You need to back off

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I was bullied.

Hindsight being 20/20, I should have realized that taking that particular job wasn’t a good idea. I arrived on my first day toting a box full of reference books, teacup, tissues, and all the things that make your desk your home away from home.

“Hi! I’m Laurel,” I said to the woman who came into the main office when she heard me come through the front door. “Can you tell me where my desk is?”

“Um … I don’t know where they want to put you,” she said uncertainly. “I guess you can sit there.” She gestured to a desk right inside the door. The chair was a couple feet from the sink, microwave, and refrigerator.

Without going into a lot of detail, let me just say that this job was a bad fit -- a really bad fit -- for them and for me. For them because I wasn’t family or a friend of the family. That translated to “not to be trusted.” For me because I was there to use my skills as a writer and editor. Please refer to the above: “not to be trusted.”

I was watched: what time I came in, what time I left, and how long I took for lunch. I was judged. At the time I was trying to combat my rising cholesterol numbers by eating oatmeal for lunch every day. It was hot, good, and cheap. The rest of the office (i.e., the family) got takeout every day and ate it at the table right next to my desk accompanied by the sound of open-mouthed chewing and tooth sucking. Oh, and their lunches usually ran about 90 minutes.

This was the job where, when I took it upon myself to move the desk in my new office so that my back wouldn’t be to the office door, I was taken to task. Even though our office was in a public building, apparently moving furniture must be approved by the main guy.

This was also the job where, when I was carrying out a task exactly as I’d been told to do by the boss lady, I was questioned on what I was doing. Then I was told not to be stupid.

The last straw for me was when I was on my way out the door at my regular time. Let me back up and say that my hours were 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., with 30 minutes for lunch. The family showed up anywhere between 9 and 11 a.m. So I was on my way out the door at 4:30 when the boss lady called me into her office. I don’t remember the content of the conversation, but I do remember the tone. It was nasty. I was taken to task for thinking or some such nonsense, and it went on and on.

Everyone has her limits. Even a rabbit will fight if it’s backed into a corner.

I’d had enough.

“You need to back off. Right now,” I said to the boss lady. I looked her right in the eye when I said it. She may have been seated in the power position (i.e., behind her desk) in her huge office, but I was standing, so I was looking down at her … in more ways than one.

I was shaking by the time I reached my car. I couldn’t believe I’d said that, that I’d actually stood up to her. But I felt good. I despise bullies, especially bullies who target people who they think can’t fight back.

Much later I was laid off from that job. It was a power play on their part. They’d hired their daughter-in-law, whose primary responsibility seemed to be to make sure that their son came into the office each morning. I suppose that hiring her meant that they had to cut expenses somewhere. Where better than by getting rid of that employee who they didn’t trust, who didn’t take the abuse they gave out, and who didn’t fit their mold.

In retrospect, being laid off from that hellhole was the best thing that they’d ever done for me.

One of the great things about reaching “a certain age” is not caring what people think about you. This is not to say that I am rude or nasty. It is to say that I will not tolerate rudeness, deliberate unkindness, or any of the other unpleasant things that life can sling your way. I now know how to stand up for myself.

When it comes to your kids, you want them to be able to stand up for themselves, too. However, it’s not as simple as teaching them to tie their shoes or brush their teeth.

We always thought that our younger son, Buddhaboy, would be the brawn to his brother’s brain. After all, when he became angry, we referred to Buddhaboy as “The Bull.”

As he grew, however, Buddhaboy became less of a steamroller and more of a thinker. His mind is always working — always. First we were waiting with breathless anticipation for him to say his first words, but now, we anxiously wait for him to draw a breath between monologues.

Buddhaboy neither liked nor disliked school. What he most looked forward to was the snack his father had in the car when he picked Buddhaboy up from school.

It came as a surprise when we learned that Buddhaboy had kicked another child on the playground. After reading the teacher’s note, we asked him about it. It turned out that he’d been watching a caterpillar at recess, just enjoying watching it move. Out of the blue, one of the boys in his class came over and squished the caterpillar. Then Buddhaboy kicked him.

The next incident also occurred on the playground. The janitor used an insecticide to kill all the wasps in a nest they’d made under the sliding board. This upset Buddhaboy, and he was teased by some of the other children. I believe he pushed them in retaliation.

As a side note, let me explain why Buddhaboy was given that name. When a fly is in the house, most of us dispatch it with a flyswatter and think no more about it. Buddhaboy put a stop to this practice in our house. Instead, he would use a spray bottle to mist the fly until it was unable to fly. Then he would gently capture the insect in his hands and take it outside and place it on the deck railing. True story.

Another incident was when some boys did something to the desk of a little girl that Buddhaboy liked. I can’t remember if he punched, kicked, or pushed them, but what happened next was a parent-teacher conference.

The counselor had a laid-back personality and really seemed to know what goes on in kids’ minds. I really liked her.

“Buddhaboy has a very strong code,” she said to me when we met. “He doesn’t like it when insects are killed, and it offends his honor when someone interferes with another person’s property.”

Huh. Interesting.

I don’t condone violence, having heard from my own mother since I was a child, “Always walk away from a fight.” On the other hand, I could understand why Buddhaboy decided to mete out his own kind of justice.

I saw a lot of the counselor while Buddhaboy was in elementary school. I am ashamed to say that it took quite a long time before I learned that there was actually a problem.

“Going to school is like torture,” he said to me one day. I followed up with him after school, asking questions that would elicit more than a yes or no answer. For a kid who barely remembers to breathe while he’s explaining mythology or dinosaurs or the future of the world, it’s sometimes next to impossible to get two words out of him.

At long last, I heard something that made everything click.

“Some boys are bothering me.”

“Do you mean just today?”

“No. They bother me every day.”

“What do you mean they ‘bother’ you?”

“They call me names under their breath and they kick me under the desk.”

“Does your teacher know?”

“No.”

“Have you told her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how about if you tell them to stop it the next time they start?”

This he did. However, he’d apparently reached his limit and shouted at them. He was the one who got in trouble.

In gym, Buddhaboy was always the last one picked, but he continued to be picked on. We’ve told our boys that if there’s something they’re not comfortable sharing with us, they should share it with their brother. So Skimbleshanks told me that a boy who’d been pushing Buddhaboy around during every gym class had finally learned his lesson. The last time the kid had done it, Buddhaboy had put the boy in an armlock, a painful, powerful defensive tactic. From that point on, the aggressor kept his distance.

If you factor in Buddhaboy’s tendency to stutter when he’s exciting about what he’s talking about, his utter social awkwardness, and his physical coordination, you have the perfect recipe for what Ed and I call bully bait. Buddhaboy was bully bait to the nth degree.

The bullying went on during every year of elementary school. Think about that. First grade. Second grade. Third grade. Fourth grade. Fifth grade. Sixth grade. For six long years, the bullying continued, despite preventive phone calls and meetings before the school year began and visits with the principal. Buddhaboy met with the counselor, and she gave him different techniques to try. Ed and I worked with him, role playing different scenarios. We asked Skimbleshanks for his advice, which he gave.

Finally Buddhaboy had reached the end of his final year in elementary school. At dinner one evening, I again asked him how he was doing in school and if anyone was bothering him. With an air of resignation, Buddhaboy said that, yes, some kids were bothering him. Ed gave a sound of frustration, then asked Buddhaboy to look at him.

“Look, your mother and I do not approve of or condone fighting, OK? But the next time a kid messes with you, I want you to punch him in the face — hard.”

I was horrified, and Ed could see it. He went on.

“Sometimes all a bully understands is a punch in the face. One good punch, and that kid — all the kids who have been bothering you — will get the message that picking on you is a really bad idea.”

I think at this point I was sputtering and most likely flailing my arms. Ed continued.

“You will get in trouble for fighting, and you will probably be suspended. I am not telling you to walk up to someone and just hit them out of the blue. And I’m not telling you to provoke someone into fighting with you. What I am telling you is that the next time someone starts something with you, punch him, and punch him hard. Do you understand?”

Buddhaboy nodded his head.

I think I put up some sort of resistance along the lines of “can’t we all just get along?” But even Skimbleshanks was on board with his father’s advice.

“Bullies expect you to back down, and they’ll never leave you alone once they start,” he said, looking at his little brother. “Punch the next guy who picks on you. You’ll get in trouble, but it’ll be worth it.”

I metaphorically threw up my hands at that point. All three of them had closed ranks, and I was missing the critical Y chromosome to be admitted to that particular party. I hate violence — hate it. I also hate the idea that I sent off my son to be tortured for six years of his young life. I hate that we’d tried everything we could with all the teachers and the administrators and yet our son was still being bullied at school. “Zero Tolerance for Bullying” may be a great slogan, but it appeared to still be bologna no matter how thin it was sliced.

I’m relieved to say that Buddhaboy never did punch anyone, in the face or anywhere else. The idea of his fighting makes me cringe.

On the other hand, as the victim of bullying myself, I have to say that a hard punch — or, in my case, hard words — can sometimes be damn effective deterrents.

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.

My claim to fame

When I was in fourth grade, I found a tick had settled in for a meal at the nape of my neck. I pulled it off, flushed it, and didn’t think much about it beyond, “Oh, gross!”

I grew up in an area that had more empty fields than houses. The field behind our yard was overgrown with blackberry canes and long grass. It was also an excellent habitat for ticks. These ticks aren’t the ones you see in the news, the tiny deer tick. No, these were the garden-variety dog ticks. They’d hang out, waiting for someone or something to walk by, and they’d hitch a ride. Once on you, they’d head for a quiet place to take a bite.

Dog ticks aren’t easy to kill when they’re hungry. When they’ve had a full meal, they look like something from a horror story: little gray balloons with their heads and legs sticking out from their bloated bodies. These are easy, but messy, to kill. The hungry ones, however, are flat and impervious to all but the hardest of fingernails or sharpest of pins.

The telltale tickling of a tick making its way along an arm or leg was an unwelcome way to be awakened on a hot summer night. They were common enough, though, that I slept with a baby-food jar half-filled with turpentine on my bedside table. When I captured one of the little blood-suckers, I’d squeeze it between a thumb and forefinger while, with the other hand, I’d take the lid off the jar. In the darkness of the night, I’d drop the critter into the liquid, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together to make sure that it had made the trip to its doom. I grew quite skilled at this and was able to remove and replace the lid on the jar of turpentine without spilling a drop.

I can’t remember of my father gave me the jar or whether this was something I did on my own. It boggles my mind, though, that any amount of turpentine was allowed out of the basement (where my dad had his workshop).

On the day that I found the tick attached to me, I got off the bus that afternoon complaining that my neck was stiff and that my head hurt. My mother was skeptical; however, in her defense, I wasn’t doing at all well in school that year. In fact, she met with my teacher while I waited in the hall. I didn’t really care what they said, so I wasn’t paying attention. However, the following statement my teacher made has stuck with me all these years later: “She can do the work — she just don’t.” Oh, Arturo, prince of irony!

From the day I came home complaining of a stiff neck and a headache, the events of the following two weeks were a bit fluid — for me, anyway.

I became really sick, and my doctor prescribed penicillin. The next day, I developed red spots on my hands and feet. My mother called the doctor, and he discontinued the penicillin, thinking I was having an allergic reaction to it.

By the next day, I was as limp as a dishrag, and my mother bundled me up in a blanket and drove me to the doctor’s office. (Note: I don’t recall if I saw the doctor before this — this was the only visit I can remember.)

In the examination room, I was placed on the exam table, still wrapped in a blanket. I was pretty much out of it, but I remember that my doctor pulled out a huge medical textbook.

“I’ve done some research, and I think this is what Laurel has,” he said, pointing to a description in the book. “Rocky mountain spotted fever.” He and my mother had a conversation that I don’t remember at all. However, in one of the highlights in my childhood, my beloved doctor picked me up and carried me out to the car, placed me in the back seat, and made sure that the blanket covered me.

Things went downhill from there. Soon I was covered head to toe with spots. I’d stopped eating and wasn’t drinking. Our neighbor, who had a little gadget that crushed ice cubes, sent over a few cups of crushed ice. I suppose the thought was that if I wouldn’t drink liquids, at least I could suck on the ice chips.

So, what’s going on in the mind of a really sick kid? It wasn’t too bad, actually. My temperature was up around 105F, so the hallucinations kept me pretty entertained.

In one hallucination, I played hide and seek with Snap, Crackle, and Pop. Obviously, they were the ones who hid since I didn’t have the energy to move. They liked to hide in the curtains, and I was able to point to where I thought they’d secreted themselves.

I upset both of my parents pretty badly with another hallucination. In this one, hundreds of baby spiders were on my bedroom ceiling. You may recall that at the end of “Charlotte’s Web,” her children all created little webs, which allowed them to fly away on the breeze. Well, I’m sure that this is where this particular vision came from. In my hallucination, however, the spiders were all in pastel shades, so they weren’t that scary. Still, I hid under the bedclothes, yelling about the spiders coming down all over the room until one of my parents got a broom and swept them off the ceiling.

Early on, when my parents were still trying to tempt me to eat, I remember being given a plate with a chicken drumstick on it. I’m sure more was there, but I was tripping at the time. I thought that a kid was hiding on the floor next to my bed, and I gave the drumstick to him or her. Gotta keep your visitors fed, you know? Turns out, though, that I actually gave it to our dog, who survived … or maybe my brother or parents arrived in time to take away the bone.

I wasn’t aware of it, but my mother had been sleeping on the floor next to my bed when I was at my sickest. I didn’t learn this until years later, and I was pretty surprised. My mother is not, even on the best of days, a floor sleeper. Learning that she willingly put herself at my bedside for days at a time made me really understand just how sick I was.

At about this time, my parents wanted me to be examined again but were, I suppose, leery of exposing me to the cold. A nice little doctor with glasses and an actual bulgy leather doctor’s bag came to our house and into my bedroom to examine me. He confirmed that, yes, I was a really sick kid. He issued the edict that if I didn’t begin drinking fluids the next day, he would admit me to the hospital.

This conversation must have happened in my room or in the hall, because the message of drink or go to the hospital must have made it through my fevered thoughts and into the still-working part of my brain. That night, I dreamed I was bundled up in blankets as I sat in the middle of an empty movie theater. Someone handed me a cup of chipped ice and said that I had to eat/drink all of it or I would be taken to the hospital. So, little by little, I consumed it all.

From that point on I was on the mend. I had been sick and in bed for a full week. It took me a further week to be back on my feet. My mother did her best trying to keep my occupied in a way that would take minimal physical effort. I suppose that the threat of a relapse must have been in the back of her mind.

My claim to fame is that mine was the first case of rocky mountain spotted fever in the state of Delaware. I felt pretty special once I no longer felt like roadkill.

My “specialness” lasted for less than a year. The following summer, two of my friends developed rocky mountain spotted fever, too, although neither of them was as sick as I was, thankfully.

These days it’s all about the deer tick and Lyme disease, and rightly so. If it’s not caught in time, it can take a terrible toll. Fortunately, caught in time, Lyme disease is easily treated.

I was fortunate that the right treatment for rocky mountain spotted fever was determined about 20 years before I became ill. I was also fortunate that my physician correctly diagnosed and treated me and that my parents provided me with such good care.

I don’t have a phobia about ticks, although I suppose I’d be well within my rights to have one. I haven’t seen a dog tick in years, even though we have dogs and our neighborhood is loaded with squirrels, raccoons, and groundhogs. I suppose we’re just lucky.

On the other hand, the mosquitoes around here are plentiful, voracious, and l-o-v-e me. I’ve set a bounty on their heads: five cents for each head. Exterminate with extreme prejudice.

If you’d like to read more about rocky mountain spotted fever, here is a good article. http://www.medicinenet.com/rocky_mountain_spotted_fever/article.htm

Naked Time

Some kids are clothes horses. Some could not possibly care less what they wear. And then there are those who’d rather not wear a thing.

Skimbleshanks was one of those nature kids who didn’t really see the need for clothing. I’ve never had a problem with a little kid who wanted to just let it all hang out. I figured that, since we were either in our home or in our secluded back yard, the only eyes that might be offended were my own. Besides, who was he hurting?

Early in the spring of 1997 I was stumbling to the car after an appointment whose outcome would answer the question, “Am I pregnant?” with a resounding “Yes!” I was stumbling because I was exhausted and trying to catch my 2-year-old, Skimbleshanks, who was merrily stripping off his clothes in the chilly morning. I was shouting out different bribes, trying to reach an accord with my son that would result in his keeping at least one item of clothes on. I was exhausted, and the cat-and-mousecapades were but a foreshadowing of what my pregnancy would be like while dealing with a feisty 2-year-old.

One warm, sunny morning later that spring, Matthew and I were waiting for my father to come over for a visit. Matthew wanted to run around naked in the yard, and I was fine with the idea. It was while he was naked that one of nature’s angriest insects, the yellow jacket, began buzzing around Matthew. I kept my eye on it and probably shooed it off once or twice. Then, right in front of my eyes, that little bastard landed right on Matthew’s … um … penis, not to put too fine a point on it.

I didn’t blink, and I didn’t hesitate, but time seemed to stand still. God, being stung there would be torture to any male, let alone a little 2-year-old.

As I pulled my hand back for my forward swing to shoo the critter off, it’s butt dipped down, and it struck. Time sped up into hyperdrive. The wasp flew off, and in the second before all hell broke loose, I scooped my kid up and bolted for the house.

He was howling by the time we hit the back door. I flung it open, scrabbled around in the freezer, and put an ice cube on the injured part with one hand while dialing the phone with the other.

“Ed? Matthew was just stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?!”

“Do? I don’t know.”

“What if it swells up and gets infected and falls off?!”

“Um … maybe you should call Jan.”

Jan is one of Ed’s sisters. She’s a postpartum nurse and the mother of three boys. She’s either seen or had to deal with just about every sort of medical emergency under the sun.

“Jan? Thank god you’re home. Matthew’s been stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?”

In her usual calm manner, Jan suggested ice (check)to slow down the progress of the venom through the bloodstream. Then she asked if I had any of the spray they’d given me in the hospital when I’d delivered Matthew.”

“It’s name ends in -caine.”

“Yeah, I still have it.”

“Good. It’s a numbing agent and should help with the pain. Good luck.”

I took another look at Matthew’s poor little penis, and it was a dark, angry red, swollen in a way that me imagining gangrene and all sorts of horrific outcomes. It was not a happy penis.

(Note: This has got to be a record for the use of the word “penis” outside of a medical text. Porn and erotica usually don’t use the medical term … or so I’ve heard.)

I ran to the bathroom and threw things around inside the closet and under the sink until I came up with the right spray can.

Matthew was, as you might imagine, a little leery of my spraying his wounded penis with anything. It took some work, but I managed to convince him that the spray would make the pain go away — and it did.

I wanted nothing more than to just bang my head against a wall. For Pete’s sake, what is wrong in the world when a little boy can’t frolic around in the all-together without a pissed off insect causing him grievous harm?

In due course, my father arrived. Once he got settled, he asked me what was new. I told him about the morning’s event, ending with something to the effect that, frolicking naked is an utterly harmless activity.

“I guess you learned that you were wrong,” he said. I would have felt better if I’d punched him, but he was just being my dad. He’s never one to let a so-called teachable moment pass by. I would refer to it as an adding-insult-to-injury moment, but that’s just me.

When Elliot came along, we had a different problem. Both boys loved stripping and running around. It was harmless, but aggravating. We didn’t want to punish the boys for doing what little kids just love to do, something harmless. What to do?

We owe a debt to Dana Carvey. The comedian, who also has two boys, described what he and his wife did to deal this this exact situation: Naked Time (for the boys, not Dana and his wife).

So that’s what we did, too.

“Boys! It’s now Naked Time. For the next 20 minutes, you can run around naked.”

“Elliot!” Matthew would shout. “Naked Time!” Man, you would have thought that we’d announced that it was Christmas and that a bottomless bowl of candy was being provided for their enjoyment.

Ed and I warned the boys that Naked Time would end if there were any accidents. Now that I think back, I don’t believe there were any.

By that point, Matthew knew how to use the toilet — more importantly, he knew how to hold on until he reached the toilet. Buddhaboy, however, was a different matter. He was just a toddler and had neither the skill nor the inclination to use a toilet. Still, the excitement of Naked Time was enough for him to put his natural functions on hold.

I wonder … maybe if we’d instituted more frequent Naked Times, we might have been able to get Buddhaboy out of diapers w-a-y sooner.

Naked time, of a sort, didn’t end when the boys were toddlers, either.

Ed and I have always been very open with the boys, telling them that they should feel comfortable asking us anything. We want our kids to have correct information and believe that the odds of that are much higher when the information comes from us. Now, when you take that position, that means that you are agreeing to answer any question on any subject, regardless of whether it embarrasses you or not.

I was reading, curled up in my favorite chair, when I heard the following: “Mom? Does this look normal to you?”

Even before I turned my head to look, I pretty much knew what I was going to see. Call it intuition.

A boy (identity concealed to protect the guilty) stood next to me in his all-together, holding his penis out so that I could inspect it. I believe there was a pimple or small discoloration on it. In the calmest voice I could muster, I answered.

“That looks perfectly normal to me, honey. Why don’t you have your father take a look and give you a second opinion?”

Somewhat relieved, the boy left the room. I rolled my eyes and went back to my book.

A short while later, Ed came into the room.

“Why did you send him to me?” he hissed.

“Because I don’t have one of those. You’re the default expect on that particular subject matter.”

It’s true. When you have kids, whether you’re a woman in the throes of labor or a father being presented with a questionable skin condition, your modesty really isn’t the issue at all. What it’s all about is remaining calm and answering those questions as best as you’re able, reassuring your kid that all is well. Save your embarrassment for another time. Believe me, there will be plenty of them as your kids grow up.

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.

A hole in the head

A kid’s head is a remarkable thing. An infant’s head has a covering of soft, warm flesh and hair … or no hair at all. Under that flesh is bone, but bone that hasn’t yet formed into a hard, protective covering for the brain.

Anyone who’s handled an infant either knows or has been warned about the baby’s “soft spot,” specifically an area on the top of the skull where the plates have not yet fused together.

“Watch his fontanel!” a helpful onlooker warns, as if you plan to cradle the infant in one arm while you poke a finger or two through the squishy spot and scramble her little baby brains.

Pediatricians tell new parents that babies are tougher than you might think. They aren’t recommending that you learn to juggle infants, though. What they’re trying to do is give new parents the confidence to handle their babies with confidence. Babies aren’t Ming vases. They are precious, but if you can relax while handling them, you will handle them with sure, steady hands.

Most families have one member about whom the rest joke was dropped on his or her head. Har har. And most families have one or two members who have actually taken a hard whack on the head at one time or another.

In our house, Skimbleshanks is our hard head. When he was only about 1-1/2 years old, Ed and I decided that we wanted to add a dog to our family. After a lot of research, we chose the golden retriever as the most family-friendly dog of the canine world. (Note: Yes, I know that lots of dogs are the best, truly I do.)

After putting out the word that we were looking, we found a litter in a nearby town. After talking with the owner, we decided to take the plunge. Ed, Skimbleshanks, and I drove to Newark to see and hopefully come home with one of the two remaining dogs of the litter: Tucker or Tyrone. Just in case, I’d put an animal carrier in the trunk.

We were greeted and settled onto the breeder’s backyard patio. The mother and father dogs looked at us through a sliding-glass door. Tyrone and Tucker were allowed out and gamboled around us in all their puppy splendor.

I was a bit taken aback, since both of the puppies looked just about big enough for Skimbleshanks to ride with the right saddle and bridle. They were handsome, fluffy puppies, and, being the softy that I am, I immediately fell in love with them. We could tell that they loved children because they greeted Skimbleshanks with playful puppy abandon.

I was talking with the breeder when I heard a “thunk” not unlike a watermelon hitting the ground. After a brief pause, Skimbleshanks, who was laid out flat on the ground, began to wail.

The breeder administered first aid (in this case, a Fig Newton), and all was well. Skimbleshanks was fine, Ed and I were fine, and Tucker came home with us.

The head-thunking via dog happened one more time a few months later. We were playing fetch in the back yard, and Tucker was loving it. One throw, however, went behind Skimbleshanks, and Tucker ran right over him to get to the ball. This time the sound of Skimbleshanks’s head connecting with the driveway sounded like a cantaloupe hitting the grocery floor. Again, Skimbleshanks was fine after some sort of snack was administered. Ed and I watched him carefully for signs of concussion, but he was fine. I’m pretty sure that Ed and I suffered some brain damage after that event, though.

Skimbleshanks’s cranial adventures continued when he started attending an in-home daycare. I was at work when Miss Deb called and calmly told me that Skimbleshanks had fallen and she thought it might be a good idea for me to have him looked at.

When I arrived at Miss Deb’s, she told me that Skimbleshanks had been spinning around, trying to make himself dizzy. It worked, and he fell, whacking his forehead on the edge of the coffee table. She warned me that he may need stitches.

I walked into the living room, where Skimbleshanks was lying on the couch, a tea towel covering a baggie of ice on his forehead. He seemed fine, enjoying the attention.

“Well, I hear you’ve been banging up the furniture, buddy,” I said. “Can I take a peek?” He said I could.

I lifted the towel carefully and looked at the hole in my baby’s forehead. Seriously. The edges of the little wound were curled inward, and I saw something whitish in the middle. Yep. That was my baby’s skull.

“Wow … you did quite a job on yourself,” I said, a fake smile pasted on my face. “I hope Miss Deb’s table is OK.”

We drove to the local children’s hospital, where both of us were questioned separately about how he’d hurt himself.

“He was being an idiot, spinning around to make himself dizzy,” I said. “He fell and whacked his head on the edge of a table.” I noticed the beady-eyed look the doctor was giving me.

“So he was with his daycare provider?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, he was, and I trust her implicitly,” I responded.

Stitches were indicated, the doctor said. Since the edges of the wound curled inward, the skin glue that was sometimes used was not going to do a good job. With stitches, the scar would at least be flat. I could, however, request a consult with a plastic surgeon. I said that stitches would be fine. What man doesn’t have a scar somewhere on his face or head? Skimbleshanks would be fine, I was sure.

Unfortunately, for children Skimbleshanks’s age (3-1/2), giving stitches is tricky enough that SOP calls for the child to be strapped down onto a backboard. I was able to grip Skimbleshanks’s fingers, but that was about all of him I could reach.

Both of us were fine until the doctor began cleaning the wound. He used a syringe to squirt disinfectant into it, and it stung. Skimbleshanks began crying, and I assumed the “everything is fine” demeanor while trying to comfort him as best as I was able.

A half-dozen stitches later, and we were good to go. Skimbleshanks has a scar on his forehead, above his right eyebrow. It looks like the Nike swoosh. If he went into sports, I wonder if he’d be able to convince Nike to sponsor him.

As parental scars are, mine is invisible. It’s there, though. Every time my baby hurts, the scar on my heart gives a twinge.

There was a time when Skimbleshanks’s head was the aggressor, rather than the victim.

As kids do, the boys were roughhousing in their room. And, as my mother told my brother and me when we were kids, “When there’s roughhousing, someone always gets hurt.” First it was all thump-bump-bang, then there was a howl of pain that escalated.

Parents learn pretty quickly what sounds mean. This particular one meant that someone was hurt, that there was blood, and that a freak out was imminent.

While I dealt with Buddhaboy, who had a bloody mouth and one tooth hanging by a thread, Skimbleshanks explained what happened to Ed. Basically, it was horsing around led to Skimbleshanks’s skull bashing into Buddhaboy’s mouth.

The outcome was one tooth knocked out and another loosened. No stitches, but a lot of blood, all of it Buddhaboy’s.

After things had calmed down and I consulted with a family friend who is a dental assistant, we learned that baby teeth are pretty much disposable. We’d have to wait and see if the loosened one would firm up or if it would just come out ahead of schedule.

That experience added a few more gray hairs to the collection I’d started during my first pregnancy. Buddhaboy was more sanguine about it and summed things up nicely.

“My teeth were in there really tight, but Skimbleshanks’s head did the trick.”

Gray hair and wrinkles

No parent wants to misplace her kid while out in public. If you’ve ever been through the experience, you might want to skip right over this. If you’ve never had this experience … you might want to avoid reading this, too.

I was in the market for a new refrigerator so I headed over to the Sears scratch and dent warehouse. This is where, as you might have guessed, all the appliances with cosmetic problems go to be sold. Would I like to have pristine appliances? Sure. However, I am realistic that everything we bring into our house will end up with a ding or a scrape in no time at all. With that in mind, I see no point in spending twice as much for the same washer, dryer, or fridge. The way I look at it, my distress will be greater by a factor of two if I pay full price and end up scratching it the first day it takes up residence here.

So, with both of my boys in tow, I walked into the warehouse. Matthew was about 5, and Elliot was about 2. Elliot had brought a book along, as usual, and Matthew was most likely carrying some sort of plastic creature in his hand or in a pocket.

Appliance shopping is boring in the best of times. With two little ones tagging along, I had to cope with their boredom, too.

Up and down the aisles we went, checking out the fridges. I also checked out the patrons. One guy looked like a biker, with his leathers, facial hair, and tattoos.

After a while, I checked on the boys. Make that “boy,” singular. Matthew was right beside me. Where was Elliot? I called for him. No answer. I walked to the end of the aisle and looked down the previous one and the next one. No Elliot. I called for him again, this time in a louder voice. No answer.

It came to me then where I was: in a warehouse filed with about a hundred refrigerators. I did the math. One 2-year-old plus 100 refrigerators equaled at least 100 places for him to hide … and suffocate.

I ran to the nearest refrigerator and snatched open the door. No Elliot. I slammed the door and ran to the next one. I snapped at Matthew to start doing the same, just as quickly as he could. He stepped up to the job like a trouper.

The whole while I was calling out for Elliot. Open. Slam. “Elliot!” Open. Slam. “Elliot!”

The biker guy glanced over at me and asked if anything was wrong.

“My 2-year-old son is missing. Oh, my god…”

“What’s his name?”

“Elliot. Oh, my god…”

The three of us searched and searched. A salesman came up to the biker and asked what the problem was. Soon the salesman was running around looking.

At this point I had enough adrenaline in my system to rip the doors off the refrigerators. The Hulk had nothing on me, a mom on the hairy edge of panic.

“Ma’am? Ma’am!”

A man’s voice slowly penetrated my pinpoint focus on the rows of refrigerators.

“What?!”

“Is your son’s name Elliot?”

“Yes!”

“Here he is.” The salesman was standing at the end of a row of stoves. They’d arranged them so that they were back to back. There was a gap at the bottom just the right size for a 2-year-old to crawl into. If he had a book with him, it would be the perfect place for him to kick back and read.

I ran over and skidded around the corner. And there he was. Elliot was sitting in between the two stoves at the end of the row, his book open in his lap.

“Honey,” I said in what I hoped was a calm voice. “Can you come out of there, please?”

He closed his book, crawled out, and stood up, looking around at all the grownups looking down at him.

Frankly, I was torn between throttling him and hugging him. I opted for the latter and burst into tears. I wrapped my arms around him and just knelt there on the hard cement floor, shaking from the amount of adrenaline pumping through my body and the sobs that kept escaping.

“Why are you crying, mommy?”

“Oh, honey. I thought you were lost, and it frightened me.” Matthew was standing behind me. “It frightened your brother, too.”

“I was right here, reading.”

“I know that now, honey.” I pulled back and held him by the shoulders. “Look, Elliot. If I call you, you must answer me. You have to. You just have to.”

“I guess I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, I guess you didn’t,” I mopped my face with my sleeve. My hands were shaking so badly I probably would have poked my own eye out if I’d tried using my hands.

I stood up and held Elliot’s hand, looked to make sure that Matthew was with us, and left the warehouse. The boys were fine. I felt physically ill as I walked to the car. I was shaky and soaked with sweat. Once we were in the car, I called Ed to tell him what had happened. While he sympathized to an extent, his reaction was more along the lines of, “the little dickens!” than, “oh, god! Are you all right?!” I suppose that it was a case of “you had to be there.” If he had been, maybe that third set of eyes would have spotted Elliot and prevented the panic … but maybe not.

My mother went through the same, “where’s Elliot?” scenario. She was shopping at Costco, and Elliot was misbehaving. Before she knew what had happened, Elliot had vanished. While she, too, was in a panic, my mother immediately went to the exit and told an employee that her grandchild was missing. Via walkie-talkie, word was passed among the employees, and no one was allowed into or out of Costco while the search was on.

Elliot was found, safe and sound. He’d hidden because he was afraid grandma was going to spank him. All he got was a fierce hug from her and a warning from her never to hide like that again.

When I was a child, it always struck me that grownups looked so tired and wrinkly, and their hair was either gray or was going gray. I just didn’t understand then what it was that made them that way.

Thanks to experiences like misplacing my child in a refrigerator warehouse, I now know exactly why grownups look so haggard.

Your face is going to freeze that way

Sometimes mom’s warnings had the reverse effect. This is one of them.

When you’re mad, aggravated, frustrated, or otherwise full of attitude, you’re hateful contrary, and you’re going to respond to your mom as if she’d just dared you.

Besides, how cool would it be to have your eyes or your face freeze? Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes) tried really hard, naturally, but it didn’t work. Oh, the disappointment!

Let’s face facts: Kids can make whatever faces they want, and they won’t leave even the faintest mark. I used to practice frowning to see how deep I could make the crevices between my eyebrows. To my dismay, the lines disappeared without a trace as soon as I relaxed. How in the world would I be taken seriously if I didn’t have some serious frown lines? My first summer of lifeguard duty took care of the whole baby-smooth skin issue, let me tell you.

But you know what? Mom really was on the up and up on this one. Sooner or later your attitude will show up on your face for the whole world to see. Are you a sourpuss? Well, you'll end up with a sour puss. Are you a Cranky McCrankypants? Then you'll wind up viewing life from behind a cranky, creaky, crinkly face. You don’t need to apply the “loser” symbol to your forehead for the world to know you are one: over time, your face will make it all too clear.

Once upon a time I worked with a woman who had a cynical, know-it-all attitude toward everything and everyone. Her face was deeply grooved from her nose clear down to her chin, showing that she spent far too much time showing her disdain. I also knew another woman who spent most of her life in sunny southern California. Her face was a mass of wrinkles; however, those wrinkles were an exquisite representation of her sunny disposition. Laugh  lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes, and the creases that bracketed her mouth, echoed by smaller lines over her cheeks, showed just how much time she spent smiling and laughing. Beautiful!

Does this mean if you’re pissed off you should smile or if you’re happy you should keep a poker face? Nope, I don’t think so. The Botox biz is booming precisely because people are afraid of showing what they feel … that they feel. A smooth face is a bland face. Feel what you feel and show what you feel. Just keep in mind that what you feel, your overall demeanor, will sooner or later make itself evident and your face really will "freeze that way."

Doctor mom

I have found that no kisses can ever compare to “mom” kisses,

because mom kisses can heal anything. You can have a hangnail,

a broken heart, or catatonic schizophrenia;

with moms, one kiss and you’re fine.

f Robert G. Lee

F

rom the day your mom brings you home from the hospital, she’s always on alert for hurts, illness, and anything out of the norm when it comes to your health. Especially with her first child, a mother is an acute observer of everything that goes into, comes out of, and comes in contact with her precious little snowflake.

I’m sure I’m not the only mother to have called the pediatrician because the baby’s poop looked funny or didn’t show up as often as expected. I’ve heard constipation defined as “not having bowel movements as your mother thinks you should.” I don’t know who originally said that, but I’m going to have to agree.

One of my favorite rituals was the way my mother checked for fever.

“I don’t feel good, mom.”

“Oh? Come here and let me check and see if you have a fever.”

I’d walk over to her, most likely slumping and trying to look sick and pitiful. Mom would smooth my bangs over to the side and press her cheek to my forehead while gently holding my face between her hands. For that brief moment I knew I had 100% of my mother’s attention and love. I could feel the warmth of her hands and cheek and could smell her scent. That alone was wonderful medicine. And today I administer the same medicine to my children.

I’ve always thought that the best place to be if I was sick would be wherever my mother was. No, I don’t wish I were a child again. I just like the idea of being the center of my mother’s universe. And the funny thing is, I know that if she could be with me whenever I was sick, she would take care of me as only a mom can.

About 10 days before my wedding, a guy rear-ended my car, totaling it and giving me whiplash. When I called my mother the next day and told her about it, she said—and I swear that this is the truth—“Don’t worry. Your mother is on her way.” And she was, too. She’d had her tickets East for a couple of months by that point. Still, it was wonderful to know that mom was on the job.

No one said life is fair

Life can be so unfair. You’re the better student, but someone else is picked as the star pupil. Your older brother or sister is allowed to stay up later than you are. The last of your favorite cereal just vanished.

“It’s not fair!” you whine to mom.

“No one said life is fair, honey,” is her standard response.

Welcome to the world, honey. You can whine and throw a tantrum, but there’s nothing mom can—or will—do to fix things to your liking. That’s not to say, though, that some won’t try, as in these bona fide examples torn from the headlines ...

• Some super-genius banned the game of tag from an elementary school’s playground because being tagged “it” could be damaging to a child’s self-esteem.
•  A school district suggested that purple is a friendlier color than red for marking papers.
•  Another district suggested replacing the term “failure” with “delayed success.”

Oh, please. Life is not fair, and kids--and some adults, too--need to learn this important lesson.

And guess what? Just because you grabbed the short stick this time doesn’t mean that you won’t grab the brass ring next time.

Just begin at the beginning

Dear Mother:

I’m all right.

Stop worrying about me.

f Egyptian letter, 2,000 B.C.

R

ight from the start, I want to go on record as being one of my mother’s biggest fans. How could I not be when she’s the source of most of this book’s material? And, having learned at the feet of a master, I am able to bring all the wisdom, skill, and je ne sais quoi to parenting my own kids.

If you’ve ever been a kid, you lived what I’m talking about.

If you’re a parent or grandparent, you know what I’m talking about.

If you’re a mother, you are what I’m talking about.

The time has come to view mothers for what they really are: living, breathing human beings. Over the last few years there’s been an outpouring of books and articles about the blessedness of mothers. Oh, how wonderful they are in their saintly devotion to their children. These unsung heroes blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda.

Oh, please.

When you’re a mom, you do what you have to. It means staying calm while your precious child pukes all over you. It means arriving at an event where you’re going to present your new baby only to find that sometime during the drive he’s had a blowout – one that coats him from butt to hair. And after cleaning him up as best you can, you discover that the emergency backup outfit in the diaper bag neither matches nor fits. However, you're made of sturdy stuff, so you squeeze your little bundle o’ love into that outfit and carry your progeny into the party anyway.

Being a mother means hearing “I love you” and “I hate you” from the same little person over the course of the same day -- sometimes within the same hour. It means keeping your cool when your child is bleeding, crying, throwing up, and having a red-faced tantrum, sometimes all at the same time. It means being the object of your child’s love for your—and his—lifetime.

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I've really enjoyed working on this book ... so much so that I've kept at it off and on for more years than I care to count. I found so many people who had similar experiences with their moms – and as moms themselves – and heard the same timeless expressions. We cracked each other up as we shared our mothers’ wisdom and sometimes even got into can-you-top-this contests for the most sublimely ridiculous experiences with our own mothers.

I hope you enjoy reading this blog as much as I have writing it. I'm hopeful that by blogging this material, rather than keeping it on my hard drive, will keep it fresh (and me productive) in the months to come. "We shall see," as my mom would say. 

If you think I’ve missed a crucial bit of motherly wisdom, please let me know. I imagine there’s enough out there to make this a never-ending project.