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I told Noah about the Vaseline on the toilet seat.  And about putting conditioner in the shampoo bottles.  I may even have mentioned the Saran Wrap my bunkmates and I stretched across the toilet seat in the cabin next door while everyone else was at dinner.

That one is a camp pranks best-hit.  An oldie but a goodie.

Hey, I’m sorry if it’s your kid who bears the brunt of my kid’s camp pranks, but I had to come up with something to make Noah’s first solo week away from home sound appealing.

Yeah, I know, I should know better. 

The first time I broached the subject of camp, Noah was stunned. 

 “A week’s a long time,” he slowly replied, as I loaded the dishwasher and he poked his head into the pantry to sniff out a snack.

He agreed that the zip-line, horseback rides and bonfires all sounded swell, but he’s never been away from us for that long.  A week is a long time. 

When I mentioned that his best buds were also going and that they’d even get to bunk in the same cabin, he nodded.  Then he shrugged. 

Close, but no cigar.

It was time to dig deep, so I hooked him with the pranks.  That sealed the deal. 

Again, I’m truly sorry.  Did I mention that I’m a therapist?  Free trauma counseling if my kid makes your kid cry.  I’ll even squeeze in a few minutes for your kid.

Why the hard sell?  Had Noah’s friends not been going I might have waited another year to consider sending him away to camp, but I sensed an opportunity.  I’m reassured that he’ll have his buddies with him on his first journey into the woods without Mommy’s compass.  This time he’ll have to find his own way, without my guidance – or interference.  Plus, there’s something magical about a boy going to camp while he still possesses a sense of wonder, before pursuing girls becomes a full-time endeavor.  

A child’s first trip to camp is a right of passage.  Sure, it’s a nice break from Mom, Dad and little sis’, but it’s more than that.  Camp will be an opportunity for our son to catch a glimpse of himself as a totally separate person, differentiated from our family.  He’ll discover how he’s inclined to react and respond to social situations and other conundrums independently.  He’ll learn to recognize his own voice.

Oh, and lest I forget, camp will also be a chance for Noah to miss us.  To really appreciate his Dad and me and to realize how good he’s got it at home.  To miss getting read to every night as he falls to sleep… 

I’m going to have a little cry now.

Many years ago I listened as noted pediatrician and parenting guru T. Berry Brazelton addressed a Mom concerned with preparing her young child for a brief separation from her.  “Trust me,” he smiled in his signature grandfatherly style, “It’ll be harder on you than it will be on him.”  I recall nodding self-assuredly as I laughed along with the audience of family therapists and the smattering of parents who’d come to hear Brazelton speak.

Eighteen years later I’ve shed that naive self-assurance, and can totally relate to that worried Mom.  I also get what Brazelton meant.  Sure, Noah will experience a pang or two of homesickness, but he’ll have the time of his life.  He’ll be too busy to miss me for long.  Though, given the stellar sarcasm I’ve been subjected to recently he’d better miss me or I’m getting my money back.

As for the pranks, I tried to redeem myself with talk of consequences and potential paybacks, but I’m afraid Noah didn’t give a hoot about that.  Too busy plotting.  I never got around to mentioning the old ‘itching powder in the PJ’s’ prank, though.  Take it, it’s yours.  But tell your kid to go easy on Noah.  Like I said, it’s his first time.

Camp will be good for all of us.  Todd and I will get to dote on Holly and have a squabble-free week, and Noah will really dig the zip-line.  The zip-line has actually been on my “list of things to do before I die” for a while now.  Hmmm …I wonder if Noah will mind if I tag along… 

I sure am gonna miss the little guy.

Then again, maybe it won’t be so bad.  Chances are, he’ll get kicked out and sent home early.

–Jennifer DuBose, M.S., C.A.S. has been a Clinical Member of The American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy(AAMFT) since 1995.  Got a question or concern you’d like her to address?  Nothing is off limits.  If you’re a parent and it’s on your mind, chances are you’re not alone.  Don’t suffer the wonders.  Send your questions to parentingisntforsissies@hotmail.com.  Your name and other identifying information will be kept strictly confidential.

I became a parent nearly a decade ago.  A few blunders later, I’ve come to a few startling conclusions. 

For starters, I learned early on that it’s politically incorrect to bring Happy Meals to the playground.  Who knew?  Take it from me though, the other mommies and daddies in the sandbox will hate you if you do.  They’ll know that thanks to you, their own toddlers will turn up their noses at their healthy snacks and tantrum all the way home until they get some. 

Another tip?  Don’t let your six-year-old daughter take orders for more boxes of Girl Scout cookies than you’re willing to deliver all by yourself after she poops out and announces “I don’t wanna go.  You do it Mommy, I’m staying home.”  You won’t look good in that brown vest the Brownies are required to wear anyhow.  Trust me.

When checking your kid’s math homework, for Pete’s sake, don’t get the answer wrong and then make your kid crazy turning himself inside-out trying to figure out the answer that works in your sick, mathematically-challenged little world.  I’ve done it.  It wasn’t pretty.  Tears were shed.  Sadder yet is that even though I used a calculator to get the dang answer (Noah didn’t, and had it right in the first place) I failed to notice the pesky little decimal point. 

Don’t call attention to something that doesn’t already have your kid’s attention, which you wish he’d just ignore anyhow.  In other words, don’t remind him to keep his hands off a scab that he isn’t even picking right at that moment or you’ll hear, “I forgot about it until you just reminded me, Mom,” Noah said wryly.

Don’t always win at Battleship unless you can stand to see your kid sulk for hours.  Oh, and don’t lose either, or you’ll be accused of throwing the game to make him feel better.

If you’re trying to lull the kids to sleep at bedtime, don’t crack jokes.  Even really good ones.  And once they finally do close their eyes, don’t pop the popcorn until you’re positive they’re really down for the count – or else you’ll have to share. 

Don’t yell at your son to stop running on the icy sidewalk beside the parent pick-up lane at school, unless you want to humiliate him in front of his friends.  Seems he’d rather risk slipping under a minivan and having his legs severed.  Okay, yell anyway, but risk more sulking and recriminating glares.

Another thing I’ve learned since becoming a parent?  Our kids are gonna dish-out more “I hate you” ’s than “I love you” ’s along the way, and we’d better soak up affirmations when they do appear –  even if they’re issued from unexpected sources, like the angel disguised as the dairy guy at the Whole Foods in Wheaton.  “You’re awesome,” my dairy-angel said to me, after I had Noah crunch the numbers and decide whether it made more sense for us to buy string cheese by the package or individually, and surmise why the store charges more for us to buy them by the pack.  Truth is, I was having trouble quickly multiplying on my own (yeah I know, big shocker), but I’ll take my compliments any way I can get ‘em.

A parent’s life is full of surprises and opportunities to learn some really nifty stuff.  Have you ever considered why maggots stop wiggling when they’re used as ice-fishing bait?  And can you pick up and kiss a bullfrog without getting peed on (it’s all in the wrist)?  Speaking of pee, do you know how to get a 100-pound sleepwalker to pee into the potty without missing his target? 

You know it: parenting really isn’t for sissies – or fashion snobs. 

Have you heard the word that you really can pair red and white striped leggings with a tie-dyed shirt and a fuchsia scarf worn as a belt over a cheetah-print skirt after Labor Day (soccer shin-guards optional)?  I used to make comments like “And Holly picked out her own outfit today,” to friends I worried would wonder.  Eventually I got over myself and learned to shut up. 

It’s quite an education, this parenting thing. 

Thanks to my kids’ queries, I now know how cheese wheels are formed, and can tell the difference between chemtrails and contrails, but my favorite lesson of all?  When he was two, Noah taught me how to make “twinkle soup” in a muddy sandbox.  Who needs Happy Meals, anyway?

–Jennifer DuBose, M.S., C.A.S. has been a Clinical Member of The American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy(AAMFT) since 1995.  Got a question or concern you’d like her to address?  Nothing is off limits.  If you’re a parent and it’s on your mind, chances are you’re not alone.  Don’t suffer the wonders.  Send your questions to parentingisntforsissies@hotmail.com.  Your name and other identifying information will be kept strictly confidential.

 I don’t need any gifts for Mother’s Day.  All I want is a piece of Denny’s French toast smothered in butter and syrup.  With a dusting of confectioners sugar.  Oh yeah, and I’ll have fresh-squeezed orange juice, too, please. 

I really don’t want anything else.  

…But a side of peace and quiet would be nice.  No whining for the whole day. Imagine.  Even as I write this I can hear the plaintive wail of my eight-and-a-half year-old son whining.  His father is herding him into the shower, and Noah’s still whining about … Well, I’ll spare you any direct quotes, ‘cause trust me, neither you nor I need to relive them.

Six years ago, when Holly was a just a babe, Todd and I hired a sitter for Noah, and brought our drowsy newborn to a friend’s wedding.  Precious in a puff of sage taffeta and white lace, she curled up on my husband’s shoulder in that endearing newborn way and slept through most of the festivities.  It was a lovely occasion.  Maybe sixty people were on hand for the outdoor nuptials, held on the banks of the rushing Cullasaja River in Highlands, North Carolina.  After a sumptuous feast, held under the eves of a rustic red barn, Todd and I walked off our dinner under strings of tiny lights glittering in the trees along the river’s edge as their leaves gently rustled in the warm breeze of a dusky southern evening.

I remember, as we strolled through the gathered guests – all laughing and hugging and sipping and dancing – that all was not right with one of them.

Something was very wrong, in fact.

It wasn’t so much a complaint as a statement.  And it wasn’t clear to whom she was speaking.  It was more like muttering, really.  She muttered, with her eyes downcast as she kicked half-heartedly at a small stone in the path, and followed her sullen children to the dessert table.  I could barely make out what she said as they strode past my content little group:  “The whining. It’s never ending…”

“Oh, that poor woman,” I recall whispering to my husband, as we glanced back over our shoulders at that downtrodden woman with the two kids, who I figured to be around seven and nine – and who I also figured would have rather been just about anywhere else.  I’ll never forget the pity I felt for her – or the very satisfying knowledge I possessed that I would certainly never feel that way, because surely I would have a better grip on parenting.

Boy, was I wrong.

Fast forward six years.  I am now that pitiful woman.  Now I’m the one who wonders if the whining is terminal, everlasting, never-ever ending.  Sure, there are moments of peace, occasional laughter as we reflect on our less stellar family moments and even times of tremendous joy, but they are now tempered by a nearly daily dose of whining, brought on by the kids’ growing awareness that life is sometimes unfair, they can’t always get what they want, and someone else is (more or less) in charge. 

Though those interminably whiny days feel just plain awful (for everyone), I must admit: I always feel slightly buoyed by the gift that woman gave to me that night all those years ago.  She’ll never know how often I think of her, and of how grateful I am to know that the whiny phase is more than a mere reflection of my shortcomings as a parent (I’m not willing to consider the possibility that we’re both failing miserably…).  Though I didn’t realize it then, she unwittingly told me that this experience is normal, and that I would not be alone in my misery.

It helps to know this.

Normal or not, whenever I share this story with other parents, I tack on this caveat: While we can make efforts to be diplomatic and patient with the valid disappointments our kids feel, and can recognize and learn to productively engage the naturally broody and emotionally impulsive phase characteristic of the the "tween" years, we can also make our expectations and limits clear.

Yeah, sure.  Good luck with that, I now say, whilst my head spins right off into the ether.  It’s amazing that I ever taught a parenting class. Hell if I know what to do.  It’s survival of the fittest, guys.  Plant your feet squarely, take three deep breaths, and calmly ride it out.  The sun will set on this day, too.      

Pitiful woman # 1’s kids must now teenagers.  I cannot even fathom it.

Peace and quiet for Mother’s Day?  Okay, so that’s a lot to ask for. 

The French toast is non-negotiable, though.

********************************************************************************

Note:  This first appeared on my blog last year around Mother's Day.  Sure, my kids and I often enjoy warm-fuzzy moments I'll treasure always (which by now you're just plain sick to death of reading about), but Noah's timing this year was spectacular.  We have officially reached new heights in how we express disappointments, here in the DuBose household.  Since everyone is now finally tucked away all snug in their beds, I'll see if I can conjure up the latest load of baloney levied by my firstborn on this day before Mother's Day:

"I hate you with the heat of a thousand suns," Noah stated, after I decided once and for all that we wouldn't be going to his friend Charlie's house for an impromptu gathering tonight. 

The Backstory: We had just cheered for him at his baseball game (which I rather enjoy.  I have the sunburn and sore throat to prove it), and still had Holly's soccer game and dance recital to attend this afternoon.  It was already destined to be a doozy of a day, and I wasn't ready to commit to another thing at that moment.  Not a patient one (so he takes after me ...), Noah continued to badger Todd and me about it, even talking over me (loudly), at one point.  Not a good game plan, that one.  (That and those pesky, clingy bits of packing styrofoam really tick me off – but I digress.)  Suddenly the decision became quite clear, so I calmly advised him that we wouldn't be going to Charlie's after all, which prompted the fabulous "heat of a thousand suns" comment – with a few stingy, plain old "I hate you's" thrown in for good measure.

So he refused to get out of the car for the first quarter of Holly's soccer game.  No, I didn't fuel the drama by pleading with him (I could see him from my seat on the sidelines).  When Noah finally did emerge, he whimpered through the final three. 

It was torture.

Later, as we left the auditorium and the lights came up on Holly's recital, I felt Noah's chin nudge my shoulder.  The whining and pleas to go to Charlie's house started up again, right on cue. 

It didn't stop all the way home. 

Not game for another round of 'hell hath no fury like a disappointed, regretful kid promising he'll "never-do- it-again" again,' Holly and I quickly ditched the boys and ran back out to celebrate her recital in relative peace and quiet.  When we returned two hours later a more composed Noah jovially volunteered, "I can't wait to go to Denny's (our standing Mother's-Day-morning plan)."  Sweet.  So he was attempting to extend an olive branch.  He was trying to show me that he'd found a more appropriate way to manage his disappointment,  and he wanted to connect.  Well, good. 

I often remind myself, my husband and the kids that the reason we're all in this nest together is because we still have stuff to learn from each other.  Among other things, the kids get to model our social skills (Oh Lord) and practice them on us before they fly the coop and use them 'for real' on others.  As I said to Noah (and, God love him, to my husband), I would not be doing him any favors if I gave in and didn't insist he respect me.  While I totally get he feels tremendous disappointment from time to time, and don't dismiss his disappointment as trivial, I draw the line at disrespect.   

I'll always love him no matter what, but the rest of the world isn't quite so forgiving.  It's my job to teach him to be respectful.  If I don't who will?  So sometimes it makes me unpopular.  Thankless work, this motherhood gig.

So you see, people, re-reading my little ditty from last Mother's Day was something I needed to do to head into another one.  I will definitely enjoy drowning my sorrows in that sweet puddle of butter atop my short stack of Denny's french toast (yeah yeah, so yoga is better ...I got the memo) and I 'm still hoping for those incredible home-made cards and hugs from my children, but I almost feel sorry for my little guy.  How's he gonna avoid feeling like a hypocrite after a mere eighteen hours earlier he told me how much he hates me?

–Jennifer DuBose, M.S., C.A.S. has been a Clinical Member of The American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy(AAMFT) since 1995.  Got a question or concern you’d like her to address?  Nothing is off limits.  If you’re a parent and it’s on your mind, chances are you’re not alone.  Don’t suffer the wonders.  Send your questions to parentingisntforsissies@hotmail.com.  Your name and other identifying information will be kept strictly confidential.

The surest tip-off that times-are-a-changin’ was this simple statement:  “Mom, I need a new comb,” Noah announced one recent morning.  It could easily have been overlooked in those stumbling-around-to-get-out-the-door moments before school, but my ears perked up and I realized immediately that this seemingly benign request portends something more profound than his mere need for a comb.  Since when did Noah care about his hair?  This was the moment that I grasped the inevitability of his growing up. 

There’s no going back now.

For us, adolescence looms large on the horizon.  Holly already commandeers the telephone as masterfully as any teenager, and those legendary hormones are definitely dawning in Noah’s nearly ten-year-old body.  We’ve already survived a few stellar bouts of sarcastic moodiness, and had to break it to Noah that the cut on his nose was actually a pimple. 

Aside from refusing short haircuts for the last year, Noah didn’t give a hoot about his appearance until recently – but now he gets more face time in front of the mirror than I do.  I find myself actually having to herd him out of the bathroom so I can tame my own tragic hair adequately enough to avoid stopping traffic in the drop-off lane at the kids’ school. 

My next car won’t be a Mercedes, but it will have tinted glass. 

“It’s like a monster on the side of my head,” Noah moaned one morning as he pointed to the funky lump of hair sticking out above his right ear.  I concealed a smile and ushered him out to the car. 

A determined problem-solver, Noah came up with a solution the next morning:

“I took a head shower,” he proudly stated, as he slayed any would-be monsters by running a comb through his unruly wet mop.  “Head showers are complicated,” he observed.  “Water runs everywhere.” 

“I have highlights,” he discovered another day. 

Noah was two years old the last time he had a decent mop of hair.  But then he got his first hair cut. 

I thought it’d be no big deal.  I protested vehemently whenever my Mother-in-law told me it was time, but I wasn’t really consenting to a real haircut, just a little off the top.  So he didn’t have to use his forearm to push the offending mop out of his eyes, so he’d avoid causing any fender-benders behind the wheel of his kiddie-Volkswagon.  A little off the top.  That’s all.

I got more than I bargained for, however. 

Surrounded by older men who waited their turns for their umpteenth trims, and held by his Daddy who’d just had his neck cleaned up in the next chair, Noah looked like he belonged.  His jaws worked two fat hunks of pink Double-Bubble bubble gum while he fiddled with a toy truck in his lap, unfazed by the whole ordeal. 

My ordeal.

The barber teased that I might cry. 

“Nope,” I barely breathed, denying the growing lump in my throat as I paced the linoleum with my camera.  As Noah’s golden locks fell to the floor I suffered flashbacks.  Of hundreds of afternoons whiled away as he nursed before his naps, when I raked my fingers through his curly mop.  Of how I absentmindedly reached down and parted his hair as we took our daily walks to the creek to throw pebbles in the water. 

But it was the “First Haircut Certificate” presented by the barber, proclaiming that Noah had “officially graduated from babyhood” that did me in.  Not so fast, I thought, as my tears finally fell, on the sidewalk outside the shop.

I eventually grieved the curls and grew to love that clean-cut, above-the-ears little-man haircut, but then Noah put his foot down last year when his friend grew his hair out. 

“Austin’s hair is really long.  I want it like that,” he decided.

Noah’s hair is finally long again, threatening his vision and curling past his ears.  I love it.  When I move to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes he flinches if we’re in public or heading off to school. 

“Mom, you know I hate that,” he sighs.  I guess we’re engaged in that classic mother / son dance of separation, this time around.  I haven’t learned all of the steps yet, but I’m giving it a whirl.

I wouldn’t dream of cutting his hair short again.  Like it’s even up to me, this time.

–Jennifer DuBose, M.S., C.A.S. has been a Clinical Member of The American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy(AAMFT) since 1995.  Got a question or concern you’d like her to address?  Nothing is off limits.  If you’re a parent and it’s on your mind, chances are you’re not alone.  Don’t suffer the wonders.  Send your questions to parentingisntforsissies@hotmail.com.  Your name and other identifying information will be kept strictly confidential.

Kids say the darndest things, and my daughter Holly is no exception.  Recently, Holly issued directions to my husband, who'd agreed to play a game with her.  She decided they should swap roles.  She'd play the parent, and he would play the child.

"Act like a kid," she instructed her father, then she told him to 'shrink' to her size by kneeling down.  "First, you have to look up to me, 'cause I look up to you."