Category Archives: Family/Parenting

Rockin’ the Shaggy-Faced Look

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As any mom can attest, Boys will be boys, right?

And it doesn’t seem to matter how old the “boy” is supposed to be, either.

Take my son (AKA My Favorite Domer), for instance. He and his bro friends read online where some guys somewhere were initiating a “No Shave Conclave,” letting their facial hair grow until the Catholic Cardinals elected a new Pope.

What does shaving have to do with the Pope??

I didn’t ask.

Anyway, a “No Shave Conclave” sounded like a good idea to Domer’s group, so they decided to join in.

As Fate would have it, the new Pope was named in about three days, giving Domer and his friends barely enough time to sprout a few hairs.

That would never do. They opted to extend the “experiment” through the Men’s NCAA Basketball Tournament.

Because they were going with the team to Dayton, Ohio, as part of the Basketball Band, and they figured they’d be there a while.

Again, Fate intervened. The Irish men lost their first game in the second round.

Which still wasn’t enough time to grow a proper beard.

Or so I’m told.

What would I know? I’ve never tried to grow one!

When Domer called to say he was coming home for a few days over Easter Break, he mentioned the “No Shave Conclave.” And I laughed right along with him, assuming of course, that now these “events” were over, he’d join the one member of his group to abandon the Grizzly Adams look.

Imagine my surprise upon seeing my precious son’s face covered in fur!

Some moms might disagree with me, but I’ve learned over the years that this, too, will pass.

Besides, it could have been so much worse — think tattoos. Or pierced ears. Or refusing to shower. At all!

So I’ve restrained myself from making any comments one way or the other.

It’s his face, not mine.

He’s the one having to bear the itching. And the upkeep.

Hair grows at the rate of one-half inch per month, more or less, depending on factors like genetics. Men “in the know” claim it’s a rite of passage to grow a beard, that it separates the men from the boys (and girls), and that it’s fun.

Well, okay, I guess.

Having him home — even for a few days — is so worthwhile, it doesn’t much matter whether he’s scruffy-faced or not.

Happy Birthday, Domer!!

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(My son — AKA My Favorite Domer, or He-Who-Won’t-Read-My-Blog — turns 22 today. This post is dedicated to him.)

Dearest Domer:

It seems like the past couple of decades have just flown by.

Weren’t you just born? Wasn’t I just rocking you to sleep, singing lullabies and ballads, then putting you down, hearing you cry, and doing it all over again?

Wasn’t I just taxiing you to and from school, watching you play T-ball when you’d rather be filling your pockets with special rocks and picking dandelions to give me afterwards?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I kissed a boo-boo, patched a scraped knee, cut your hair myself? Weren’t you just climbing into my lap for me to read to you? Weren’t you just learning how to ride a bicycle, begging me to “Hang on, mom!” until you got your balance?

Where did that little boy go?

Didn’t I just attend another parent-teacher conference, accompany you door-to-door on fundraisers, put together a Halloween costume at the last minute, and dream up something fun for you to do when you complained of boredom?

Weren’t you just playing a tennis match, testing for another karate belt, performing at a band concert? Weren’t you just at the dentist’s office, having your wisdom teeth extracted? Didn’t I just finish teaching you to drive, or dropping you off at college for the first time?

Twenty-two years has passed so fast (take heart, parents of young kids!). Just think of all the things we can’t do without today that weren’t around 22 years ago — Facebook and YouTube, iPads, cell phones, laptops, e-readers, debit cards, and disposable contact lenses!

And in a little over two months, you’ll be graduating from college and flying off into the world on your own.

Will my work be done then?

NO!

I didn’t know it when I signed on to be your mom that a mom’s work is never done! You don’t believe me? Why, it says so in the Mom’s Book (and you’ll just have to trust me on this, since you’ll never be privy to the Mom’s Book!)

But I’m not complaining — far from it.

I hope you’ll always know I’m there for you, kind of like a safety net.

I’ll always be your biggest fan, your champion, your cheerleader. If anybody dares to hurt you, they’ll have to go through me first.

Mama Tigress, Mama Lioness. Don’t mess with my cub!

And when things don’t go the way you hope, I’ll be right there with open arms, ready to comfort and make it all better.

Until you’re able to face the sometimes-cruel world on your own again.

That, I promise.

Everybody told me having a baby would change my life. I didn’t know how true that was.

You did, for the better!

If I had to, I’d walk through fire for you.

I love you that much.

Happy Birthday, my son!

Love, mama

Brain-Overload

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You know, there are times in our lives when we’re on brain-overload and just getting through another day requires super-human effort.

Life has been like that for me for the past six weeks or so.

It started in August with a new Web Design project. Can I ever admit I’ve bitten off more than I can chew? Nope, not gonna happen. So I buckle down and deal, cursing that I’m not a programmer, trying to educate myself on code, and wishing for simple solutions to complex problems.

It continued through Domer’s first semester, when he was juggling Band, classes, projects, job applications, and interviews. Having your only son travel ’round the country via plane, bus, and auto isn’t easy, but at least he was putting forth a concerted effort. He could have been like his mom, who at his age embraced Scarlett O’Hara’s “I’ll worry about that tomorrow” philosophy.

It increased in the  Fall, when my mom started having trouble with her hernia. Every few days, I had to take her to the emergency room at the hospital or an after-hours clinic when she complained of pain. It seemed a portion of her bowel was beginning to poke through the abdominal muscle — a complication from surgery she’d had years before — and it was creating a hernia. They’d fix her up and send her home, only to have it happen again and again.

Finally, someone told her she needed to have surgery to repair it. You don’t want to wait until it’s an emergency, they said.

Three weeks later, they scheduled surgery. And that, too, was hectic, from the actual procedure to the recovery. Released after just two days, she developed extreme pain from the buildup of air in the bowel, which “hadn’t woken up” from anesthesia; they readmitted her.

That crisis, too, passed, and she came home again over the weekend.

In the meantime, I’ve found myself shouldering the lion’s share of work — decorating inside and out for Christmas, buying and wrapping presents, chauffeuring her to appointments, and so forth. My sister would do the same, if she were here. Which she’s not.

My novel-writing has suffered. So has my blog. In fact, there have been days when I haven’t even turned on my laptop.

And the other day I turned on the TV to hear of yet another senseless shooting. This time, of innocent children while they were in school.

So I’ve been AWOL. Trying to gather my bearings. Trying to heal my heart.

I call it brain-overload. And it’s best not to keep shouldering on when it happens, but to take a break.

Before I break.

The holidays seem like a perfect time to do just that. Call it paring down. Or taking a siesta. Or lightening my load.

Recharging.

Best wishes to all my blogging friends for a Happy Christmas and New Year’s Day. I’ll miss you, but I’ll be back in early January.

Domer, Meet the Iron

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Domer was home over Thanksgiving, and we used that as an opportune time for a refresher course in Ironing.

Now, before you protest, let me admit up front that I’ve never believed “chores” are gender-specific. Meaning, being female doesn’t make me uniquely qualified, for instance, to do laundry, cooking, and cleaning.

Conversely, being male doesn’t let Domer off the hook for that sort of thing.

Now that he’s up to his ears in “suit-up occasions” — things like job interviews, social events, etc. — he recognizes the need for clean, pressed shirts. Ties and business suits, too.

So he brought home a duffle bag filled with dirty long-sleeved dress shirts and insisted I teach him again.

I say again because I did the instructing once before.

When he was in middle school (seventh or eighth grade, I think), part of his Health curriculum included a segment on Laundry.

The kids — boys as well as girls — had to do laundry for a couple of weeks. For a grade.

I remember helping him measure out the detergent, read the instructions on the washing machine, choose the settings. Once they finished, we transferred the clean clothes to the dryer and followed a similar procedure. We also pulled out the ironing board and tackled wrinkles.

He got an “A.”

But things we do briefly rarely stick with us for the long haul.

I refreshed his memory when he went off to college, and he’s handled his laundry duties admirably. Or so I hope — he tells me he changes the sheets and washes his things, and I have to believe him.

But ironing still had him stumped. And a couple of job interviews in one week made it imperative he remedy that.

Fast.

During one moderately frantic phone conversation, I tried to tell him again how to iron a dress shirt. The order of pressing. And I reminded him that he could just do front, collar, and cuffs if he was short on time. Or patience.

But afterward, he told me he’d managed, though not very well. He wasn’t pleased with the “look.”

So we used an hour or so of his vacation time to learn again.

This time, by George, I believe he’s got it!

Traveling in a Pack

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I think Chicago emptied out on Sunday afternoon.

The reason I say this is that the highways were excessively crowded then, just when I was trying to get back home.

You see, My Favorite Domer insisted he had to be back on campus by 1 p.m.

‘When they ask you specifically to be in the pep band for a soccer game,’ he told me, ‘well, you can’t say No.’

Okay.

So I crawled out of bed at 5 o’clock — yes, Virginia, there’s such a thing as 5 in the morning! — got dressed, ate, and helped him load the car for our return to ND.

Campus was strangely quiet. Even the students who had to stick around over the Thanksgiving holiday were nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps they were sleeping late. Or watching TV or visiting in friends’ rooms.

After a quick lunch, I hugged Domer and got back in my car.

But I was far from lonely. Or alone.

The toll road was packed. So was I-65 in Indiana (read: parking lot!). So was I-57 in Illinois.

Everybody going somewhere.

Many of my fellow travelers were students. You could tell by the way they were traveling in packs, two or more to a vehicle, suitcases piled to the rooftop, college stickers affixed to their back windows.

And they were in a hurry. Sure, the state police were out in droves, pulling over traffic violators and writing tickets as fast as they could.

But these kids didn’t seem to care. They’d see an officer, slow down and act all nonchalant, then speed up again.

They were whipping from lane to lane, jockeying for position. They’d roar up behind me, cling to my rear bumper a while, then gun their motor and fly around me like I was standing still.

Frightening? Yes, definitely.

I found myself praying for them, that they’d reach their destination safely.

I’d want somebody praying for my son if he drove like that.

Which he doesn’t. Thankfully.

And maybe my prayers helped. I didn’t hear of any fiery crashes along the roads I was on yesterday, so I have to assume all is well.

But somebody really should be teaching these kids to drive more safely!

Black Friday

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I blame years of newspaper reporting over my distaste of Black Friday.

After all, it’s the media that whole-hardheartedly embraces any excuse for advertising revenue. And who can blame them? Money is how their business stays afloat.

Listen to the ads on TV, all urging you to part with your money. Look how fat the newspaper is getting with sales fliers as the holidays near.

My e-mail boxes have been stuffed with promotional copy for weeks.

Merchants want me to go to the mall, or Wal-Mart, or one of the tech stores. And spend my money.

Buying early Christmas presents. Treating myself, too.

Eating something other than leftovers for lunch or dinner. Or both.

But I’m holding out.

It’s far too early to think about Christmas. My soul’s not ready.

Shoot, when did we decide to go from Halloween right into Christmas anyway?

Especially when there’s something called “Thanksgiving” in between. The day we’re supposed to give thanks, relax with family and friends, eat ourselves into a stupor. Succumb to the L-tryptophan in turkey and take a nap.

Not go shopping.

When I was working as a newspaper journalist, every year I’d head out early on Black Friday. I’d go to the mall (why traipse all over town when the mall was where the shoppers were?)

I’d survey the landscape a while, then pick some unsuspecting “victim” to drill:

  • How long did you have to wait in line?
  • What are you buying that you couldn’t get some other time?
  • Do you do this every year?
  • What do you like best about Black Friday?

That sort of thing.

Most interviewees were pretty agreeable, as I recall. They were tickled at being picked, eager to see their names in print, and helpful in pointing out other people I should talk to.

But mingling with the masses wasn’t where I wanted to be. I wanted to be home with my family. Playing board games or cards. Sipping hot cocoa with marshmallows. Sampling the leftovers. Watching football on TV.

There are folks who enjoy the bustle of Black Friday. The crowds. The sales.

Some, I suppose, get it ALL done on that day, and that must be an incredible feeling.

Still, I won’t be joining them this year.

Call me jaded, but I feel sure a month is enough time for me to carefully pick out Christmas presents, rather than grabbing stuff just because I see someone else wants it.

To leisurely shop when it’s convenient for me, rather than when the stores tell me I should arrive.

To get into the proper frame of mind for giving. And receiving.

How about you? Do you do Black Friday?

Note: Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Life’s Brevity

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Despite the human qualities we’ve managed to breed into our dogs, there’s one thing we’ve not been able to change:

Dogs’ lives are shorter than man’s.

That means most of us who love dogs will share our lives with several beloved pets.

It also means that we’ll have to “man up” and end the lives of some — the ones who are in pain, the ones facing incurable illness.

As Dallas’s breeder has reminded me several times since I purchased him, that’s a contract between us and the pet, and it must not be broken.

Now before anybody starts worrying, this is NOT about Dallas. He’s fine, thank you very much; he’s young and healthy and plans to be here for a long time!

But as we were taking our walk this morning, we came across a lady and her Husky.

I imagine this was a beautiful dog — once.

I imagine it was young. And healthy. And strong.

But I never knew it then. All I’ve ever seen is the old dog. The one barely able to drag its hind legs. The one who typically crumples to the ground every time it tries to potty. The one who “dribbles” long before exiting the house because it can’t hold it any longer, despite having parents who regularly are home to tend to its needs. The one whose eyes seem to indicate he’s straddling two worlds now.

‘How’s he getting along?’ I asked her.

‘My dad says we need to put him down before the ground freezes, or we’ll have to have him cremated,’ she tells me. ‘But we just can’t. Not yet.’

On one hand, I empathize with her. I’ve been there. I, too, had a dog that begged to be put to sleep. A dog whose soulful eyes followed me as he lay in pain on the sofa. A dog who often soiled my apartment and fell over when trying to lift his leg outside.

I, too, didn’t want to make that choice. But it was the right thing to do and somehow I managed.

She will, too. At least she has a husband and they can heal together. I was young and single, so I wept alone.

Putting a pet down is one of the harder things I’ve had to do. Pets become members of our family, providing companionship and unfailing loyalty. They call forth our best traits, enabling us to give unselfishly, prompting us to exercise, and calming us with wet kisses. They’re babies who never become mouthy pre-teens, model children who never ask to borrow the car or increase their allowance; they’re happy just to be near us, even if we’re not rich and famous. Or “cool.”

Chances are, I’ll outlive Dallas. While I’d prefer he simply pass away peacefully in his sleep, I know that might not happen. I pray I’ll have the courage to do that one final kindness for him, when the time comes.

Just don’t expect me to do it dry-eyed.

Trying to Eat in Peace

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I think it’s one of the mysteries of parenting that, as our kids grow up, we forget all the headaches associated with rearing young children.

One of those headaches slapped me full force Saturday.

I’d spent a pretty uncomfortable hour or so in Mass — thanks, in part, to whiny, fidgety, coughing children around me. With my nerves already frayed, I felt the need to relax over a nice dinner out.

Mom and I went to a local Mexican restaurant, were seated, and awaiting our order when I noticed escalating noises from the booth behind us.

I peered around and immediately located the source of the noise.

A young mom and dad, accompanied by grandma, were trying to entertain two little children, both obviously under the age of four or five.

And they weren’t succeeding.

The boy (the older one) was chattering loudly about anything and everything, in an effort (I suppose) to keep the adults’ attention focused on him, not his sister.

The girl (a toddler in a high chair) was squealing in protest, banging on the table, and trying to get more attention for herself.

I thought they’d ease up when their food arrived.

But I thought wrong.

The noise only escalated.

Perhaps the kids didn’t really want tacos and such. Perhaps they’d have preferred McDonald’s.

Maybe the parents hadn’t really wanted to take them out. Maybe they couldn’t find a sitter.

But it seems to me that the adults out-numbered the kids, and somebody should have done a better job disciplining. Maintaining order. And quiet.

Not drill sergeant order. But consideration of other diners.

I realize that’s a tall order nowadays, but it saddens me to think these children one day will be in school, where they will be expected to behave.

And if home is a free-for-all, what will school be like?

Bon Voyage

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Okay, this is a serious question: How does a mom-of-one deal with her son flying off to foreign soil and being out of touch for five days??

Yep, you guessed it — Domer’s on his way to Dublin, Ireland, for the Notre Dame v. Navy football game on Saturday, Sept. 1.

I’m ecstatic for him. He’s never been outside of the U.S., and being of Irish descent means this is a trip back to the motherland, of sorts.

But he’s going to be gone for FIVE DAYS!

“Ireland isn’t the end of the world,” he told me before he left. “We’ll be fine.”

But can’t you at least call or text me, to let me know you’ve arrived, I asked.

“International calls and texts are expensive,” he said.

Then how about e-mailing me when you get to the hotel, I suggested. If you get time.

“If I get time,” he agreed. “We’re going to be pretty busy, and our schedule is full.”

I know, I know. Just try.

Here’s the thing. I haven’t been a helicopter mom. Really.

I haven’t “smothercated” him with suggestions. Or advice.

I’ve done my best to ground him in the basics and gradually step aside so he can take tentative steps away. On his own path. Toward his own future.

But I’m just not ready to turn him loose completely. Is any mother ever ready for that?

My own mom would love having her “baby biddies” nearby, and we’ve been “adults” for a couple of decades now.

Domer’s 21. Legally an adult. He’s also got a sensible, level head on his shoulders.

And he’s thrilled at being selected to represent his university like this, playing his horn and cheering for his team.

The Irish are “coming home” to Ireland!

This is BIG. A never-before occurrence.

So I’ll do the only thing I know to do — put him in the hand of a loving God and pray Bon Voyage.

Or, in Irish, Go dté tú slán (May you go safely).

Wanna Buy Some Stuff? Huh? Pu-leeze?

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The other evening I was working at my computer when the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and there on the stoop was a tiny elfin child — no bigger than a minute, with long, Palomino-colored hair and immense blue eyes.

She squirmed a bit, then blurted out, “Would you like to buy some chocolate candy?”

No details as to the type of candy, the price, or which organization she was selling for.

I glanced toward the driveway and met the watchful eye of her mother, who was sitting astride a bicycle and waiting for the sales call to be over so they could move on to the next victim er, prospect.

As it turns out, I didn’t want or need any candy — chocolate or not — so I had to turn her down as kindly as possible. My days of purchasing useless stuff ended when My Favorite Domer graduated from high school. And I won’t have to be a sucker  customer again until Domer marries and has little Domers of his own.

W-a-a-y down the road!

Then it struck me — school hasn’t been in session two weeks and already, our little ones are being indoctrinated in the ways of salesmanship.

Armed with order sheets, their tiny heads filled with pictures of exciting things they can “earn” if they sell enough, they’re being turned loose on an unsuspecting public and encouraged to peddle.

Domer had to do it, too. But he was in so many activities that it became embarrassing to accompany him on the rounds of the neighborhood. So we purchased enough for him to get a small prize and, if he had to do without the “awesome light-up doo dad” or whatever, well, I knew he’d survive.

I had to do it, too, and hated it. My sister would go behind me, and the homeowners who told me they were on diets and couldn’t buy cookies or candy, mysteriously bought from her! She always talked a better game than I did.

It worries me to see a tiny tot on my porch trying to sell stuff, even with a parent along. The world isn’t exactly a safe place, and I feel we should protect our kids from harm as much as possible — for as long as possible.

Besides, aren’t we already paying enough to educate our kids without turning them into beggars?

Any thoughts? How does your community handle this?