A slithery problem

Source: http://www.gogobot.com/east-grinstead-united-kingdom

I grew up in a rural part of Delaware. Now, for Delaware, it was rural; however, in other, larger states, it might have been considered suburbia. Whatever you might call it, it was wonderful. This was a different era, so traffic was minimal and it was quite safe for kids to wander around unsupervised.

Our house was surrounded by empty fields on all but one side. You’d think that with all that open space we’d have been overrun by wild creatures. However, because they had so much real estate, the creatures had more than enough room to explore and hide in without having to worry about humans.

Source: http://fl.biology.usgs.gov/posters/Herpetology/Snapping_Turtles/snapping_turtles.html

One of the first wild animals I came upon when we moved was a snapping turtle — fortunately, it was dead. Since I was only in second grade, the body looked about the same size as one of those snow saucers. The wicked beak made me nervous, but not nearly as nervous as the bullet hole in the creature’s shell.

Source: http://loyalkng.com/2010/04/18/tiny-tortoisebox-turtle-taco-responds-wake-lil-cute-mammal/

Finding a box turtle was always exciting (for us, not the turtle). I saw one just a few weeks ago in the back yard of a friend who lives in a relatively rural area. I was entranced, as were two preschool girls. The colors on the shell, the way the little guy tucked everything inside his home, and the “just popped into existence” feel of the experience. Finding a turtle never gets old.

I once literally stumbled on a snake while it was swallowing a frog. I nearly tripped on something that looked weird, and when I put a hand down to try to make sense of it, the snake backed off its meal and slithered off. Ew. I felt bad about it, actually. The frog was dead, and here I’d denied the poor snake a meal.

I was a tomboy (is that word still used?), and my best and only friend and I would wander the fields and woods over about a two-square-mile area. Streams were always lots of fun to play in and around. Little minnows, crawfish, and salamanders were fun to spot and observe.

Source: http://www.everwonder.com/david/snakes/blacksnake.html

On the day my friend and I found a blacksnake, it felt like we’d hit the lottery. We’d been down by a creek, poking around under rocks and trying to avoid brushing up against the skunk cabbage that seemed to be everywhere. I don’t remember who spotted the snake, but I do remember that it took both of us to carry it. That baby was going home with us!

I knew that we had a cage my dad had originally built for our short-lived experience with gerbils. However, the cage was fairly spacious, had a good lid, and was raised on old table legs. It was perfect for our snake.

We walked about the half-mile to my house and were walking across the back yard when we heard the “boom” of the back door being slammed shut. Even from across the yard we heard the lock being turned into place. We stopped in our tracks and looked at each other.

From one of the upstairs windows came my mother’s voice.

“You get that thing out of here!” she yelled.

“I just want to get the cage.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want it one step closer. I’m not kidding.”

Bummer.

So we left and went to my friend’s house to see what we could find to house our snake. I don’t recall what happened after that.

My mother’s mother died quite young, and my mother was raised by an aunt who was terrified of snakes. Not surprisingly, my mother picked up on her fear and made it her own.

Source: http://blog.pubquizusa.com/archives/5743

My mother’s fear is all-encompassing. When I say she’s afraid of snakes, I mean that she has trouble looking at pictures of them in magazines, images of them on TV, and even accessories made to look like them. She will only handle a toy snake in the direst of circumstances (e.g., taking it away from a child as a punishment).

I was just a year or so out of college when my mother called me at work. She’d been gardening behind her house in historic New Castle (think of a miniature Williamsburg on the shores of the Delaware River). She’d told me before about how my step-father had spotted a snake sunning itself out back. It’s a real testament to her need to putter in the yard that she was willing to take the chance of maybe encountering the snake while she was out there.

I knew something was up when I heard the quaver in her voice.

“Do you think you could stop by here on your way home?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I found the snake and was able to trap it under a flowerpot. Do you think you could move it somewhere else?”

“Sure. No problem.”

When I arrived that afternoon, my mother was in the house, so I made my way out to the garden. There on the brick path was the promised flowerpot. I lifted the pot and found … nothing. See, the thing about flowerpots is that they have a drainage hole in the bottom. The snake must have slithered out the hole and gone on its merry way.

My mother was not pleased to hear the news. It was weeks, maybe months, later when I learned that my mom came upon the snake again. This time it must have looked at her funny, because she screamed. My stepfather and a man who was helping him came running. The man was a recent immigrant from Poland who didn’t really speak English. But he was able to figure out what the problem was and went over and picked up the snake. It was apparent from his gestures that he wasn’t impressed. Being a manly man, though, he took the snake away, and working in the garden became much more pleasant for my mother from that point on. Still, in the back of her mind, she worried that where there was one snake, there might be others.

Source: http://deliveringreadingpassion.wordpress.com/2011/03/16/a-sense-of-dread/

My mother proved that her love for her grandsons outweighed her snake phobia when she purchased a copy of “Verdi,” by Jannell Cannon. In case you don’t know, Verdi was a young python who didn’t want to grow up to be big and green. He preferred being yellow and having sporty stripes. Ms. Cannon lives in the same area of California as my mother, so when the author had a book signing, my mother had her sign a book for Buddhaboy and Skimbleshanks, then mailed them the book.

As the boys grew, my mother would send them funny comics, the magazine sent to members of the San Diego Zoo and Wild Animal Park, and pictures she thought they might like to see. Among those pictures have been images of snakes. Want to know what a grandmother’s love is like? It’s when a woman with a terrible fear of snakes sends pictures of them to her grandsons, just because she knows that the boys will love them.

Just try it for a week

Our pediatrician is a wise woman. She must be, because she took over the practice of a long-standing, popular physician — the kind of doc who would make sure that whoever took over his practice would live up to the standards he set.

When at long last we were expecting our first child, I decided that we needed to interview pediatricians before our baby arrived. After all, all the parenting magazines said that this is what one does … so we did it.

I made an appointment with a new pediatrician, and Ed and I arrived for the “interview.” I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought she would be eager to win our trust. Maybe I thought I’d be able to discern character flaws or questionable office practices.

What I found was a competent young woman who, although relatively new to private practice, seemed at ease talking to expectant parents (one of whom probably came across a suspicious and neurotic *ahem*). We decided to do away with the nonsense of interviewing physicians, reasoning that until we actually had a child for her to examine and treat, we didn’t have anything to go on.

Fast forward several years to when Skimbleshanks was in his second year of preschool. No, he didn’t fail the first year. His birthday is in January, so it was a judgment call as to whether he was mature enough to begin first grade. Besides, he was learning, having fun with the other children, and the preschool was close to his daycare.

I was entranced by all the different learning stations — so many different things to do! I loved that each child had his or her own hook and “cubby.” The teachers (two of them) seemed to enjoy the children and be happy with their work.

And then Skimbleshanks arrived.

I don’t recall that there were problems, per se. It was just that the teachers were at a loss as to how to redirect Skimbleshanks when he lost focus or wandered off to see what another group of kids was doing.

“The difficulty is that we’ve tried everything,” the exasperated teacher explained to me. “When he wanders off, we bring him back. If he disturbs the other children, we have him sit in a chair right there [pointing to a chair that sat alone, off the carpet], but he continues to make noises and faces and seems incapable of sitting still. Last week I had him sit in the hall outside the room, thinking that if he didn’t have an audience, maybe he’d settle down. When I checked on him a minute or two later, he was having fun rolling up and down the hall.”

The poor woman. She was looking a bit frazzled, not the same calm, collected professional she’d been at the start of the school year. Then she went on.

“Then the other morning I found myself chasing him around the room.” She shook her head. “I stopped, realizing that what I was doing was just silly.”

I promised her that Skimbleshanks’s father and I would talk with him, emphasizing to him the importance of behaving, paying attention, and respecting other people.

The end of the school year came, and Skimbleshanks “graduated” to kindergarten. Both of his teachers were wreathed in smiles on graduation day, but not just at the thought of my son moving on to a different grade in a different school … I hope.

Kindergarten was a real trial. First there was a bullying incident that I just happened to learn about when Skimbleshanks said something about two third-grade boys pushing him every morning while everyone was lined up to go into the school. A phone call to his teacher put an end to that.

We began to get reports on Skimbleshanks’s behavior that were eerily reminiscent of the ones we’d received during the previous two years. Inability to sit still. Unable to stay on task. Frequently interrupts others.

The school mascot was a rabbit (to sort of rhyme with the school’s name). At the end of each month, the school would hold a Bunny Bash. Those children who had behaved that month were able to attend the event, which usually featured a presentation, movie, or some other fun activity.

Each month Skimbleshanks’s teacher would keep track of his infractions. If he was able to have no more than three in one month, he would be able to attend the Bunny Bash.

To me, it seemed that three infractions over a 20-day span (give or take a day) was really hoping for a lot from a bunch of little kids. Still, the bashes were held, and many children attended.

Skimbleshanks did not.

And what was my kid doing while the others were at their party? He was in a room with the other kids who’d done something that got them banned from the fun. He didn’t have busy work — he sat there, nothing to do, not really understanding why he was being punished.

The year ended, and Skimbleshanks entered first grade. Again, we got notes from the teacher. Inability to stay on task … interrupting the teacher and the other children … fidgety.

At this time, ADD news was everywhere. I was adamant that kids were kids, and that boys liked — no, they needed to move. There was no way that ADD was real; it was just a way that society had developed to medicate children into compliance. My child was normal, whatever that meant. What it meant to me was that there was no way that I’d agree to medicating him for behavior issues.

I finally took Skimbleshanks to his pediatrician for a checkup. After explaining to her that, once again, his behavior was causing problems for him at school, she was quiet, then suggested that maybe we could try one of the ADD medications on him.

“Just try it for a week,” she said. “The medication wears off in a day, and it’s not addictive. Just try it and see if it makes a difference.”

With feelings of trepidation and believing that our parenting had quite possibly ruined Skimbleshanks, I had the prescription filled. We started him on the medication over the Christmas break.

On the first day after school resumed, we had a voice message from Skimbleshanks’s teacher.

“I don’t know what’s happened with Skimbleshanks, but he’s like a different child,” she said. “He’s been participating in class, staying on task, and isn’t bothering the other children. He’s having a terrific day.”

Ed and I were stunned. Could it be that easy? Could our child really have some sort of chemical imbalance that the medication was able to address, allowing the real child to shine through? Apparently so.

As the year continued and Skimbleshanks continued taking his medication, he did really well. His grades climbed. He made friends. The only reports we had from his teacher had to do with how well he was doing.

Being a mother, of course I felt like a failure. It must have been something I had done or not done while I was pregnant that had led to the ADD. Or maybe it was something that I had done or not done before I became pregnant. Or maybe I was just a lousy mother, one who had raised her infant and toddler in a way that made it necessary for him to take medication to be able to process input like other children did.

But do you know what I finally realized? I just doesn’t matter why Skimbleshanks is the way he is, not really. That’s all water under the bridge anyway. What matters is dealing with the here and now. What matters is understanding that my child does have some sort of chemical or “wiring” issue and that this issue can be effectively addressed.

Sometimes smart people can be so stupid. I have clinical depression. I was diagnosed while Ed and I were trying to conceive, when I was in the midst of what they call a major depressive episode. I saw a psychiatrist and, like our pediatrician, she said something that penetrated my self-delusion:

“People with diabetes aren’t told to bootstrap themselves out of their condition,” she’d said. “You have depression — dysthymia, in fact, a textbook case.”

I wasn’t to blame … what an amazing concept.

She explained that my brain simply uses up all of one particular chemical way too fast. That’s it. The medication I take addresses that. Antidepressants aren’t “happy pills,” believe me. What the do is allow me to be me. Sure, I have ups and downs like everyone does. However, because the medication keeps my chemistry on a more-even keel, I don’t have those huge, mind-numbing troughs of fatigue, anxiety, and hopelessness that seemed to make up my life before I was diagnosed.

So, given my own diagnosis and treatment, you’d think that it would be an easy leap for me to apply the same to my child and his diagnosis of ADD. Yeah, you’d think so. But being a parent, being responsible for the health and well-being of your child comes with so much baggage. You want to make the best decisions, and you want to be perfect. And that wish for perfection is what leads to blind spots.

You tell yourself that your son is happy, healthy, and normal … whatever that is.

You tell yourself that ADD is just our society’s way of giving permission for accepting bad behavior or medicating children to attain good behavior.

You tell yourself that it’s the teacher or the school that is the problem, not your child.

You tell yourself that your child has a food allergy, is high spirited, or otherwise within the realm of what you define as normal.

When you have two preschool teachers, a kindergarten teacher, and a first-grade teacher all tell you the same thing about your child, maybe it’s time for you to step back and take another look at your child. If these professionals, who see all kinds of behavior, tell you that your child is at one end of the bell curve, it means that you need to pay attention.

It means that you need to see the situation clearly, without viewing it through the skewing lens of your own issues.

A diagnosis of ADD isn’t the end of the world. It usually comes at the end of a long, tough road. The path forward is full of doubt and uncertainty. However, with an astute physician, caring teachers, and your own clear vision, you can help make your child’s path forward just a bit smoother.

Skimbleshanks will soon be 18. His school years have been full of trials and tribulations. As he considers furthering his education, he wonders if he’s up to the task. Ed and I wonder, too … and worry.

“Just try it for a week.” Wise words from a wise physician. I need to keep them in mind as time goes by. Whether it’s dealing with a new medical diagnosis or college or breaking a bad habit, just trying it for a week seems to be good advice.

O Fortuna ... Oh, Buddhaboy

It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when Buddhaboy turned out to be a force to be reckoned with. This was a kid who put me through preterm labor four times, was born on my birthday after only a few hours of labor, and showed up two weeks early but with a full head of hair and a full-term baby’s size. I really can’t say that we weren’t warned.

Buddhaboy was a robust eater. He didn’t go through a newborn’s usual learning-to-nurse phase. He was on the job and ate voraciously. When the time came to wean him (at about 3 years of age — yeah, he was devoted), I learned how to get dressed in the dark, hiding in my closet so that he wouldn’t see any flesh above the waist or a bra. If he did, he’d demand a ‘nack, and be an utter tyrant about it.

When we introduced him to solid food, he was on board with the program. The evening we decided to see if he liked meatballs, Ed was in charge of cutting them into pieces, and I was in charge with the actual feeding.

“Hey! He likes them,” I said, entranced to see my baby eating. Soon the pieces were gone.

“Hurry up, Ed! Cut them faster … faster!” That kid could put away food like no one’s business.

Since Buddhaboy was our second and final child, I was exhausted from the get go. During the pregnancy, many days I’d curl up on the floor of Skimbleshanks’s room to catch 40 winks while he played (i.e., wreaked havoc).

I confess that Buddhaboy slept with Ed and me for much longer than anyone recommends or will admit to. I was just so tired that the idea of getting out of bed in the middle of the night to nurse him was almost literally painful. So he slept with us. Like a cat or a dog does, he took up a disproportionate amount of our king-size bed. I put him in the middle, where his little feet drummed on Ed’s back and the rest of him forced me to sleep clutching onto the edge of the mattress. It wasn’t what I’d describe as a good night’s sleep, but it was sleep.

Once Buddhaboy became mobile, he began to explore in the early mornings. One morning I woke to the strong, distinct odor of peanut butter. When I opened one eye blearily, I could see that Buddhaboy’s face and the front of his pajamas were smeared with peanut butter.

Another morning, Ed and I were awakened by Buddhaboy leaping onto the bed, followed by our three dogs (small, medium, and large). Buddhaboy sat down between Ed’s and my head, and the dogs took up position across the middle of the bed, totally focused on the slice of pizza that our toddler held in each hand.

I believe that it was at about this time that my father-in-law came to our house and installed a hasp-lock on our refrigerator. In case you’re not sure what that is or what was involved, I’ll tell you. My father-in-law took a power drill and drilled holes into our refrigerator door and side. Let me repeat that: He drilled HOLES. Into our REFRIGERATOR. I can’t even describe what it was like watching that. Anyway, once the hasp lock was in place, we used a small combination lock to keep the refrigerator door closed, the way it should be, while we were sleeping.

But to get back to yet another rude awakening, there was the morning when we were peacefully sleeping and were rocketed out of sleep by Buddhaboy’s cry of frustration. He was sitting on the floor on my side of the bed and was covered head to toe with what I later discovered was sugar cookie mix. I guess he decided that his foray for things to eat was a loss and he wanted to be in clean clothes.

And who knew that a toddler could crack a belt? I went from blissfully asleep to awake one morning at the sound of — was that a whip? Gauging the reach of what I saw was a belt, I threw myself over the side of the bed. Buddhaboy laughed with delight. I sat there for a few minutes, waiting for my heart to either burst out of my chest or settle back into normal rhythm.

The last memorable wake-up call with Buddhaboy (memorable just because I must have blocked out any additional ones) started innocently enough. He walked into the room with “that” smile on his face. If you’re a parent, you know the one I mean. It’s the smile that means your kid is up to something.

“Good morning, honey,” I said. He just stood there, grinning at me.

I noticed that one of his hands was behind his back.

“What do you have there? Can I see?” Still grinning, Buddhaboy did the big reveal.

He had an apple, I saw. And the apple was completely impaled by an 8-inch knife. My toddler had an apple … on a knife. He’d gotten himself a healthy snack and skewered it with a knife with enough size and heft to decapitate a zombie.

Keeping as calm as I could, I smiled at Buddhaboy.

“Wow. Look at that. Can I see that for a second, honey?” I slowly reached over Ed’s body. He was awake and as goggle-eyed as I was. Buddhaboy handed over the apple-knife, and Ed and I breathed again.

When Buddhaboy is still a baby, we referred to him as The Bull. The boy was a determined little guy and looked and acted like he could bench press an adult. That’s not to say that we were afraid of him. It is to say, however, that we were a bit frightened of what he might do when he was older. It would have been interesting if I’d sent a note in to his teachers with the warning about not rousing the bull. Fortunately for all concerned, Buddhaboy the Bull seems to have been left behind as he’s matured.

As time went on, Buddhaboy quest for food grew stealthier. He learned how to open a lower cupboard door and use it as a ladder to the countertop. Once there, he was able to reach the upper cupboards, where things like white and brown sugar are kept.

The boy has a sweet tooth, there’s no denying it. He comes by it honestly, too. When my grandmother gave me all her recipe cards, there were maybe three dozen cards devoted to meats, vegetables, and the like. However, there were about a thousand (not an exaggeration) for cookies, cakes, pies, candies, and other sugar-laced confections. I joke that I’m the anti-Atkins, because for me, it’s all carbs all the time. (It’s not nearly as amusing now that I’m older, because that kind of diet catches up with even the skinniest, scrawniest of us, including me.)

It must have been summer, because Buddhaboy was wandering around in just a diaper. He’d been talking with his father when he strolled past me. As he moved, I heard a distinctive crinkle-crinkle-crinkle coming from him.

“Hold it right there, buddy,” I said. Walking over, I took a peek down the front of a hugely bulging diaper. Stashed inside was a full package of root beer barrels, Ed’s favorite.

“Hey, Ed?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you notice anything about Buddhaboy just now?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I just relieved him of a whole bag of root beer barrels.”

[silence]

“Did you hear me? He had a bag of root beer barrels stuffed down the front of his diaper. Didn’t you hear the crinkling when he was walking?”

“Uh … no. I guess I didn’t”

Moms have ESP, I suppose.

Buddhaboy’s adventures in food stashing didn’t end with the root beer barrels, either. He tried hiding M&Ms in the same place, but with disappointing (to him), disgusting (to his parents) results.

Now that he’s 14, Buddhaboy no longer sneaks food. No, he usually just grabs that bag of cereal or crackers and chows down, despite our rule of asking before eating.

He’s fortunate, too, that the volume of food that he consumes is at about normal levels, otherwise he’d be spherical. In fact, sometimes we have to really work to get him to eat. But other times we try to keep our hands away from the table as he eats everything in sight.

And at all times, we marvel at this kid who came early and has kept us on our toes ever since.

My bruddah

Back when the boys were little, I’d take them to a local McDonald’s that had an indoor playground. For the price of admission (three Happy Meals — the third was mine so that I’d have a backup toy in case one of the boys’ went missing), we could eat, then the boys would play for about an hour while I read a book.

The play area had brightly colored plastic tubes through which the kids would crawl endlessly. At the top was a small room with plastic windows through which a child could peer and wave before disappearing back into the maze. There was a slide and numerous areas where the kids could crawl into and out of the maze. And there was a ball pit.

I was never one of those parents who carried hand sanitizer in a holster, ready to slather the stuff on my little snowflakes. On the other hand, as I watched more than one little snot-nosed child clambering around, I wondered how often the play area was disinfected … or if it ever was. My kids are both disgustingly healthy, and I wonder if it was because they were exposed to enough germs to make an epidemiologist faint. First there was day care, then school, and the necessary trips to a variety of stores, and the McDonald’s playground.

Taking your kid to a playground is an interesting adventure. Next time you’re near a playground, take a moment to observe what’s going on. The kids are happily playing, some with reckless abandon, others with an almost palpable air of caution. Meanwhile, parents, grandparents, and other caretakers ring the playground. Some are relaxed, either sitting on benches or standing talking with other adults. Others, however, are poised to leap into action and keep an eagle eye on their children. These parents remind me of the big cats in the zoo. They pace and pace, keeping their eye on their children, never for an instant letting them out of their sight. Of course, the big cats are trying to figure out how to get out of their enclosures and eat their observers. The parents are just trying to keep track of their own cubs, which are constantly on the move.

Back to the McDonald’s playground. Kids can sometime form alliances in an instant, making a new friend to run around with and challenge to daring imaginary adventures.

My older son had made one of these transitory friends while playing in the ball pit. He was about 5 and so had the requisite skills for climbing and jumping. The two of them were having a great time, while my 2-year-old son kept on the periphery of their play.

I was reading when I heard a howl of pain. All the parents’ heads snapped up and turned toward the playground, mine included. Out of the ball pit came my 5-year-old and his friend, who had a hand clamped to the side of his head. My 2-year-old stayed inside the ball pit, sitting on one of the ledges.

The boy’s mother calmly walked over to him, squatted down, and took a look at the boy’s ear. She talked to him quietly, gave him a kiss, and had him go sit down.

“Skimbleshanks? What happened?” I asked my son.

“Buddhaboy bit that kid. He bit him right on the ear.”

What. The. Hell?!

“Buddhaboy! Come here!” I was utterly nonplussed. True, Buddhaboy was only 2; however, he’d never been a biter, as some kids are. He walked up to me.

“Did you bite that boy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?! Why in the world would you bite someone?”

“He pushed my bruddah.”

I blinked, then turned to Skimbleshanks for his expert interpretation.

“That boy and I were playing, and he pushed me into the ball pit. We were playing. He wasn’t being mean. We were just playing.”

I figured things might go more smoothly if I gave myself a minute or two to calm down. I had the boys sit at the table and eat their food. I walked over to the table where the other mother and her son, whose ear was bright red, were sitting.

“I am so, so sorry,” I began. “My younger son thought he was protecting his brother. Is your son all right?”

“He’s fine. The skin is broken, but he’s fine.”

I felt my stomach drop down and my mouth drop open. Broken skin = blood. Blood = blood tests, shots, the end of the world.

The woman must have known what was racing around in my mind, because she smiled and again told me that the boy was fine and not to worry about it.

“These things sometimes happen,” she said.

“Not to me,” I responded. “I’m so very sorry.”

I went back to the table and began throwing uneaten food into a bag and scooped the trash onto the tray. My motions were jerky and quick. I wanted to get out of that place and away as quickly as I could.

In the car I tried turning the day’s event into a teachable moment.

“Buddhaboy, honey? Do I ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Does Skimbleshanks ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Does daddy ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Do the dogs ever bite you?”

“No.”

“Do you think that it’s OK to bite other people?”

“No … but he pushed my big bruddah.”

“Honey, they were just playing.”

“Yeah, Buddhaboy,” Skimbleshanks chimed in. “He wasn’t being mean. We were playing.”

In the rear-view mirror I looked at Buddhaboy. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth set in a tight line.

“He pushed my bruddah. No one pushes my bruddah.”

I had to give the kid credit. He was looking out for his brother, something we’ve told both of the boys they should do. We’ve also told them that they should look out for others, too. We take care of each other, in other words. However, nothing could shake Buddhaboy’s believe that he was looking out for Skimbleshanks. And, being a 2-year-old and smaller than the older boys, an ear bite was, I suppose, the way he set about protecting Skimbleshanks.

There were no further biting incidents after that one. My little boys are now both taller than I am, both young men. Yet I wonder what might happen if my 14-year-old Buddhaboy observed his 17-year-old brother being picked on. I don’t wonder about it often, though, because I’m pretty sure that he’d step in, even though his older brother is well-muscled and more savvy now than he was then.

“No one pushes my big bruddah” indeed.

Choosing insanity

No matter what age your kids are, they're sure to drive you crazy. Newborns cry and exude noxious odors and bodily fluids. Toddlers are like mini-tornadoes. Elementary-age kids are little "why?" machines. Once they reach junior high school and the hormones start kicking in, your little darlings come home with wonderfully enhanced vocabularies and attitudes to match. Teenagers can be terrifying and heartbreaking and rage-inducing all in the space of a few minutes.

Still, being a parent is the most awe-inspiring ride I've ever been on. If a magical being appeared and offered me the chance to not have my kids, to forego the gray hair and wrinkles I've earned, to have all the rest and peacefulness of a life without kids might allow, I'd say no. I mean, I'd fantasize about having my pre-kids figure back and knowing where all my stuff is. I'm human, after all. But I'd still keep my life just as it is ... as chaotic and messy and emotionally draining and rewarding as it is.