Mid-CenturyModernMoms

With tears in my eyes- a graduation story

  Eighth grade graduation.  What a boring thing to anticipate, for a parent.  At least it's the end of those private school tuition bills.

What a surprise!!!!

The graduation was great!!! Each of the kids had 45 seconds to say something about their SSDS experience. Many of them did it in concert with 1-3 others.

What can you say in 45 seconds? Actually, quite a lot. And the ones that did it together (multiplying the time) were very creative. The kids totally blew me away with their ideas. Rosie did it with another girl and they even thanked their siblings! Most kids didn't thank parents/teachers, but many did. Some of the ones that stood out were: 3 boys- performed a new music composition; 4 boys- did short skits parodying rap music, Shakespeare and something else from English class and 4 girls- Remember the original Charlie's Angels beginning " Once upon a time, 3 little girls went to..." This was based on that and really outlined all their 9 years at school.  Several sets of girls sang, as well as commented on their choice of words. One set some words from the Biblical literature to new music.

I am going to miss the comraderie of all of the moms. But many of the kids will be attending the supplementary Hebrew High school, so we can arrange to see each other on Sunday mornings.

Remember the JC Penney dress purchases?  Here's the final results.

At graduation:

 

And for the semi-formal dance.  Rosie spent an hour with a friend curling her hair.

Isn't my baby gorgeous?

How To Raise A Teenage Male

First give birth to boy.  Fall in love with said boy child. 

Enjoy him immensely as an infant/toddler.  You will running alot at this age with giggles galore.

Around age 6 watch him start to get a little macho. (Mom, no!  I am not injured.  I'm just bleeding.  Do not fix it in front of all the guys.) O-kaaaaaaaaaay. 

The mystery of maleness begins.

Help him with his homework and projects but take no credit.  Sign him up for soccer, baseball, flag football and any other desired sports.  Pay for them and all equipment. Never hug him after a game unless you like to be scorned. (Be irritated when some jerk baseball players slides into boy at second base and breaks boy's toe.  Insist he gets a cast even though he's really pissed at you.) Continue to go to all his games and embarrass him by yelling loudly.

Wonder how 13year old males can go 3 weeks without a shower.  Watch spouse cart kid into shower and wash him down.  This is cheaper than fumigating the house.  Watch son enter junior high and empathize (silently) with his awkwardness.  Watch boy date 50% of the 9th grade girls when he's still in 8th grade.  Laugh when he tells you he got more girl's phone numbers than any other boy in school.  Have fun at home with him when there is no audience.

Watch him begin high school.  Enjoy (keep a sense of humor) his dramatics.

Encourage him to discuss the cool play his group wrote in honors English "Pokebeth", a pal on Macbeth which earned them A's and was truly hilarious.

Worry when he begins dating a girl who manipulates him and gets his emotions all messed up.  Timed to male's one and only hypo manic episode.  Try not to show your dislike for said girl.  Thank God that there have been no more hypo manic episodes.

Despite your positive involvement in his life........watch him pull away.  Listen to him to refuse to discuss his issues good or bad.

Be upset when decides to quit high school in his senior year.  Observe boy having a very adversarial relationship with his father. 

Worry when he sneaks out through his window.  Ask him what kind of fool tries to sneak a girl into his window while the family eats dinner.  Get no answer.  Regard his constant surliness unless he needs money or a car. Stare in astonishment as he decides he's mature and responsible enough to move out.  Feel your heart break as he treats you as a stranger. 

Try not say I told you so when he moves back in.  Try to be supportive without being enabling.

Give him ultimatum after six months of up all night, sleep all day.  It's school or a full time job.  Make a decision.  He decides to work. 

Observe him showing signs of hope, signs of being able to control some of his compulsivity.

Watch him make it to work on time.  Watch as his drinking settles down considerably.  Be grateful he has learned to control his temper.  Be able to see the future and have hope.  Soon, he'll be a man in his twenties and I'm still alive.  Woohoo.

Recipes for Memories

La Petite moved into a near-campus apartment last August with her roommate and her rabbits. She no longer has a meal plan for the University eateries; she and her roommate decided to cook. And cook they did. Grandma gave her a small slow-cooker for Christmas, and she's made the apartment smell delicious with pork BBQ more than once. The boys down the hall have been envious of the girls' ability to create a meal out of random goodies in their refrigerator. Sometimes they use a recipe, and sometimes they don't. Sometimes she emails me and asks for details such as, "How much onion do I need to make Dad's guacomole?"

A few days before she came home, I looked through the family recipe file, the same one containing Dad's guacamole, and found this. 

The young La Petite wrote this at age 3 or 4. She must have observed us writing in the family recipe collection and decided that she should do the same. It has all of her favorite letters from the early days (H, M, Q), and it's grouped (sort of) like words. I don't have a clear memory of watching her writing this little piece, but it is indeed priceless.

What does it make? No one knows, not even La Petite herself, but it probably tastes like chicken.

Launching Pad

By Nina Rubin
In an effort to save some dough (and because hotels were going for more than $300 a night) I recently spent two nights in my college son's D.C. "launching pad" over his graduation weekend.  My darling and personable first born (a.k.a. Jaws to MCMM readers)  has sublet a 2 bedroom apartment in a groovy Arlington, VA building that boasts a health club, party roof deck, a pool, and a concierge -- before he has actually landed job.

That's not intended to be a snarky comment.  Honestly.  Jaws is not a slacker and he will get a job.  I mean, he has to.  He's not being subsidized by his parents, his school loans are coming due and his savings are not endless.  He's a great kid -- a mensch as we Jewish parents like to say.  But I had to laugh when I compared his first digs with my first apartment after college.

My apartment:  $185 a month, divided by 2 roomates.
His apartment:  $800 a month...just for his room!
My apartment:  In an Italian neighborhood where old men played bocci ball and widows wore black for their entire lives.
His apartment:  Nobody over the age of 50 in evidence.

His apartment came with a flat screen tv and a refrigerator that makes ice.  Jaws and his roomate each have their own tv in their own private bedrooms.  They don't have a car and they don't have silverware.  But they have cable and TIVO. They have granite countertops.  I have formica.  They have stainless steel appliances.  And here's the real rub...they have a Harris Teeter supermarket and a dry cleaner in their complex.  Jealous?  Moi?

We were all back together again in New York over Memorial Day weekend celebrating Grandma Isabelle's 85th birthday. Hanging out in my mom's kitchen yesterday, Jaws asked lots of sweet cooking and grilling questions, having recently discovered that if one cooks, one has copious leftovers, and one saves money.  He asked his grandmother for a few of her recipes and she sent Jaws flying back to Washington  loaded up with a flank steak, flatware for 12, a box of home baked brownies, grilling tools and a bottle of teriyaki marinade.  As I've said elsewhere, they don't make 'em like my mother anymore. Her care packages are, legendary and eclectic.

When I got back to Atlanta last night, I was dying of curiosity so I called the launching pad.  I heard the sound of happy young people in the background and beer cans popping. "How was the steak?" I asked.  "Fabulous," Jaws said.  "But we kind of incinerated the burgers...the flames got a little out of control out on the balcony." 

Yup, it's happening.  He's out on his own.  With two interviews coming up this week.  You  live, you learn, you launch.

When you have eight kids...

"So, mom? Nick and I are thinking of getting an apartment together in September."

Adam stands before me, all six feet of his 19-year-old self, his brown eyes calm. No anxiety, no "how will mom take this" in his face.

Between the two of us, my husband and I have eight kids.

Mothers tremble when their babies leave the nest. Good mothers do. They worry, they ache, their soul yearns for the child-turning-adult who is leaving. Because at nineteen, he thinks he's an adult, but a parent knows better. Not a child, nor yet quite an adult. So much room for disappointment, confusion, mistakes. How will he cope with the world out there? How will the world treat him?

And how will mom cope without him? The big, gaping hole in the nest. A major centre of your life, gone.

When my eldest left the nest, she was comfortably sure I'd cry. Comfortably sure. She clearly liked the idea. It was a reasonable assumption, too: all her other friends' mothers had cried, and me? I sure fit the mold of the type who'd cry. I stayed hom with my kids all their lives. At first, I had a husband to support us finanacially; I did a day or two a week supply teaching. Then, a single mother, I supported the family by working from home during the week. For the first exhausting, financially desperate year of the separation, I worked seven days a week: at home Monday - Friday, then away from home on weekends.

I homeschooled for the first ten years of their lives. I was there. A single parent, a work-at-home parent, a home-schooling parent. And I loved it. I love being a stay-at-home mom. I loved homeschooling them. I even loved being a single parent. It was a helluva lot easier than parenting in the frightening, draining emotional maelstrom that had increasingly been my first marriage. Being with my kids has always felt natural, seemed right, has been just so comfortable for me.

I'm a good mother. And good mothers cry when their babies leave home.

"So mom? Nick and I are thinking of getting an apartment together in September."

When you have eight kids, it's not so much an empty nest...

And through my head run threads of thoughts. "That gives me three and a half months to try to teach him some financial sense ... budgeting, the boy needs to learn to budget ... the basement room will be empty, wonder if his sister will want it?... good thing he has a decent job ... wonder if Nick'll get into college ... lordy, that apartment will be a pit ... no more tripping over giant boots in the entry ... how often will he come to visit ... can give him that box of china in the back porch ... will we need to rent a truck?"

All sorts of things.  But ...

I'll let you in on a secret: I don't cry. I don't even worry overmuch, and I certainly don't pine. In fact, the primary feeling in every case -- and this will be the fourth -- has been relief.

Because really, what is the goal of parenting but to raise considerate, functional, contributing adults? Considerate, functional, contributing adults who will leave home? So when they go, that's another milestone accomplished on time, another sign I'm doing it right, yes?

I have some worries. I know the boy's foibles and weaknesses. I'm fully aware of certain things that are going to cause him problems. I will observe, as much as I'm allowed, with a mother's concerned eye. I will offer, as much as I'm allowed, advice and support. But, and this causes an unadulterated bubble of glee within me:  As of September, we could possibly be down to one child in full-time residence in the house.

Imagine the freedom!

More food: no more discovering the meat for an evening's meal for the entire family has been consumed by foraging male in search of after-work "snack".

More space: no more clutter of enormous footwear in the front hall.

Less worry: he can wander in at 2 a.m., and I won't know anything about it.

More space: a freed-up basement bedroom, which my youngest will likely snatch means a freed-up bedroom on the second floor -- which means ... oh, be still my heart ... a study for me!

Less worry: he can omit to call home when he's going to be late, and I won't be the one wondering where he is.

More space: no more office in the dining room!!

I wonder how he'll do, if his inherent slovenliness and Nick's inherent tidiness can happily co-exist; if he'll be able to juggle school and work; if he has the discipline to meet deadlines in a timely fashion. I make contingency plans. If he has trouble managing his finances, I can do A, B, and C. If he fails a course, or even a term, before he learns to effectively manage his time, we can do X, Y,and Z.

I am not unconcerned. I will not be uninvolved. I will always, always be there for him.

But I am miles and miles and miles away from tears.

My son might be moving out in September!!!

When you have eight kids, it's not so much an empty nest as it is the light at the end of the tunnel.

Why is the World Round, and Other Imponderables by Jenny Gardiner

Me and my teen mom homies, we've been dealing with it all, and then some, lately. We're almost cliched, in fact, pondering as we are how much easier it was back in the days when we merely had to drag a tantrum-hurling 2 year-old from the grocery store, versus tackling the many heady issues parents of modern teens face as their offspring teeter on the precipice of adulthood. It's enough to make a girl go gray, stress-eat the ever-so-divine limited offer Indiana Jones Mint Crisp M&Ms, and cuss a blue streak to no one and everyone in particular. Not that I would be susceptible to the latter two...

I think in the world of raising children, barring unforeseen circumstances, you start out with the cake course. Parenting 101. You know, the diaper changing, the calming of an irrationally petulant child. The easy stuff (that at the time seems insufferably impossible to navigate). By the time the kids are teens, parents have unwittingly entered into the post-graduate phase of things. Everything becomes so much more involved, so much more complex. Black and white blurs into gray, with no necessary right or wrong, but rather a "hope I don't screw this up too badly" mode. At this point, I find visualizing into the future, to a point at which your kids are through with college, in the work world, happily dating, or maybe even married, is a vital coping tool. Because only then might we be secure in the knowledge that we were able to transcend the stressful makes-your-head-hurt stuff that is the domain of the teen parent.

Consider a few recently teen quandaries my homies and I have encountered lately:

*The high school senior, the one who can't yet seem to keep track of a permission slip let alone a passport, who wants to travel alone through Europe this summer. That same one will be off on his own by summer's end, so perhaps allowing this risk-taking venture is a way to encourage some necessary maturation before he cuts loose altogether? Or perhaps that un-street-savvy kid will end up mugged and left for dead in a gutter, passport, cellphone and wallet lifted, unable to contact his parents for help. Of course approving this venture for the boy then means his younger sister must also have this opportunity, and hey, like it or not, there is a double standard when it comes to females traveling alone abroad, especially at that young age.

*The high school sophomore who met a boy last year one week before he moved six states away. They've remained in cellphone/IM contact throughout the school year. Now he wants to come visit, staying at the girls house over a holiday weekend. Having this complete stranger under one's roof can be one of two things---a positive chance to spend plenty of time with him, to get to know him and trust his intentions. Or it can mean ready-made opportunities for him to hook-up in the middle of the night with the daughter while the mom sleeps (the dad will be out of town at a soccer tournament with one of the kids). To deny this certainly offers up a large platter of forbidden fruit, and we all know how much tastier that type is...

*The teen girl who insists upon booking her first Brasilian waxing. (clearly this girl has no clue what she's getting herself into, pain-wise!). Truth is, we all know why anyone chooses a Brasilian wax job. And it ain't comfort. So that in and of itself suggests there's reason behind this (trust me, it has nothing to do with swim suit season being upon us). So now that that mom knows what her 16 year old is up to, what's a mom to do?

*The high school prom, for which an alternate, unsanctioned prom sprung up after school administrators decided that grinding was far too scandalous and issued a 10-inch rule (get your mind out of the gutter, not that type of 10-inches!): a mandatory 10 inches of air must be sustained between a dancing couple. Is grinding mighty sexually suggestive? Sure. Is this much different than adults banning Elvis and the Twist? Not really.

*Then there's the high school senior who questions what it's all about---after all, why bother with any of it when ultimately we're all gonna die. Um, how do you truly answer that question? Anyone deep enough to ponder such things is not going to be satisfied with a pat answer. And who actually has a legitimate answer to this question?

Okay, some of these issues are far bigger than my head can wrap around. The we-are-merely-a-speck-of-dust-on-the-pinhead-of-some-larger-entity is far more than I can/will/choose to ponder with any success. It makes me too dizzy and slightly depressed. But at least I'll tackle the prom thing, and by extension, perhaps address my feelings and worries about the state of teen-hood today.

The pat advice to all parents is this: pick your battles. On the issue of dirty dancing, I do feel as if this is a battle best left alone. After all, teens nowadays have their wings clipped to the point of no longer being birds of flight. In our home we have a parrot, and when she was younger, we regularly clipped her wings (a practice akin to trimming fingernails). The idea was to keep her from flying around the house. But the reality was it caused her to fall off her perch and drop like a lead weight to the floor---her wings sans flight feathers sort of led to her fall from grace.

After our parrot fell enough times so hard that her breast bone punctured through her skin, our vet decided it was a good idea to let her flight wings grow out. And you know what? She doesn't fly around the house. Sure she still spreads her wings, flaps them vigorously on occasion. But if she falls, the amount of feathers she's got enables her to enough loft to land without such a violent thud.

I think society has gone way overboard in clipping back the flight feathers of our teens, particularly at a point at which they need to be spreading their wings and learning to fly, even if it means they fall hard and fast to the ground. The simplest of bad judgment errors for teens nowadays can result in a loss of all academic honors, membership to sports teams, hell, even college admissions. We don't allow teenagers the chance to make mistakes and learn from them. They're expected to learn vicariously from others' errors, I suspect, when in reality that doesn't quite work the same way. We have raised a generation of future adults with probably far less life experiences than we ever had, because most were never allowed to take risks, were clamped so tightly in their car seats and then strapped down with onerous activities and then just when biology started mandating that they stretch away from the weight of our protective shield, we further reduced their ability to take those important strides toward adulthood, errors or not.

I remember once reading about Eunice Kennedy, mother of umteen children, and she spoke of how she let her children fail, even when it meant they suffered for it. We parents---armed in this dreadful age of information with the myriad fearful possibilities of what could go wrong---cherish our children so greatly that we are afraid to allow failure to happen. We don't want them to be hurt, or even worse, killed. We don't want them to fall flat on their faces, to suffer the pain and/or humiliation of trying and faltering.

But have we really served them best in this regard? I know so many of my contemporaries look each other in the eyes when discussing our own jaded youth with that knowing wide-eyed gaze of "Damn, how the hell did we live to tell about it?" The sad reality of it is there were those of our peers who didn't live to tell about it. That's the sucky thing of it. For this, we are all so fearful that our kids will be amongst that unfortunate group. Thus we keep our birds caged, wings clipped, hoping they can get to adulthood injury-free. Yet truly, probably, sorely untested, and lacking some important life experiences that they need to become complete adults.

All of these ponderings lead to me to wonder what is the answer to these teen parent dilemmas. Of course I no sooner have these answers than do you. I'm just muddling through it the best I can, trying not to eat too many of those Mint Crisp M&Ms. After all, they are a limited edition, and when they're gone, they gone.

I'm a Natural Woman

by Judy Merrill Larsen

Don't worry, this isn't a post about not shaving my legs or letting my hair turn gray. Uh uh.  It's about the power of natural consequences.

As adults, we get this.  If I eat less and move more I'll lose weight.  Doesn't always make me do so, but that's a natural consequence I understand.  Same with, oh, say, paying bills so the electricity stays on.  In my fifteen years of teaching, I often found myself preaching this to my students.  Especially when they'd ask about extra-credit.  I'd launch into my song and dance about "Well, if you'd done the assigned work you wouldn't need extra-credit. now, would you, so why should I give you a chance to make more work for me?"  That always brought them around, yes indeedy.

But as a mom, it was often much harder for me to hold to this.  For a few years, when my sons were in elementary school, I was on a first-name basis with the night janitor at their school because we seemed to need to ask him to unlock a classroom door at least once a week to fetch something we needed to complete a homework assignment.  Part of me knew I should let them deal with the consequences of not remembering.  But it seemed so cold.  Harsh. 

No more.  One thing teenagers teach you (and the sooner, the better) is that they often only respond to natural consequences.  For example:

(and I need to make a disclaimer here.  Not all of these examples come from the children living under my roof.  Some come from their friends.  I swear.  But they're all instructive.)

~If, when you are "assigned" community service by a judge because of some hi-jinks you were caught participating in, "forgetting" to perform said hours will cause those hours to be doubled.  Plus you'll be fined.  So maybe next time you shouldn't ignore your mom's nagging.

~If you keep calling in sick to a job you no longer like, you'll get fired.  And the company who sends you your cell phone bill doesn't care the reason, they'll stop your service.  And, no, they don't have to warn you in advance.

~If you blow through all your lunch money/allowance by noon on Tuesday, you're going to be hungry (or brown-bagging it) for the rest of the week.  Not to mention that you can forget about any extra-curricular fun.

~If you buy clothes that scream "Skanky crack ho" to your parents, but "sneak-wear" them under your t-shirt, the school will likely call your parents to explain they don't mesh with the dress code and you'll be assigned a detention.  Also, said clothes will likely disappear the next time your mom does the laundry.

~Speaking of which, if your mom tells you to put all your dirty clothes in the laundry basket outside your door so she can get the laundry done and you don't, there will be no clean clothes for you.  Deal with it. Ha.

~And, if you decide your mom isn't all that bright and why can't you just put all your dirty clothes in the wash together (because she is no longer willing to do your laundry (see above)), don't expect that same stupid mom to replace your now pink underwear.  But you can expect her to laugh at you when you make your request.  And, if you've blown through your lunch money/allowance this week, you'll be wearing the pink underwear to school.

~If your economics professor has told you that your homework is all to be done on-line, and you sign up for the wrong on-line program, and then notice that your classmates have homework, but miraculously you don't, that doesn't mean you're off the hook; it means you'll be retaking the class in summer school.  At 8 a.m. if your mom has anything to say about it.

~If the bank explains that if you bounce a check there will be fees assessed--which will deplete your checking account even more, they really mean it.  It's not like when your mom used to tell you she'd fine you for having to go up to the elementary school at night to pick up your geography book.  She remembers how cute you were at age 4.  The bank doesn't, and even if they did, they wouldn't care.

Natural consequences.  They rock.  In part because your kids can't be mad at you or blame you.  Not that they won't try, but even they have to realize that they brought it on themselves.  And that's where the real power comes in--they have to take responsibility. 

That's a pretty powerful lesson.  And it leads to independence.  Possibly even adult behaviors.  And all you've had to do is sit back, watch it unfold and bite your tongue.

The Feminine Mystique

By Melanie Lynne Hauser

Lately there have been strange creatures in our house.

They giggle and flip their hair and smell a lot nicer than the usual creatures we attract.

They're girls.

This is a new development in our lives.  Younger son's social life has gone in a new direction lately; he has a girlfriend and moves in a crowd that's more co-ed than his usual group.  They're all good kids, band kids, he likes to remind us whenever we commence one of our periodic lectures about responsible sex and good choices and the whole "your entire life is ahead of you" kind of thing. 

And it's true; their activities are wholesomely sweet.  (For example, one weekend they all parked in front of the flat screen to watch what they called "all the old classic movies."  I, of course, thought they were going to pop in a DVD of Casablanca or Citizen Kane.  Instead, they sighed with nostalgia over Free Willy and Space Jam.  I guess every generation's definition of "classic" is different.)

Now, you have to understand.  Our house has been a girl-free zone forever.  (And I don't count myself as a girl because my kids and my husband certainly don't.  They've all grown to think of me as a short, cranky boy who sometimes cross dresses.)

So for over a decade - at least since first grade, when both boys discovered girls had cooties - we've gotten used to playing host (or to put it more accurately, zoo keeper) to packs of boys.  Boys who stink, who fart, who burp, who eat lots and lots of our food, who knock things over and break things and - here's a very important part - don't pay any attention at all to their surroundings.

But all of a sudden, we're playing host and hostess - properly, uncomfortably - to girls.  Dainty little creatures.  And both my husband and I are a little unsure of ourselves.

I find myself fussing around the house more.  I sweep, dust, straighten up whenever I know they're coming.  I clean the downstairs bathroom more often.  I've burned through a ton of fragrant candles.  I make sure I have some makeup on, and my hair is combed, and I don't have food sticking to my shirt.

I just take much more care.

And I didn't really notice that I was doing this until the other day.  As a group of them were downstairs, playing videogames (band geeks, remember?), my husband came up to me, speaking softly.

"Do you?"  He began.  He cleared his throat, glanced nervously downstairs, and began again.  "Um, do you, like, behave differently?  Now?  With - you know," he blushed a bit.  "Girls in the house?"

"Oh, yes!"  I was so relieved he felt the same way.  "I do!  It's so weird, isn't it?"

"Totally.  Do you think," he said, with another nervous cough as he looked sadly down at his clothes.  "Do you think I should change?  This is kind of messy, isn't it?"

I looked at him - sweat pants, white T-shirt, unshaven, a mess.   When my husband works from home, he rarely gets dressed before dinner.  I nodded.

"I know," he sighed, going upstairs.  "I thought so.  I guess I should change."

"You might want to shave, too," I called up after him.  Although I wasn't sure it would matter; since the arrival of the girls, my husband has taken to shutting himself up in his office.

Now, you have to understand.  My husband generally rejoices in being the big, embarassing, goofy dad.  When the boys' friends are over, he roams among them comfortably, telling bad jokes, teasing, rumpling hair, doing pratfalls.  He just loves it.

But with the girls - ah.  That's different.  He hides.  He just doesn't know what to do, how to act.  After all, he hasn't had to impress a girl in twenty years.  It's like everything he ever used to know, when it comes to behaving around the opposite sex, has just vanished.  Marriage has reduced him to a twelve-year-old boy again.

But I'm the opposite.  With the boys, I usually ignored them, let them be, coming down only when I hear the telltale sound of things breaking or spilling.  And even when I hear that, I simply look up from whatever I'm doing, sigh, and yell, "Clean it up!"  Then I go on about my business. 

But with the girls, I feel as if I should be a good hostess; as if I should circulate.  I constantly pop in, asking if anyone needs anything - drinks, food, the thermostat turned up or down.  I circle them nervously - not the least because I know, in a way my husband doesn't because he didn't have the social life I did in high school, that a chaperone is what's needed these days.   In addition to a hostess.

When the girls leave, though - we let out big sighs of relief.  And relax, and become ourselves, our normal, easygoing, bad-joke-telling, boy-parent selves, again.

It's not that we don't enjoy this new phase in our lives.  We do.  It's just that it's - different.  Girls are just different.  Than boys.  Which, of course, is the whole point, isn't it?

It's so interesting to see how this sudden influx of feminity has thrown us both - including me, the one without a "y" chromosome - off our beam.  How we view teenage girls as these strange, exotic creatures we have to be so very careful around.

Sometimes I miss the boys, to tell the truth.  A couple of weekends ago a new, exciting videogame was released and my son brought a pack of his guy friends over for an all-night tournament.  I loved it.  I couldn't stop smiling.  They stank, they yelled, they ate everything, they broke things, but I didn't care.  It was just so good to have them back.

But even so, I ached a little with nostalgia as I shouted "Clean it up!"  Because their time is passing.  It's going to be girls from now on, and I'd better get used to it.

And really, I tell myself as I stock up on fragrant candles and force myself to buy some fashionable new outfits - I noticed last week that all the girls were wearing ballet flats so I guess they're "in" - anything that gets my husband to shower and dress before dinner can only be a good thing.

Even if it's a feminine thing.    

One from Column A, one from Column B...

Off we go into the wild blue yonder.....  Oops, wrong song, but the right thought.  However, I do feel that I'm entering a brave new world.  We've been looking at some residential schools for Abe (17.5 yo, PDD, ADHD, NVLD...) and I'd really like it if I could pick aspects on one and combine it with aspects of the second school to make a perfect fit for all of us.  And then there are schools 3 and 4, yet to be seen.

So far, we've gone to see 2 schools, D and P.  Both of which are north-west of where we live and 45 minutes (P) or 1.2 hours (D) away.  So they are NOT close.  We are also going to see another 2, and these are in the opposite direction, 1 to 1.5 hours away (C or M).  Maybe one of these schools will be perfect as is, then again, probably not.

In any event, I feel MUCH more comfortable with this idea  of sending Abe away, as does he.  After actually seeing the schools, I realize that there had been dark thoughts of British boarding schools and penitentary settings running rampant in the back of my brain.  These are nothing like that.

Either of the first 2 schools are acceptable, but, oh, if I could combine them in the magic mixing machine....  Maybe I'll get Willie Wonka involved in the school selection.

Trading Places

There are no minors residing in my house right now.  I don't say children because my husband Thorn acts like a child most of the time, so I typically have 3 kids at home.

Rosie (14, NT) just left for the culminating activity of her Jewish day school experience, the 8th grade class trip to Israel.  She will be there for two and one-half weeks.  How blase these kids are.  They certainly were excited about the trip, but more for the ability to spend time with each other and their Haifa sister school friends, then about the idea of going to a foreign country.

Some of the moms are very worried about possible dangers over there.  I'll certainly worry if I hear that something happened, but until then, I'm just too burnt out from everything that I've been doing to get the proper treatment for her older brother.  Oh yeah, the correct thing to write is that I have faith in the tour organizer, in conjunction with the Israeli government, that the kids won't go anyplace dangerous.  The kids would moan about changes, but their itinerary WILL be changed if there is any hint of danger.

Rosie left early Sunday morning and tomorrow morning Abe (17, ADHD, PDD, miscellaneous other messed up diagnoses) comes home.  Abe spent the last 3.5 weeks in two different psychiatric hospitals.  I saw him this past Saturday and he does seem better.  But it's easy to be "better" when you don't have any pressures on you.

I have definitely lost what little faith I had in the mental health care system because they gladly would have just turfed him out of the hospital and back home with no supports in place, except what we had before- which clearly wasn't working!  I have certainly learned a lot about how to work the system since it seemed that I was the major player in getting him to an appropriate placement. We won't even go into the lack of official work that I accomplished at the office over the past 2 weeks.

It looked to me that they were planning on discharging him without any plan in place for his continued care.  Nor were they very helpful about recommending any followup treatment for Abe. So, I am working with the school system, who are very helpful, to get him into a residential school where his education (high level. but learning disabilities), emotional (low level) and behavioral (problematic) issues can all be addressed in a inter-woven plan.  But that takes time and some expertise in how to get the school system, our health insurance, and the state to split the cost of further treatment. It's all so horribly complex and because Abe isn't yet accepted into any state aid program, it's all fallen on my shoulders to be his social worker and advocate.

BTW, Abe came out of the hospital with yet another additional diagnosis: bipolar.  I hoping that it will allow him access to services which kept turning him down previously.

So Abe is home and will start going to a psychiatric step-down day program without academics while we waits to hear from the residential schools we've applied to.  There is a lot less stress on him since his sister isn't around and there's no schoolwork to be done.  However, there still is the Thorn, and he can be a huge trigger for Abe. Unfortunately, the Thorn is unable to control his own behavior very well, so it's questionable whether or not they can get along until Abe is placed.

I'm taking part in the trading places game, also.  I'm going away for a previously planned, long weekend.  There's work to be done there, but (sigh) what a relief to get away.