Negotiaton: It's What's for Dinner

Opening the cupboard full of baby food, my task is simple.  Choose a jar of vegetables.  Choose a meat.  Choose a fruit for dessert.  Easy as pie...okay, okay--pun intended.  It helps of course that Ila can't yet speak.  So while I am standing at the microwave waiting for the beep, I am sure that I won't hear her little voice say, "Mom, I hope that's not ham.  It makes me gag."  And while I spoon the banana mango pineapple into her tiny sweet mouth, I can take comfort in the fact that there won't be any dramatic eye-rolling-tongue-curling-body-folding-puke gestures.  Mealtime with Ila is SO peaceful...then there's mealtime with Gannan.

 Last night dinner was his favorite:  Meatballs simmering in a combination of barbecue sauce and grape jelly cooking slowly in a crockpot all morning and afternoon.  When he started liking this concoction I felt like I had won the lottery.  You see, he is what mothers call "a picky eater."  (Cue the foreboding music...)  He doesn't like meat at all unless it comes in the form of a nugget.  (Of course there was that time during my pregnancy last summer when I was on bed rest all sweaty and swollen, and our sweet drop dead gorgeous blond and busty neighbor showed up on our front stoop--in a mini skirt--with a mouth watering pork dish...He ate every morsel.)  ANYHOO...ah yes, the meatballs.   Yesterday he came inside to search for food after a long hard day of trying to break the speed record on his Slip and Slide by lubing his body up with baby oil before sliding.  (I wish I was kidding!)
 
Gannan:  Mom, I am starving.  What's that smell.  I hope that isn't pot roast.  That stringy meat makes me gag.
Me:  No Gannan, not pot roast.  It's those meatballs that you love.
Gannan:  Alright!!

I spooned a healthy portion into his bowl, and sat down to spend some time with him while he ate.   With bite one I knew there was trouble.  Two chews in and he dramatically began an eye-rolling-tongue-curling-body-folding puke gesture.  He spit what was left of the meatball on top of the other steaming balls in his bowl.

Gannan:  Mom, these meatballs taste like fish.  I'm gonna gag.
Me:  Ganny you LOVE these meatballs.  They're your favorite!
Gannan:  NOT ANYMORE!  Do we have any chicken nuggets?

So there I was faced with the age old question, a question that all mothers grapple with at some point.  No, no, not "Do we have any chicken nuggets?" rather  "Do the kids HAVE to eat what I make for dinner, or do I make them something else?"  This seems to be a tough dilemma for moms.  I mean what it comes down to is compliance right?  After all, don't they know how much work we put into making a nice meal for them?  All the chopping and the grating and the marinating, not to mention the mixing and the stirring, and the clean-up, oh don't get me started!  Then again, do we make meals for the gratitude?  That is the question that my very bright and dapper pediatrician asked me once.  Actually he said, "Logan, why do you want him to eat the food that you make?"  I answered, "So that I know he is eating healthy foods."  And without blinking he asked, "Does he only enjoy foods that aren't good for him?"  Well...no.  In fact, Ganny loves fruits and veggies.  I mean, I can't keep grapes or berries in the fridge for more than two days, and heaven forbid I don't have a week's supply of cucumbers and red bell peppers chopped up and placed in Ziploc bags ready for him to munch on in a moment's notice.  Dr. Dapper continued, "Logan, lean on the foods that you know he likes that are good for him.  That's not to say don't introduce new foods but do it gradually at times when it seems that he is getting sick of his old standbys."  Great advice!

A wise friend of mine once suggested that it was the relinquishing of control that parents had  problems with when it came to mealtime.  But he insisted that giving choices at dinner wasn't letting go of control at all.  "On the contrary," said he, "a parent is still in control if he or she is the one providing the choices."  I am in full agreement.

And so, when Gannan asked the question that I hear probably five dinners out of seven, "Do we have any chicken nuggets?"  I simply smiled and said, "Of course dear, but eat this bowl of fruit while you wait for me to cook them. After all, you need all the energy you can get if you still want to break the speed record for the Slip and Slide.    

Onward, Upward, Forward, MARCH!

Bad news.  No matter how diligent we are as parents our children will still make mistakes.  Ultimately they are in control of their own decisions and sometimes despite our best efforts, those choices can be wayward.  Being a mom for 16 years, I am learning that I am not alone in this.  Missteps made by kids are universal.  It doesn't matter the age.  Son or daughter, it is one of life's guarantees.  They will blunder, botch and bungle much to our chagrin.  For instance, sweet little toddlers could find it perfectly virtuous to bite or pull hair. They could refuse to share and learn the veritable punch one gets from the word "No!"  And what mother of a preschooler doesn't know how well their little one can test limits?  "She said no cookie, so I'll just have candy instead!"   As our children get older the possibility of screwing up is enormous. Instead of standing up to bullies, they could be the bully.  They may decide against college or drop out of school altogether.  They may be hooked on drugs, sell them-or both. They might lie to teachers or friends or much to our dismay-us.  The disappointments are endless and varied, and if you are like me and other mothers that I know, it is hard not to blame yourself hourly, daily, religiously, thoroughly when your child suffers the consequences of poor judgment.

In the name of dignity, I will spare my two boys and not give you the details of their difficulties.  But I assure you, each boy has some tough mountains to climb on the way to maturity.  It seems as if it is a never-ending job trying to teach those boys the merits of "not."  Sometimes, (who am I kidding,)  most of the time, my advice, ( which they would call lectures,) my consequences ( which they would call ridiculous punishments,)  my tears, ( which they would call over-dramatic,)  fall upon two boys who think they've got all the answers.  They would never dream of listening and learning from their lame mother.  So there are moments when I feel like giving up.  Like I have tried every tip, read every book, spoken to every friend.  These times usually happen at night, when I am lying in bed rehashing every detail of their trials and tribulations. Going over and over what I've tried and wondering for the umpteenth time why nothing seems to be working.  Usually while mulling over the magnitude of these problems, a hopelessness, a feeling of futility, settles into my bones, bores a hole in my stomach, and I fall asleep bearing the weight of the pain only a mother knows when her child (or children) are struggling.

But then there's the morning...and as if by magic, a mother's spirit is renewed.  There are new books to be read, others to talk to, new things to try.  This restored resolution, where ever it comes from, is highly valuable for both mothers and their children.  After all, without it, mothers all over the world would give up on their kids after a few failed attempts.  Without that special spark that lights a fire under us, who'd light a fire under our children?  We tell ourselves that somewhere, someday, all this hard work will pay off (Lordy I hope so!)   And so, we push forward.  Damn the mental fatigue! Three steps forward, two steps back, until progress is made or by some miracle we hear, "Mom, you were right."

Our Sweet Rudy

Can't believe it's been a year.  In honor of our beautiful Rudy, a re-post.   

It is bleak in our house today.  Black and somber.  Our eyes are red from the crying that comes spontaneously and without warning.   Like right now as I write this.  You see, our beloved dog, Rudy, had to be put to sleep.  He had stopped moving, stopped caring. In the last few months he seemed to go from "old" to "ancient."

The grief is heavy and comes from so many different places.  As a human, the most basic part of the grief, for me, comes from my love of the dog.  It seems he has always been here, sitting at our feet when we despaired, wiggling his entire being when we were joyous.  But it was his old-man like wisdom that I think I will miss the most.  He just knew...he just knew.  For instance, last summer I was massively pregnant and on bed rest.  There was major construction going on in our house so I had to stay in our claustrophobic master bedroom for days on end.  Bathroom, bedroom, bathroom bedroom, until I thought I'd go stir crazy.  One particular day when I was feeling completely miserable, depressed and very lonely, my bedroom door opened a crack.  I was astonished to see Rudy's head peak around the corner.  He wasn't allowed in our bedroom typically and after living with us for 12 years, rarely even ventured down the hall.  But there he was sitting at the foot of my bed.  Even more astonishing was what happened next.   Despite his arthritic legs and cloudy eyes, Rudy found the energy to bound puppy-like up on to the bed with me.  He nuzzled my chest, harrumphed and sneezed, and didn't leave my side for two days.  He knew.  He just knew.  I needed company and company was what he gave.  The absence of that wisdom, that loyalty, leaves a hole in my heart.

As our day of grieving wore on I found that like the grass, topsoil and sediment dug up in our backyard to make Rudy's final resting place, my grief had layers.  It seemed the deeper the layer the more pain it held, the kind of pain only a parent could identify with.  Worse than the mourning I felt for the death of the dog,  the deeper layers housed the anguish for the devastation that my family was feeling.   As a wife, the mixture of pride and sadness that I have for Jeffrey leaves an incurable ache in my stomach.  Watching him pretend to be strong as he led his precious Rudy to the car for his last ride, seeing him carry Rudy wrapped in the blanket to his grave in our backyard, witnessing him break down as he recalled the moment that Rudy died in his arms-well to put it simply-put a crack in my heart.

But the deepest layer, the worst part of today, tomorrow, perhaps for the long run, was seeing my boys, those macho-never-cry little guys fall apart at the seams.  True to their differences, the way they grieve is night and day.  Aidan cried easily, but rationalized.  He said late last night, "It would be cruel to let him suffer."  His anguish was on the surface and consistent.  In spite of his pain, he was able to think of others as well.   As much as it hurt him, he stood by his step-father's side as he buried Rudy, the dog that bonded them in the beginning of their relationship.  Gannan, on the other hand, had been quiet, absolutely silent since he found out that Rudy would be leaving us.  It wasn't until just before Jeff took him to the vet's that he broke down.  He wailed, begged us not to take him away. His own agony was too much for him to take.  He painfully lamented that he'd never be able to play in the backyard again knowing that Rudy's grave was there.  But in the end, before our dog was buried, Gannan brought his prize possession to me, a second place ribbon that he won at the largest cross country event he ran in this fall.  He said he wanted Rudy to have it, to remember the running they did.  It was at that moment, that my heart gave out under the weight of the grief and instead of a simple crack, it broke into a million pieces.
A very smart, but anonymous person once said, "A mother is a bank where we deposit all our hurts and worries."  Today the mom-account was filled.  Today I found out what all mothers eventually come to know:  when bad things happen, mothers not only have to be able to shoulder their own grief, but they will need to muster extra strength to carry around the sadness that comes from watching their families grieve as well.

June Cleaver Versus The Sourpatch Kids

When my sons were young, I used to love to pretend to be June Cleaver.  Apron tied around my waist, I'd call my family to come and enjoy their homemade dinner.  I'd sit down last (after everyone was served) and then wittily ask my two sons to tell me about their day, both the wonderful and difficult parts. Serving seconds of meatloaf, I would sit enraptured as each son spoke.

When my sons were young, we'd pack the car on Sundays with sodas and sandwiches and Sesame Street songs and take a drive to nowhere.  Jeff would call them our Sunday Adventures and as we drove, we'd play "I'm Thinking of Something"  round and round until our minds were weary. 

When my sons were young, we waited with baited breath for the next Disney or Pixar cartoon to be released.  We usually were the first to arrive at the movie theater.  We'd buy our tickets and load ourselves up with popcorn, candy and soda and position ourselves in the best seats possible.  Afterward, in the car, we'd ask each other about our favorite parts, laughing all the way home. 

When my sons were younger, we'd scrape and scrounge pennies to take them on  yearly beach vacations. While I lounged in my chair reading books and drinking  Mai Tais, Jeffrey and the boys with their fresh crew cuts would build sand castles, ride their boogie boards and play Frisbee until our skin was crispy from the sun. 

Let's just ruminate on those Rockwell images for awhile....Beautiful aren't they?  Sigh.  Too bad these scenes are in the past, long past.  Double sigh..... 

Why past not present? That answer is complicated.  Be it the two very different paths my sons walk, be it the polar opposite personalities bestowed up on them, be it the pubescent raging hormones that are coursing through their adolescent veins, somewhere along the line, slowly, so slowly it was almost unnoticeable, the boys began to develop a rivalry that now is as intense as trying to eat 13 Sour Patch Kids at once.

I am a reader at heart and so the moment that their incessant fighting and bickering and whining began to suck the life out of our home, I attacked my local book store and spent their college savings on any parenting book that looked promising.  I tried it all.  Let's see, there was the time I tried to have them sit at the kitchen table and talk out their differences.  The discussion turned into a shouting match which then led to chest thumping in front of toppled over dining room chairs.  When civil discussions didn't work I then moved on to the idea of "removing the audience."  When disagreeing, I took myself out of it and insisted that they try to work out their differences in a fair way.  That strategy ended up with Gannan locking himself in our car and Aidan pounding on and cracking the windshield trying to get his stolen gum. Hey!!  What a GREAT solution huh?? Clearly this was bigger than me so from there, I arranged a counseling appointment.  Here we finally had a moment where the boys united as brothers.  They both giggled and poked fun at the therapist's questions throughout the whole session only to pummel each other during a basketball game when they got home.  As a final resort and ignoring the gagging gestures, I suggested that we all say one reason why we love each other before eating dinner.  But the fighting escalated despite all the "brilliant" parenting.  They were so crafty in their disgust for one another that they could dig and rib even while professing their love during the a fore mentioned dinner ceremonies.

Here's an example of one of those enlightened conversations:
Gannan:  I love you Aidan because you don't mind that I have more friends then you do.
Aidan:  I love you Gannan because you don't care if you smell from not taking a shower everyday.

How could a mom not be proud of that creativity!?

They can honestly make a fight over anything even if the other doesn't mean to argue.  Take for instance last night:
Gannan:  Mom, listen to this song that I found.  I love it.
Aidan:  Oh my god mom!!  He is just trying to drive me crazy!
Me (Bewildered):  What are you talking about?
Aidan:  He knows I found that song first.  He just likes it because I do.
Gannan:  No!  If that was true how would I know all the words?

At this point, my youngest stands up and steps into Aidan's personal space and with the puckered lips of a person eating 13 Sourpatch Kids, sings the lyrics nastily into his face.  Aidan then leans closer with the puckered lips of a person eating 20 Sourpatch kids and sings the next verse even nastier.  Gannan then changes the words to the chorus so that instead he is singing, "Aidan is a jerk.  Aidan is a jer er er erkkkkk!"  At which point Aidan screams out in time with the song's beat, "I hate you! I haaaaaaaate you!"  And I thought music was supposed to sooth the savage beasts.....sigh.

The fight in my children never ceases to amaze me and I marvel that they held out through 5 different books of parenting strategies.  They are consistent those little buggers.  I have to admit it.  Not one book recommendation worked. (Those authors clearly didn't have children with the will power of my sons!)  So, I have turned to a drastic measure:  Complete separation.  That is right.  I said complete.

No longer the Cleavers, we don't eat dinner together.  Instead one child eats with a parent at a specific time and one with the other.  We don't go out to dinner together.   We don't even all get in the car at the same time.  We've even gone so far as to say one boy must be downstairs in the finished basement if one is in the living room.  A little extreme?  I'll give you that.  But don't forget I now have to think of little Ila whose infant brain would soak in all that negative energy.  I made a decision to give her the life that the boys had when they were young, happy dinners, Sunday drives, beach vacations and time spent together.  Even if the boys refuse to act like Beaver and Wally Cleaver, she deserves that.  Now, if I could only remember where I put my apron.


Muddled Mothers!  How do you handle sibling rivalry and fights in your family?  Please comment with your suggestions!

Energy and Exuberance

"Ma, is it okay if Aidan takes a picture of me jumping off the roof onto my pogo stick?  The trick is called a "bomb drop," and I have to be able to do one if  I am ever going to get sponsorship!"  My hands gripped the counter's edge as I thought of a response to this LUDICROUS question.  My first instinct was to use sarcasm.  "Why of course dear.  Let me hold the ladder for you.  Better yet, our ranch's roof is too piddly.  Why not travel to New York this weekend so you can jump off the Empire State Building!"  But I have learned with Gannan that sarcasm never works.  He knows the antidote-which is to pretend to take me seriously.  His answer to said sarcasm would have went something like this, "Alright!  Thanks mom!"  At which point he would have ran outside to announce to all his neighborhood friends, "Mom said I could do a bomb drop off the Empire State Building this weekend!" And once again the adults living on our right, our left and across the street would shake their heads and wonder to themselves, "What kind of mother would let her son do the things that Gannan does?"  What kind of mother indeed? 
     In earlier posts I have mentioned how difficult it is sometimes to raise children in the small town in which I was raised.  Like most small towns, this one has a gossip mill that churns out product on a daily basis.  For some, this is just part of living in a small town.  Some take it in stride.  Some even relish it.  Having been the gossip-product-of-the-year a few years back (for which I take full responsibility), it is something that I have come to fear.  That's right, I am afraid of the gossip kings and queens of this hamlet for the damage that they wield with their rumorous swords.
     But the energy and fearlessness in Gannan has made it hard to hide from the know-betters of my community.   He doesn't walk, he skitters.  He doesn't sit, he jitters.  He doesn't do slow, he scurries.  He jumps, leaps, canters, bolts, scoots and skedaddles. As a runner, he insists on running races that typically only adults enter.  He grabs the bumpers of passing cars to take joy rides on his skateboard.  He uses his skim board to race down the iciest steepest hill on our block.  He hurdles out of trees to land on a friend's bike that he has maneuvered underneath.  He's a kid that you can't keep down, literally, even if you put a straight jacket on him.  (Hey, now there's an idea I haven't tried.  Hmmmmm....)  Danger is his life, and every dangerous venture he embarks on is another chance for someone to say, "Where is that kid's mother anyway?"   My husband, who comes from an even smaller town than mine thinks that I am crazy to let what others think taint the decisions I make about my own children.  And intellectually I know he's right.  But, I am finding that sometimes fear overrides intellect.
     Gannan's newest danger-seeking activity is called Xtreme Pogoing.  I vowed to be completely honest in this blog, and so, I will fully admit that I was the first one to buy him one of these revved up pogos that jump on average about 7 to 8 feet in the air.  ("Mom they have to go high.  That way there is time to do the tricks before it hits the ground.")  And just as I suspected, those that knew Gannan and his proclivity for broken bones, including those well meaning neighbors, thought that I must have lost my mind.  And I may have...long ago....but that's another story.  Nevertheless, I allowed him this birthday gift BEFORE knowing that there was a sport attached to it and that he'd want to attempt tricks called "bomb drops" and "backflip dismounts."   So, for Gannan's safety, my reputation and for the neighbors sanity, I banished all difficult tricks with titles like "flip" or "bomb" to the anonymity of his father's house.  (There are SOME perks that come with divorce!)
     Two things have happened lately that have got me thinking that perhaps I should stop the incessant fretting of what others think and just let Gannan be his irrepressible self.  The first inspiration came from this year's Winter Olympics. Gannan and I were watching that bubbly Shaun White attempt the "Double McTwist"  (snowboarding two twists and three and a half spins while on a halfpipe.)  He, of course, landed it and went on to win this year's gold.  At that very moment, Gannan turned to me and said, "Thank God his mother never told him that he couldn't try that trick.  Right mom?"  I looked to my husband who immediately shrugged in a "don't-ask-me" kind of way.   I had no answer to this question.  Well, no answer that I could defend.  Gannan was right.  Had Shaun White's mom been like me, he'd never have been the gold medalist that he is today.  I knew that Gannan had aspirations to get sponsorship for his pogoing.  I also knew that he had to be able to do certain tricks in order to get that sponsorship.  Wasn't it my job as his mom to help him find ways to do that safely as I am sure Shaun's mom did for him?  Last week, I got a local gymnastics club to agree to let him use their facilities on Saturdays so  he could practice the necessary tricks with at least as much safety as I could find.  Shaun White's mother would approve.
     You will be SHOCKED when I tell you where the second inspiration came from.  After all my belly aching, it pains me to admit, but it actually came from a neighbor.  Now granted this neighbor is the Pulitzer Prize winning Mark Mahoney, but a neighbor no less.  On Thanksgiving he wrote a column on what to be thankful for in a year full of hardships such as this one. To our surprise he wrote about Gannan's exuberance as a reason to feel gratitude. The editorial takes the stance that when life pulls us up short we should look for the things that make us feel joy, like watching my son's lust for life.  Mark said, "Life can be tough sometimes. Often, it's overwhelming. And it's simplistic to think that watching a kid on a pogo-stick is going to pay the electric bill or cure an illness. But without these little things to break up the monotony, life's pressures would be unbearable. These are what get us through the long days, the tough times. Without them, life would totally bring us down."
     I have to admit, until reading that editorial I would have said that Gannan's Energizer Bunny like personality would have been one of those things that I categorized as a "life pressure."  But Mark's thoughts made me question that.  Could it be that the eye rolling of my neighbors was just my perception?  Do they see Gannan in the same way Mark sees him?  In reality, shouldn't I be joyful that my child loves life?  I am still in the process of working out the answers to these questions, but there are many days lately that instead of closing my eyes, I go outside to marvel at that little boy of mine flying on his beloved pogo stick.

A Post Script:
"Great mom!"  Said Gannan after reading this blog.  "Does that mean I can jump off the roof now?"
"Oh sure dear.  Let me hold the ladder for you!"

Below are two links that I'd love for you to visit.  One is a You Tube video of Gannan on his pogo stick doing back flip dismounts.  I'd like to state for the record that this was filmed at his dad's house, and that I had no say in the absence of the helmet...sigh.  The other link is Mark Mahoney's editorial about Gannan.  Enjoy!


Gannan on his pogo.

Mark's Editorial

     "Why don't you take our tickets for the hot air balloon ride?"  My friend asked me while I sobbed next to her on the couch.  "Take Aidan too.  It might be good for both of you."  I took the tissue she offered and dried my eyes.  Maybe something spectacular like that would be the remedy to what had been ailing us.  For the last few moths, I hardly recognized my sixteen-year-old.  He had gone from a happy, chatty boy to one who had anger outbursts that rivaled the super-souped-up-steroid-heads that "wrestled" in the WWF.  (What?  I see them when I change the channels!)  Now, Aidan didn't talk much, but when he did it was only to belittle or complain.  No matter what I tried, yelling, reasoning, grounding, talking, even bribery, I couldn't seem to get through the high wall of rage that he had built around him.  I knew that adolescence could be tough, but I never imagined anything like this.  Despite all of the parenting books and articles I had read, I was running out of tools to reach him.
     The next morning, as we climbed into the balloon's basket, I smiled cheerily at my son determined to make the most of this experience.  I was hoping that I might break through the tension that was always present.  As we lifted off, the pilot began to teach Aidan the ins and outs of balloon flight, and though it didn't occur to me then, I would eventually realize that the basic principles of flying a balloon could be applied to parenting.  I think of it as "parenting in-flight," and since I was having such a hard time connecting with my child, I found these flight techniques useful suggestions to add to my parenting tool box.

Principle one:  Heating and Cooling Keeps the Balloon Steady

     In order to keep the balloon aloft, sometimes the pilot would pull a lever and blast a high flame up into the balloon's belly to heat the air.  The noise was deafening for a few minutes and then he'd let go of the lever and we'd drift in absolute silence.  When Aidan asked about the use of the flame, the pilot pointed out that there had to be a limit to the heat otherwise the balloon would fly too fast and too high.  It would be hard to control.  It was just as important to let the air in the balloon cool a bit.  The balance between heating and cooling kept the balloon steady.
     The same could be said for parenting, I guess.  I have to remind myself constantly, expecially in angry moments that I must make conscious decisions about when to heat up and when to stay cool.  With Aidan, I had fallen into that trap of yelling as loudly about the toilet seat being left up as I did about the two zeroes he had in his math class.  (In my defense, do you know how horrible it is to be jolted awake in the middle of the night when your tush falls into the toilet!!??)  Anyways....now I try to think before I speak or scream.  I am amazed at the effect that a quiet voice can have on my adolescent.  One morning instead of yelling at him for not being ready on time, (a daily activity,) I instead calmly stated, "It really frustrates me when you aren't ready by 7:30.  When you are not ready, it makes everyone else late."  To my surprise, the next morning, my son was waiting for me in the car at 7:30 sharp.  Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, there HAVE been days in which he has been late again.  But as long as I use that quiet explanatory voice when reminding him, we at least have got it down to a 50/50 situation.  That is not to say that there aren't times when a show of emotion like anger or strong disappointment isn't necessary, but I know I had to decide on what was truly important for me as a parent.   (For instance, I think that my neighbors five doors down heard me when the last report card arrived!)  Now that the amount of yelling has decreased, instead of Aidan thinking, "She's yelling AGAIN!"  He thinks, "Oh, she's angry.  She must mean business!"

Principle Two:  There is no Way to Steer a Balloon

     Below the balloon, the chase car zoomed along.  "Where will they meet us?"  I asked.  "Wherever the balloon touches down." responded the pilot.  He explained that even though you could control how high or low the balloon flew, there was no way to steer it.  "A pilot can never control the direction of a balloon.  We're at the mercy of the wind."  He smiled.  "So just lean back and enjoy the scenery." 
     This principle of balloon flight was probably the hardest to apply to my parenting.  I tended to want to control everything about my son to steer him toward success.  I decided when he did his homework, who his friends were, what time he went to bed, even what jacket he wore to school every morning.  As I look back on this behavior, there were several well-meaning motives behind it.  Of course, I didn't want Aidan to experience failure or hardship, but there was also a selfish motivation for my controlling behavior.  Having been raised in am image conscious family where LOOKING good was the only way to live, and residing in the small town in which I grew up and now teach in, I didn't want others to judge my parenting.  By making sure that Aidan looked good and did the right things, I'd kept the small town gossip mill churning out fodder about others and instead of about me or my family.  This is still a powerful force within me and so letting go of control is a work in progress.  But on a cold morning last week, I saw the power of relinquishing it.  As we headed out the door, I felt an icy blast of blustery winter wind.  My instinct was to tell Aidan to grab his jacket, but instead I pursed my lips and kept quiet.  By the time we were in the car, I was pinching myself to keep from commenting on his lack of proper attire.  But as I turned the ignition, Aidan said, "Can you wait mom?  It's cold and I want to grab my jacket."  Victory!  I had never been so thankful for the mercy of the wind.

Principle Three: It Takes a Team for a Successful Landing

     When it was time to land, I could see the balloon team, including my husband, waiting in the distance.  After landing, we all stood around and watched the balloon deflate.  The basket was unattached and what lay before us was a mass of silk about forty yards long and thrity yards wide.  Having trouble folding bed sheets with elastic at the four corners, I wondered how in the world the team would ever gather up, let alone fold, that much material.  But to my surprise the task took about five minutes to complete. With each team member and passenger placed at strategic locations along the deflated balloon, and following some simple commands from the pilot, the balloon was folded into three sections and rolled up in no time.
     It is no surprise that teamwork is a wonderful way to take the pressure off me as a parent when I am stressed.  Understanding this has done a world of good for both me and Aidan!  I now use people and organized groups to help guide my son to a "successful landing."  My parenting team comes from many different places, especially willing friends.  For instance, when Aidan was required to do an in-depth project for his Young Scholars class, I enlisted the expertise of a very bright friend of mine.  He graciously volunteered to work with Aidan on the project.  Aidan received an "A," but more importantly he established a bond with a trusted adult who made Aidan feel like he was a worthwhile companion.  To this day, Aidan admires this person.  He values his brain and uses him as a role model for his future.

     Before we went on the balloon ride that morning, there was much work to be done.  We had to unpack the van, lay out the balloon, attach the basket and hold tether lines as the balloon inflated.  Like life with a teen there was also an abundance of moments that were awkward and difficult.  For instance, there is absolutely NO graceful way to climb into a four foot high crowded basket, and there is even less of a chance to gracefully climb out of the basket with a whole team watching.  But once up in the air, the peace and the spectacular view made everything worth it.  It was definitely a moment  not to be taken for granted.  And I think that this is the most important lesson I learned from my balloon ride.  No matter how hard it is to parent my adolescent, I should never get so bogged down in the process that I forget to enjoy the ride.

     A few weekends ago,  Jeff and I whisked Ila into her stroller for a walk on a rare sunny winter day in upstate New York.  As we rounded one corner,  the sun shined on her face and I found myself moving my body so that my shadow protected her from the light.  With each new angle of the road, I would contort and twist, bound and determined to keep those scary UV rays off of her pristine nose and rosy cheeks, even though just minutes before, I had slathered her with baby lotion that contained an SPF level higher than Paris Hilton's IQ. 
     Mid contortion I couldn't help but notice a specific annoyingly snarky sigh that Jeff often gives when he wants me to know he disapproves of something I am doing.  "What?!"  I said perhaps a little too quick and a lot too sharp, and perhaps a little too slowly and a lot too chipper, he answered, "You did that with the boys.  Let's try not to do it with Ila."  First, by 'let's' he meant me, and second, what was he talking about?  As if reading my mind he responded, "Logan, you put the lotion on her.  A little sun won't hurt, and...."  He paused.  Through gritted teeth I said, "Get to the point!" 
      "Sweetheart, you can't protect her from everything."
     And there it was.  I would like to tell you that this was news.  That it was one of those moments in which a bright beacon bathed me with enlightenment while a choir of angels sang a harmonic "Alleluia."   But I was aware. In fact, I was painfully aware of my tendency to indulge my children in order to spare them any hurt whatsoever.  Since Aidan and Gannan were children of divorced parents, I figured that that was an ample amount of  hardship for any kid and that coddling them was what they deserved.  Oh okay, perhaps their gratification satiated my guilt as well.  But who among us hasn't parented out of guilt?  Can I get an amen?
     However, with Ila I found that I still had that drive to keep her from all things unpleasant.  She cried at bedtime, I'd pick her up, saying to myself, "Oh I guess she's not sleepy after all."  She complained when on her belly, I flipped her over immediately.  So what if the experts said she needed to learn how to roll over.  She'd rather play in her saucer then practice sitting in her Boppy?  Then by all means, let me put her back in the saucer!  But Ila isn't a child of divorce.  (As long as Jeff gets a hold of those snarky sighs.) Therefore something else must have been driving this compulsion.  So for the last few weeks, I looked closely at my motivations every time I reacted in ways in which I was trying to rescue Ila from peril. 
     What I found out is hard to admit, not earthshaking, but embarrassing for sure. Every crib rescue, roll over, and saucer appeasement wasn't for Ila.  Nope.  It was for me.  Let me explain.  It is far easier to deal with a happy child than a child who is crying or whining.  A happy child allows me to continue on with my busy life.  An unhappy child needs my attention and sometimes, I just don't want to give it.   It wasn't Ila's discomfort that I was trying to spare.  It was my own.  The knowledge of that hit me full force.  Not because I thought that I had done Ila harm.   Her meager 6 months would allow her to unlearn any behavior that I contributed to.   No, it was because I knew, that more than the guilt, it was the immediate ease of pacifying the boys that fueled my indulgence with them as well.  By entitling them all these years, I left them ill-equipped to handle adversity.  I know now that undoing that will be one of the hardest jobs this mother has faced.  At least Ila could benefit from the introspection.  I have a sneaky suspicion that this is not the last time I'll have to do some self-examination on this leg of my motherhood journey.
     This past weekend was springlike and Jeff and I once again took our daughter on a long walk.  At one point, a sleeping Ila stirred when a cloud parted and a beacon of sunlight lit her face.  Jeff immediately moved to pull up the hood of the stroller, but I gently nudged his arm and said, "A little sun on her face won't hurt her."  He smiled, and as we moved along, all four of our hands pushed the stroller together.   No Alleluia Choir but enlightenment just the same.