Category Archives: Family/Parenting

Is Moving Ever Fun?

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Stupidity is one of my pet peeves.

So is disorganization.

Imagine my “delight” at finding both — in plenteous amounts — this past week when I helped My Favorite Domer move back to Notre Dame.

I don’t mean to sound petty. Truly I don’t. But the “powers that be” have known for a long time that these kids (and their parents) would be descending on campus this week. They’ve had more than a century to get the “move in game” down pat.

Yet they still can’t seem to make it work.

Picture dozens of cars lined up single file in a parking lot “staging area.” Said cars are loaded to the roof with Junior’s stuff — guitars, TVs, clothes, refrigerators, plastic storage crates — or with Princess’s stuff — ginormous stuffed animals, clothes, tennis racquets, futons, shelving, area rugs. You get the idea.

Now picture a bunch of elderly volunteers, walkie-talkies in hand, trying to move these cars from the parking lot to the dorms in a semi-regulated way.

Now throw in a major campus construction project, just to make the ordeal more memorable.

That’s what we faced. And Domer got to move in early because of Band Camp, so we didn’t even have to face the tsunami of regular move-in.

Maybe we were the guinea pigs.

The day we moved, at least five different “ushers” gave us five different sets of instructions on where to go to unload Domer’s stuff. One said here; one said there. Finally, another suggested we drive up a gravel road closer to the dorm. As we were doing that, we noticed cars that had been behind us in the parking lot queue were now ahead of us; in fact, many had already unloaded and were driving off before we even got to my kid’s dorm!

How had that happened?

To sweeten the experience, another usher was on hand to remind us not to leave our car unattended, to unload right onto the grass, then move the car to a faraway lot, return on foot, and haul the stuff inside.

Up three flights of stairs.

Without air conditioning.

And only a freight elevator that’s on the temperamental side.

Did I mention it was HOT, too??

Still, the kids were great — greeting friends and parents alike, offering to help, stepping aside for those carrying precarious loads. They lofted furniture, started setting up TVs and laptops, even hung up their clothing.

In preparation for a new school term.

New classes. New friends. New memories to make.

Perhaps it’s a bit like giving birth — you don’t remember the pain of move-in day, in the wake of the clean slate which awaits.

But honestly, couldn’t someone have done a trial run in a golf cart beforehand??

Mom Does Not Equal Martyr

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martyr (from dictionary.com) — a person who seeks sympathy or attention by feigning or exaggerating pain, deprivation, etc.

 

Why are moms such experts in the art of playing the martyr?

I ask this because I’m just as guilty as the next woman!

Take a recent example: I spent the bulk of one day doing My Favorite Domer’s laundry — washing clothes, drying them, ironing them. It was a weekend, so he was around to “watch the show,” but did he even once ask to help out?

Not on your life. It was more important for him to chillax with video games, etc. He’d worked all week, you know!

And I’m sure I told him once or twice that later on, I needed to rearrange the furniture in my bedroom. Did he volunteer to help with that?

Again, no.

So once the laundry was done, there I was, sweating like a pig, grunting and shoving furniture from one wall to another, while he managed to make himself scarce.

It was only when my mom insisted he come help me that he finally did. And what did I do? Snarled and hissed at him, swearing his services weren’t needed, and I’d rather do it myself than inconvenience him!

He insisted. I resisted. At last, I let him win and grudgingly accepted his help. And it’s true what they say, Many hands make light work.

So why didn’t I just ask for help in the first place?

I suppose I’m like most women. We learn martyrdom from our moms, who learned it from their moms, and so on. It’s served us well, allowing us to pout, hold grudges, cry, complain, and exact revenge when the others in our family least expect it.

But it’s no way to achieve a peaceful family life.

And really, isn’t that everyone‘s goal?

Father God, Forgive me for stubbornly clinging to my martyrdom, for being too proud to ask for help when I need it. Never let me be that way with You!

Do These Shoes Make My Feet Look Big?

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Last year, Domer’s roommate was a shoe-a-holic.

A male shoe-a-holic.

This guy must have had several dozen pairs of shoes, from casual to fashionable. Some he kept around simply because he didn’t mind if they got muddy; others had the kind of sole that made Band practice (and that special hike-step) a breeze; still more were for show, to prove he was a “hip” kind of fella.

And that’s just fine. To each, his own.

Up to now Domer hasn’t been what you’d call a “shoe kind of guy.”

Oh, he wears them (just not around the house), and he’s fussy about the brand name (NO New Balance, thank you very much!). But his needs are pretty basic — “every day” shoes, shoes for tennis, sandals, and dress shoes — nothing close to what his shoe-a-holic roommate needed.

When he was little, Domer liked character shoes — featuring Pokemon, or whatever was popular at late summer when we’d buy shoes for the coming school year.

As he got into middle and high school, he bought what his friends were buying — usually Nikes in traditional colors of royal blue, black, silver, and white. That didn’t change much when he went off to college, although the brand-of-choice became Asics.

Then I was able to pick out and buy his shoes when he needed them. I knew his taste (and my price range!), so we were good to go.

No more.

During Spring Semester, he texted me that his Asics were showing signs of wear and tear. ‘I need some shoes,’ he told me.

So I went shopping. Took photo after photo on my camera phone and sent them to him.

Nothing clicked.

‘Maybe you’d better let me pick them out,’ he suggested.

‘Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it,’ I offered.

No dice.

So the other evening we went shopping, and these were what he had to have:

Adidas Climacool Seduction in “Electricity”

At least you can see him coming, right?!

Cell Phones in Church??

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We’ve all done it, whether we admit it or not — found our mind wandering when it should have been focused.

Perhaps we were stuck in a boring meeting at work when we’d have rather been outside playing golf. Perhaps we were subjected treated to yet another dissertation from a friend bewailing her significant other’s lack of sensitivity, while our thoughts pondered recipes for dinner. Perhaps our children were giving us a blow-by-blow discussion of everything that happened at school that day, while we were trying to navigate traffic.

Wandering minds seems to be a casualty of our busy society. But it’s one thing to have your mind wander. It’s another to be actively distracted.

Take this weekend, for instance.

I was at church when a father, mother, and their teenaged daughter entered the pew right in front of me.

Now, whose mind hasn’t on occasion wandered at church? There’s something familiar and soothing about the recitation of the prayers. And Saturday evening Mass is sandwiched between the busyness of the day and the calm of the evening.

Too, most priests aren’t “fire-and-brimstone” preachers. They read their homilies from a stationary position, droning on until suddenly, you realize they’re done and you have no idea what they said! Teachers must encounter the same blank stares from an audience that’s primed on excitement and drama, on 15- and 30-second TV slots (or worse, instant surfing on the Internet!)

I digress.

The teen in front of me spent most of the Mass checking her smart phone, texting friends and the like.

Oh, she tried to hide it. She kept it in her palm or tucked it in the waistband of her jeans. But she was texting. No doubt.

Domer, seated to my left, recognized it right away. To my right, Mom was oblivious.

The girl’s parents, perhaps fearing her anger, didn’t bother reminding her that cell phones don’t belong in church. Nor did they insist she put it away or turn it off.

Tacit acceptance.

Maybe she had a legitimate excuse for texting in church, but I can’t think what would be so important that it couldn’t wait 45 minutes.

Maybe her parents were just relieved she was there, perhaps assuming that meant she wouldn’t “fall away.”

Sorry, but attendance in body and not in mind isn’t really attendance.

Is it?

Dogs Get Sick, Too

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Just in time for My Favorite Domer’s return for summer break, the Sheltie has come down with a urinary tract infection.

“Mr. Piddles” wet his little bed last night. He was rather damp when I let him out for his customary Good Morning hugs, but I didn’t think too much about it.

Must have been hot, I told myself — until I saw a wet spot on his mat. And felt said spot. And sniffed my damp fingers. And smelled pee.

Trying not to react too negatively — he’s got delicate feelings like other Shelties — I greeted him and sent him outside.

I went over the check-list of his bedtime routine. Yes, he’d been out. Yes, he’d pottied. No, he hadn’t had any water.

So why had this dog who’s normally as tidy as a nun suddenly soiled his bedding?

I asked Mom, who kept him while I traveled to Notre Dame to fetch the Domer, how he acted during my absence.

He missed you, she told me. He drank a lot of water. And slept a lot.

How was his appetite? I asked.

Fine.

Hmmm. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together.

I called the vet’s office, explained everything to them, and asked if dogs can get kidney or bladder issues.

Of course, they said. We’ll need a urine sample for the lab to analyze. Either bring him in or have him pee in a container.

Oh boy. I live for first-time events like this.

As I was trying to decide which option was more doable, Domer showed up wanting breakfast.

I need your help, I said, having decided against hauling a wet Sheltie anywhere in my clean car.

We’re going to what? Domer asked.

Shrugging, I dug out a Styrofoam cup. Domer leashed up “Mr. Piddles,” and we all went to the back yard.

He’s not going to do it, Domer said, as he and the dog sauntered through the grass.

Sure he will, I countered.

Eventually, “Mr. Piddles” lifted a leg, and I was Johnny-on-the-spot, shoving that Styrofoam beneath him to catch the stream.

All right, Domer said.

Easy.

I wrapped the cup in tin foil and took it to the vet’s office. Ten minutes later, we had the results.

And the sulfa drugs to treat the infection.

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit cleaning “Mr. Piddles'” bed today. Washing everything, Clorox-ing the wet spot, airing out his mattress.

And hoping I don’t have to do it all over again tomorrow.

Should be a wonderful upcoming ten days.

What are you looking forward to in the next week?

Thinking about Mother’s Day

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My Favorite Domer called me yesterday to wish me a happy Mother’s Day.

“No card. No flowers,” he said. “I just wanted to call and tell you ‘I love you.'”

I had to laugh — it’s easier than crying!

Despite my persistent efforts, Domer has never been a card and flowers kind of guy. Perhaps it’s because he grew up away from his dad, who always did the card and flowers thing when it came to special occasions (thank you, Ex!). Perhaps it’s because Domer never saw his Pa-Pa buy cards and flowers for his grandma.

But I’m convinced it’s because of a new teacher he had when he was an impressionable high school freshman.

One day toward Valentine’s Day, some of the girls in Domer’s class were asking Mr. Young-Attractive-Hot-Shot what kind of flowers he’d purchased for his sweetie. Whereupon, Mr. Young-Attractive-Hot-Shot said he wasn’t giving them, then expounded on his philosophy that flowers were a waste of money. That as soon as you cut flowers, they start to die. That he wouldn’t want anybody special to have to receive dead flowers.

Huh??

I sincerely hope Mr. Young-Attractive-Hot-Shot had an understanding lady friend. Or has since changed his evil ways!

When Domer was little, as soon as he could print his name, I bought cards and had him give them to special people on special occasions. I never failed to give him cards on special occasions, either.

Yes, Hallmark loves me — I must be their biggest fan!

But somehow, Domer never got into cards. He told me yesterday that he can’t imagine being an old person and remembering the verse on a card somebody gave him years ago.

I countered that I might not remember the verse when I’m old, but I’ve saved ALL of my cards in boxes so I can wade through them at leisure. “That way, I can remember that once I was a young mom and I was loved,” I added.

“You’re loved now,” was all he said.

And it’s all that needed to be said.

How did you celebrate Mother’s Day 2012?

“Beautiful” or “Extreme”?

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The newest issue of Time magazine offers a cover that’s sure to stir up debate in parenting circles.

A lovely, blonde, 26-year-old stay-at-home mom from Los Angeles is portrayed breastfeeding her three-year-old son, who’s standing on a chair to reach mom’s milk.

The mother justifies still nursing her young child with the fact that her own mother didn’t wean her until she was six!

Now, I’m way past the nursing stage. My son is 21 years old, in college, and by all definitions, a man. But I find myself disturbed by “attachment parenting,” something concocted by Dr. Bill Sears 20 years ago.

“Attachment parenting” proponents believe moms should rush to their child, respond to its every cry, form close bonds by hovering physical contact, let the child sleep in its parents’ bed, and carry children in slings rather than pushing them in strollers.

That goes against the grain of what I learned about child care.

I believe children grow and mature when they learn they’re able to do things for themselves. Things like sleeping. And eating.

Domer’s pediatrician told me when my son was just about to turn over his first birthday that the bottle had to go, or I’d have trouble weaning him. He also said rocking and singing to Domer every night before bedtime was nice but unnecessary, suggesting I put my son in the crib, turn out the light, and shut the door.

Doc (bless him!) was right on both counts.

So it concerns me when I read about a three-year-old still nursing. I mean, this child has teeth, for crying out loud! Not only that, but most kids three years old are in day care or preschool. Do they expect mom to show up periodically for feedings there?

And another thing. What psychological effect does breastfeeding have on the development of a young child, if that child is almost old enough to realize what’s happening? Doesn’t it become more than mere “food” when a child is walking, talking, interacting with others, thinking, and reasoning?

Years ago, I came into contact with a woman who admitted breastfeeding her four-year-old child “occasionally. I thought that was odd. Now I learn some breastfeeding proponents are hoping American moms will become comfortable nursing children of any age!

Seriously? Are we supposed to follow them to college, too? Maybe they can nurse on us while their kids nurse on them!

I didn’t buy into this “trend” when Domer was little, and I’m not buying it now. It’s like these moms are finding their sole mission in life being tethered to their kids. Making decisions for them. Refusing to let them grow up. Refusing to welcome their own next stage of life.

Parenting means giving your kids roots and wings. Roots to ground them. Wings to fly.

“Attachment parenting” prolongs the baby stage, which is already long enough, isn’t it?

What do you think? Is breastfeeding beyond babyhood beautiful, or is it extreme?

Easter Egg Hunting

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Sad to say, My Favorite Domer learned from an early age that Easter Egg hunts aren’t as much fun as they’re cracked up to be.

When he was but a young’un, Domer signed up to participate in the annual YMCA egg hunt.

There would be prizes. And candy. And a visit from the Easter Bunny. And fun.

Or so we thought.

The day of the hunt dawned cold (typical Midwest weather). We arrived at the park, registered, and were shown which fenced-off area the kids in his age group would comb.

So far, so good.

When the whistle blew, the kids were off. Problem was, so were the parents.

Yep, the adults got involved in a kids’ Easter Egg hunt. They mowed down the fence and muscled their way toward the hidden eggs, knocking down little kids right and left.

Kids were crying and screaming; other parents were hollering.

Nobody had much fun.

Especially Domer, who, like his mom, doesn’t particularly like crowds.

Or aggression.

Our Easter Egg hunts then became more tandem affairs. I’d hide the eggs; he’d find them. When he got older, he’d hide the eggs and let me look for them (but mostly, he just couldn’t stand not telling me where each one was!)

Fast-forward a few years. Domer was fifteen when a darling Sheltie came to live with us.

Too old for egg hunts.

So we decided to hold an egg hunt for the dog.

We took some treats (broken bits of Pupperoni work especially well!) and inserted them into plastic eggs. One of us went outside with the dog while the other hid the eggs in plain sight inside.

With the hiding completed, we let the Sheltie inside to search.

He LOVED it! Amid much clapping and laughing and encouragement from us, he raced around the house looking for the eggs with the treats. Finding one, he’d bust it open and scarf down the tidbit.

So that’s become our Easter tradition — a dog’s egg hunt.

No pushing, no shoving, no screaming. Everybody has fun, and isn’t that what Easter Egg hunts are supposed to be like? Here, take a look at a few of this year’s hunting photos:

Finding a pink egg

Finding a yellow egg

Domer helps with the blue egg

When ‘Boy’ Becomes ‘Man’

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My Favorite Domer (A.K.A. my son) celebrates one of those Milestone birthdays this week and since he says he doesn’t read my blog, I’m going to wax nostalgic.

You see, Domer is turning 21.

Legal. With all the privileges — and responsibilities — that brings.

For him.

For me, it brings a certain dash of worry.

By the time a “child” gets to the ripe old age of 21, a parent has had lots of opportunities to worry:

  • While Baby is still in the womb, we worry whether he will be healthy. Will he have all his fingers and toes? Will we be adequate in training up this babe in the way he should go? When will he sleep through the night??
  • As he goes off to school, we worry whether other kids will like him. Will he behave in class and respect his teachers? Will he ever learn cursive handwriting or multiplication tables?
  • Then comes middle school, and we continue to worry whether the other kids will like him. Will he be chosen last in P.E. class? Will he find bullies? Will they find him? In his eagerness to explore lots of different things, are we pushing him too hard, loading him up with too many activities and lessons?
  • As he enters high school, we worry whether the other kids will like him (yes, it’s kind of an ongoing thing!). Will he find a class that sparks his passion? Will he manage to juggle his courses and extra-curricular activities? Will he find work, at least part-time? Will he test well enough to get into college, if that’s his goal? Will he steer clear of the troubled kids and choose to be alone, if that’s what it takes?
  • Then he goes off to college and regardless whether it’s the place of his dreams, we worry. Will he adapt to dorm life, to life on his own? Will he zero in on a major and a career path? Will he eat enough, keep his clothing clean, get enough sleep? Will the other kids like him?

Unlike cars and home appliances, babies don’t arrive with a manual. Parents, especially first-time parents, often find themselves navigating uncharted waters when it comes to making decisions. I’m told it’s easier with number two and later, but I wouldn’t know; my guess is, if you’re conscientious, you’ll find it equally difficult, since siblings don’t necessarily come with the same set of abilities or personality.

Worrying just seems to be part of the parenting package.

And now that Domer is turning 21, it feels only natural for me to worry.

Will he get sucked into those drinking games where you take 21 shots in rapid succession, then pass out? Or will he be the responsible adult I know and drink sensibly? Will he skip classes as a present to himself? Or will he buck up to his responsibilities and celebrate afterward?

A 2006 survey at Virginia Tech University found that 72 percent of men and 65 percent of women don’t feel that getting drunk on their 21st birthday is a rite of passage. In addition, 95 percent of the women surveyed and 80 percent of the men didn’t attempt the 21 drinks.

That’s good to know. Because college is hard enough without trying to do it drunk.

Do you remember how you celebrated your 21st birthday?

Are We Having Fun Yet??

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I’m stripped naked and lying face up on a steel table while a group of stone-faced people — all with clipboards and calculators — surround me.

“How much money did you make last year?” one demands. “What’s your Adjusted Gross Income, line x of the IRS tax form?”

“Your cash on hand — and your child’s — how much do you have?” another chimes in.

“Drivers license number? Social security number? Investments, if any?”

“Oh, we see you have a business. What’s its net worth?”

“Did you receive any government assistance — food stamps, TANF, WIC, SSI?”

My head spins. Dutifully I scramble through income tax records, checking and savings accounts, frantic to round up the figures I need to meet their March 1 deadline.

Everybody says February is the cruelest month. Probably they’re referring to how miserable its weather typically is — cold, wet, ice, snow, wind.

I contend February is the cruelest month because of Financials.

That’s right — income taxes aren’t bad enough. For parents of college students, there’s the FAFSA to complete.

Those yet to experience the Wonderful World of Student Financial Aid have a treat in store. My best advice? Save everything!

The FAFSA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid) is being linked with your federal income tax returns, but you’ll need plenty of other materials, and it’s never too late to become a pack rat.

Nobody (except a few “experts”) claims completing the FAFSA is a piece of cake. Far from it, if you’re like me and your eyes glaze over when you see numbers! It’s especially daunting when they change your ID numbers from year to year (to protect you, of course) or refuse to let you access the system if you’re not using the Internet browser they prefer.

While students are busily filling out college applications, writing essays, taking virtual (and in-person) tours of campuses and such, parents are jumping through government hoops in hopes of proving their son or daughter is eligible for “free money.”

We bare our souls — and our finances. We answer questions never asked in polite circles. We go online and complete page after miserable page of data, sign it all with a government-issued electronic PIN, and pay for the pleasure with a credit card.

Then we wait to see if our student qualifies for grants or loans or work-study.

Oh, and don’t think the FAFSA is everything — some universities (like Notre Dame) require completion of the IDOC (College Board’s Institutional Documentation Service). This delightful gem really gets into your business and has an über number of steps to follow.

One of my favorites? Providing copies of your income tax records to prove you aren’t cheating or lying.

I’ve endured this assault to my sensibilities for three whole years now, but I see light at the end of the tunnel. Checking the box that indicates my son will be a senior next fall, I realize with a start this will be my LAST FAFSA nightmare.

Halleluiah!