hand–are boys easier to raise than girls?

Here is the answer:

There is no answer because this is an incredibly stupid and ridiculous question that no one with any sense would bother to ask or give more than five seconds of thought to answering. Anyone who thinks one gender is easier to raise is truly clueless. 

I file this writer’s entire article and all the accompanying research with another article I recently read that shows that swearing can help reduce pain. Really? They needed an actual study to prove that? Stub your toe and then drop a couple of “F” bombs. Now stub the other one and keep your mouth shut. See which toe hurts less. Case closed.

Have you seen those TV commercials “It’s a great time to be a family?” Roberto and I totally had one of those moments at Best Buy. The three of us were there, tooling around, and stopped at the Dr. Dre headphones display. Now, if you know me, you know that I’m the furthest thing from materialistic (this is actually not at all true). These are some awesome looking headphones . . . but the cheapest pair is almost $200! Yikes.

Dr. Dre headphones--worth it?

So Roberto and I plug in . . . by this time, Rob has departed Best Buy for the greener pastures of Lowes . . . and before I know it, Dr. Dre has transported me from the obnoxious, overbearing, sensory overload world that is Best Buy to just me and The Doors and one of my favorite songs of all time, Peace Frog. It sounded so good and I literally could not hear one other thing in the world, and the volume wasn’t even that loud. Roberto was jammin’ to the Black Eyed Peas’ Imma Be, and I was struck by how awesome it was to be experiencing $400 headphones for free with my kid, despite our vastly different taste in music. We were dancing around and I’m sure looked like complete fools.

So I got to thinking . . . would I ever really buy those headphones? For myself or for Roberto? And that got me to thinking about overindulgence. “Everyone” says that one of the hallmark traits of being an only child is that your parents have spoiled the crap out of you. Maybe they can afford to, maybe they just want to, maybe they feel guilty for not giving their kid a sibling and try to constantly make up for it with crazy amounts of toys, gifts, and attention. Maybe it’s all three.

Overindulgence comes in three forms, as far as I can tell–giving too much attention, giving too much stuff, and doing too much for your kid.

Because I am all knowing and wise, I am here to tell you that the worst kind of overindulgence is indulging your child with attention and pretending like everything they do and say is great and interesting and wonderful even when you know it’s stupid and boring and annoying.

MOTHERS! DO NOT BE ASHAMED TO ADMIT THAT SOMETIMES TELEVISION IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR CHILD. THIS BLOGGER RECOMMENDS IT!

When you have an only, it’s so easy to fall into the trap of giving your one child all of your attention all of the time, because, let’s face it, you have time to. You don’t have another child vying for your attention. But you have GOT to focus on other stuff and put things ahead of your child, no matter how lame you think those things are. Work, other people, TV, books, laundry, your pet rock collection. ANYTHING that tells your kid that he or she is not always the sole focus of your life.

You are not short-changing your child by doing this. In fact, it’s the opposite. You are short-changing your child when you set him or her up for a lifetime of resentment and disappointment and difficult relationships when your child realizes that, in fact, the world doesn’t really revolve around them and their needs.

Clearly, Roberto is the sole focus of my life. I started a blog about him for God’s sake. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let HIM know that. I may mess up a lot of stuff in terms of being mother, but one thing I know I am doing right is not raising an attention-spoiled child, even if I do still sometimes put on his socks.

Know where I got MY make up when I was 12, girls? Oh yea, that’s right! I DIDN’T WEAR ANY! And when I did, my mom bought it for me at Giant Eagle along with the weekly groceries and I could not have been any happier.

I have not forgotten about my blog. I think about it a dozen times a day—what to write, how come I’m not writing. It’s hard to be a good writer when you can’t be honest, and it’s difficult to be honest in this blog because so many people I know read it. Don’t get me wrong! I’m happy that people who I know are incredibly busy with jobs and families and friends take the time to read what I’m writing.

But it puts me in a funny position because if it were a bunch of strangers reading my blog, then I would be totally free to write whatever I want and say whatever I want and I would never have to face anyone or wonder what they think. But as it is, I can’t always be as free as I should be  because I work with and interact with and am related to the people who read my blog.

And it isn’t that I want to write anything bad about them or insulting or anything like that; it’s that in order for this blog to be helpful to anyone, including myself, it has to come from a more honest place. The problem isn’t that I don’t know how to be honest—I can easily be more honest because I’m very in touch with my emotions about having an only child—the good and the bad.

The problem is being honest and then being around the people you’ve been honest with. Kind of like a walk of shame, but with your clothes on. So I’m going to work on the honesty thing and see how it goes. One caveat . . . just because I’ve written about something does not mean I want to talk about it.

Of course, praise is always welcome.

So with that in mind, here’s a new post, long, LONG overdue.

Since I last wrote, another Thanksgiving has come and gone. Another Christmas. Another New Year. Have to admit that this year I wasn’t as inspired as usual to decorate. I did everything I usually do, but it was sort of hum-drum for me. I didn’t bake anything at all and sent out Christmas cards late after the ridiculous 22 day turnaround time from Vistaprint. In the midst of all the Christmas chaos, my little guy turned ten years old.

Ten is a big number. I still remember when I turned ten! My Uncle Ted made a beautiful wooden dollhouse for me and when I came home from school, he and my Aunt Donna and my parents were home and I saw the dollhouse out of the corner of my eye. I was so overwhelmed by it that I immediately started crying and couldn’t go in the family room where they were all waiting. I stood in the kitchen and hugged my mother until I calmed down.

Now I have a kid who’s ten. And I’m certain that nothing I could ever give him would overwhelm him in such a way. Roberto turning ten has brought on an onslaught of emotions for me. It’s actually been pretty hard—harder to deal with than when I turned 40 two years ago.

We have a kids’ party and a family party for him every year. This year, I made Rice Krispie treats and got juice boxes for his class. When I was at the store perusing the juice boxes, I got a little misty eyed because it sort of hit me that this is the last year that I’ll send in treats for his birthday. Ten is pretty much the cut off for class treats, wouldn’t you say? When I told Roberto I got teary eyed at the store, he rolled his eyes and asked me if any of his friends were there. I said “No, why?” He said ,“That would have been embarrassing if they saw you crying in front of the juice boxes.” Nice.

So I started on the Rice Krispie treats, cutting them into squares and bagging them. As I was doing this, I was crying a little and thinking about all the previous years and where has the time gone and all the sad things that a mother thinks at a time like that. “Oh, what’s that you say kids? My Rice Krispie treats are the best? That’s because I mixed them with my sorrow and tears.”

I tend to obsess. Shocking, I know. I obsess over thoughts like these—

In less than half the number of years Roberto has already been alive, he will be:

• Thinking about driving
• Thinking about drinking
• Thinking about sex
• Thinking about how annoying his parents are and wondering if was he born into the wrong family and when will his real parents come to find him

In just a little more than half the number of years Roberto has been alive, he will be:

• Driving
• Drinking
• Please God, not actually having sex yet
• Thinking about how annoying his parents are and wondering if was he born into the wrong family and when will his real parents come to find him

In a little more than double the number of years Roberto has been alive, he will be:

• Driving
• Drinking
• Actually having sex
• Not caring about how annoying his parents are because he will no longer talk to us except on Christmas day because his bitchy wife says it’s too expensive to call the U.S. from China.
  

  Where Roberto will most certainly move at some point.

And since the first ten years went by so INCREDIBLY FAST and it seems like just last week that we came home from the hospital with a brand new baby on Christmas Eve and that he was just potty trained and that the memories of him starting kindergarten are as fresh in my mind as the clothes he wore yesterday, that what will happen ten years from now has basically already happened?

Don’t you see how it all makes sense? Don’t you see?

I have trouble living in the moment. I spend so much time thinking about how sad I’ll be when Roberto leaves for college, IN EIGHT YEARS, that I sometimes forget how amazing it is having him home now.

And then I think “If I had other kids, I wouldn’t think about it so much,” and then I feel sad about that and a little bitter about it. But I know that no matter how many kids you have, you’re always sad when they go to college, or at least you should be. Having more of them to leave doesn’t make it hurt any less when one of them goes.

But if I did have more kids, I’d probably have less time to think about the fact that the first one was leaving IN EIGHT YEARS. I’m capitalizing so it helps sink in with me how stupid it is for me to worry about something that will happen IN EIGHT YEARS. No wonder I have migraines.

I said to Rob the other day when he was trying to decide whether he should ask a friend of Roberto’s to go with them someplace or other, “You should just go the two of you . . . pretty soon he won’t want to do anything with you anymore so you should make the most of it while you still can.” Ouch, in retrospect. Can you say Debbie Downer?

Rob said I needed to chill out and that we have plenty of time and that he heard Roberto and I laying in bed together the night before and laughing over putting dirty words in MadLibs like a “couple of school girls.”

He is right, I suppose. But sadly, so am I. But I’m working on it.

So I suppose I could set a goal for myself and say “Nicole, no matter what, you are going to write one post a week!” But the trouble is that I have only recently gotten better at meeting goals (I’ve always been awesome at setting them) and B., I don’t write that way. I have to feel inspired or I can’t write.

I do want to keep my blog going because I like doing it and truly am inspired at times and need an outlet.

The thing that has me inspired lately and that I’ve been thinking a lot about is this idea of Roberto wanting FREEDOM and INDEPENDENCE. I am having a spot of trouble with this. I never thought I would. But my mother is quick to point out that I cried when we let my favorite childhood pet, Sam the Cat, outside for the first time. We rescued him as a tiny kitten when he was barely alive and fed him with an eyedropper, so it was very traumatic and understandable that I cried when I saw his little tiny fluffy kitten body in our giant front yard, in the giant world that was full of dangers that could kill him. Right? RIGHT??!! 

Who Roberto is, in his mind's eye.

We are now at that difficult point in a parent-child relationship when Roberto thinks he should have total freedom and I think that I should still be powdering his bottom so he doesn’t get diaper rash.

He has a few friends in the neighborhood who have recently taken to coming over and either knocking on the door or screaming his name from the top of the steep hill in our back yard. I do think this is pretty hilarious, except for they are now sliding down the hill and ruining my landscaping.

In MY mind's eye, I still have to tell Roberto to not eat sand.

But what they want to do now is walk around.

Just walk around. 

You know, like explore. Throw rocks and get wet and muddy and come home dirty. Luckily, there is a large ravine between my house and my next door neighbor’s, so that makes for some nice, relatively safe play that’s still close to home. And I remember what I did when I was a kid . . . walk through drainpipes underneath a major highway. Ride my pink huffy down steep grades. Disappear in the morning and not come home until nightfall.

Rob used to TAKE THE BUS into town at Roberto’s age to go to the ball game. If Roberto got on a PAT bus, there’d be an Amber Alert sent out 5 minutes later.

But things were different then.

A few posts ago, I was bemoaning that kids don’t play “the old way” anymore. Now that my OWN CHILD is doing it,  I want it to stop. I’m not ready. Please, come in and play video games while I prepare food for you and serve it on a tray and massage your feet so you can be safe.

Can we go back to this time, please?

Is that really so wrong?

Seriously, I’m asking. I feel like he has to go out a little and explore the world, but am I being a good parent by letting him do that, or a bad one?

GOD FORBID if anything were to happen, here’s the first question the police would ask: “You mean, you didn’t know where he was??” And I’d have to say “Why no, officer, I didn’t.”

Officially and for all the world to see, I’d be A Bad Mother.

But how do you say no? How do you NOT let your kid go out and play with his friends when they show up at the door? When they’re only going a few streets over? When you know that your reason for saying no is your own fear and not necessarily for the benefit of your child?

So Roberto has been going out for walks with his friends and for the first time in 9 years and 10 months, I do not EXACTLY where he is. I can stand this feeling for about 15 minutes. I do the dishes or knit a few rows or read a few lines or make a quick phone call where the person on the other end of the line invariably asks me if I’ve recently had a coffee.

After 15 minutes or so, I start texting the mothers of the other two boys: “Are they there?” “Have you seen them?” “Are they on their way back?”

Then I stand at the back windows and wait for one, two, or three  figures to appear at the top of the hill and slowly descend, taking down my daylilies, knockout rosebushes, groundcover, and mulch along with them.

I tell Roberto that come spring, he and his friends are going to be on that hill with rakes and bags of topsoil and mulch filling in the big track marks they’re leaving. But really I don’t care. My little boy is home and his friends are safe and that’s all that matters.

Who Roberto is really . . . a perfect almost ten-year-old boy.