T-Minus Six Weeks and Two Days

Most mothers will tell you that pregnancy is about a month too long.  In fact, given the right opportunity, many moms will quickly point out that human gestation is NOT, in fact, 9 months, but rather 10.  Doctors count pregnancy as a 40-week endeavor, and that is NOT 9 months no matter how you slice it up.  Yeah, I know they're counting from a different start date, and I know that most months are slightly longer than 4 weeks; however, when you're carrying an extra 25-50 pounds or more for every second of every minute of every day of that 40 weeks, you don't "round down".

And that last month ticks by slower than a dial-up  modem.

I think that school children will start to feel that way some time over the next few weeks.  Right now they're running on spring break adrenaline, but that feeling of "Are we there yet?" will be kicking in soon.

That is, unless they are high school seniors, in which case they started feeling that anxiety on the first day of school and they are discovering now just how loooonnnnng nine months really is.  My oldest son is a senior this year.  He was homeschooled almost entirely up until 9th grade.  He's quite bright (understatement) and I'm glad that he had the advantage of being able to "learn ahead" all those years.  Fast forward to today:  His course load consists of four AP classes and three bands, so essentially all he has to do is pass those AP tests and he's finished.  He would love nothing more than to go ahead and sit for the exams and stop all of this nonsense of getting up at 6:30, listening to announcements, taking attendance, eating school lunch, stopping by lockers and racing the bell.

He has an impeccable transcript.  His class rank is 3rd (of about 374 students).  He was offered a very nice scholarship to Georgia Tech which he has declined in favor of a Presidential Scholarship to Georgia State University.  For the past four years his focus has been to be the best of the best, make the best grades possible, earn every award possible, participate in as many community outreach activities as possible, take on as many leadership roles as possible, to make sure that his college application stands out above all the other tens of thousands of them, and to earn enough scholarships to pay for his own college education.

So, now what? His goal has been achieved, his dream realized, his hard work and dedication has paid off, and he is entirely ready to claim his reward and begin his college journey fully funded - yet he is stuck in high school for six more weeks.  And two days.

It again reminds me of that 36th week of pregnancy about which time a mother learns that in most cases her baby is fully developed and will simply sit back and "grow" for the next four weeks.  By that time most of us are wondering how it will even have ROOM to grow for four more weeks - but we soon find out how stretchy we are.  We know that most likely our baby could be born healthy at any moment, and then we endure the longest four weeks of our lifetime.

Each morning as I watch my senior son begrudgingly head out the door I smile and shake my head.  I don't know how he'll make it six more weeks and two days, but he will.  Maybe he'll even enjoy some of that time.  Maybe he'll even "grow" a little.

I don't know how to help him through it, but I do know that if I hear him complain about it one more time I'll have to resort to sharing this pregnancy comparison with him ... and then I'll remind him that he was born three days late.

Mom of an Adult Child

When I turned 18 my mom gave me a very bizarre birthday present.  It was a key.  She called it the key to my chastity belt, and I'll be honest - I had no clue what that meant.

Also on that magical birthday, I was freed from all of the constraints that had defined my high school years.  I no longer had a curfew (I never had one anyway, I just couldn't go anywhere) - the only thing my mom asked of me is that I let her know if I wasn't going to be home so she could be sure the house was locked. up overnight.

I went from not being allowed to go anywhere with anyone no matter what, to being permitted to go anywhere I wanted, with anyone I chose, at any time, for as long as I wanted, and all I had done to deserve this magnificent freedom was have another birthday.  Mind you, I had already graduated from high school, but it was still an overwhelming amount of responsibility to have dumped on me all at once.  In fact, from that magical day forward, I was also required to pay rent to live at home with my mom, and I always thought that was fair. It was a small price to pay for being able to come and go as I chose.

I never agreed with that process.  It still doesn't seem like a good idea to keep children captive until they turn 18 and then unleash them on the world.  I made up my mind a long time ago that I would give my children small freedoms, and unless they proved to deserve otherwise, their privileges would gradually grow until they were fully prepared to function as responsible adults.

Then divorce happened.  And I don't mean to even hint at anything other than what I'm saying right here:  The minute the decision-making became shared between two households, I realized that I suddenly had only 50% of the influence over my children.  As such, I'll never know if my philosophy raises more responsible children or not.

So, my first experiment had a magical birthday last month.  Yes, my firstborn son has become an adult for most practical purposes, and today he decided to check and see if it was really true.  He called to ask me if he could get his lip pierced.

My first reaction was what you would probably expect.  "No!!  Don't do that!  You'd look so disgusting and people won't take you seriously, and you'll have a hard time finding a job!"  And even as he was wasting his breath gently countering my objections, the truth started to set in.  This isn't up to me.  This is his money and his face, and therefore, it's his decision.  I needed a minute to let that sink in, and I also didn't want him to think he had talked me into it, because THAT has always been a definite NO-NO.  So I told him I'd think about it and call him back.

I thought about it but I came up with nothing other than the ole "As long as you're under my roof ... "  But really, is that plausible?  The people who stick the needle through his skin don't ask whose roof he lives under - they only check his age.  He could very easily have gone and done it, and then come home with the nasty ball poking out of his chin, which very well may have pushed me to tears.  How do I want him to handle things in the future? Do what he wants and get forgiveness later?  Or do I want him to give me an opportunity to express my opinion and let him make his own decision?  I know the latter is more my style.  I disagree with it. I won't like the way it looks or the message it sends to others, but I have never been the controlling tyrant and I won't start now that he's 18.

So I ran it by my husband.  We both think it will send a message that does not represent the responsible, intelligent young man that he is; however, we both agree that it's his problem.  My responsibility lies in making sure he's aware of anything that he might not realize due to being too young to know better.  Once I've told him it's going to affect him adversely in certain ways, the rest is up to him.  I won't love him one bit less.  I won't throw him out on the street.  I won't pretend to like it, but I won't spend every waking moment nagging him about it either.  Like me, he's flawed but forgiven, and I'm glad he loves and respects me enough to wish he could have my blessing before making a decision like this.

I gave him my opinion and told him that's all it is.  My opinion.  The decision is his, the expense is his, and any potential consequences will also be his.  Suddenly I couldn't figure out why we were even discussing it.  It's not like those house rules we set for the safety of our family (no friends over when we're not home, etc.). It's none of my business really. Yes, I know, he lives under my roof, and blah blah blah, but guess what?  His piercings don't affect my home in any way, just as his hair being long has never been a bad thing either.  Honestly, if anything, that has been a big help to him, making him extremely recognizable.  I never saw that coming.  And believe me, he takes better care of his hair than anyone else I know.

A few years ago, Justin and one of his friends pierced each others' ears.  They did it in a bedroom of his dad's rental house (I think) with a needle which they "sterilized" and shared.  I was mortified. If he had to do it, he could have at least had it done professionally!!  Needless to say, I was extremely upset, but I had no say in that matter.  He lived with his dad, and they must have had some type of permission because otherwise his dad would have lost his mind, and he didn't.

As if the at-home piercing wasn't enough, he then proceeded to start guaging the holes - making them bigger and bigger (just for fun and fashion??)  He is one of the most brilliant people I've ever met - with a godly character to go along with that brain of his - and here he was, guaging the holes in his ears, supposedly intending to continue until they were the size of quarters, just because all the cool kids were doing it.  Oh, I despised that, and I made sure he never misunderstood my opinion on the matter.  It didn't change anything, of course, but eventually one day he just got tired of it and took them out.  :: yawn ::  Boring ....  Done.

I originally thought that's what would happen with the long hair, but it looks like that will be "hanging around" for a while (haha!)

So ... will the pierced lip be like the hair?  Or more like the earrings?  I hope he gets bored with it quickly, but if not, I'll love him just the same. Now I have to decide if I'm going to get over myself and get on board with his new fashion statement, or if I'll invent some appropriate nickname for him and use it each time I see him sporting his new piece of jewelry.

This whole concept of parenting an "adult" child is a foreign concept to me - and my own upbringing is no help at all.  Like the hair, and the earrings, I think I can get through this.  There are worse things, right?

I guess we'll see.


FOLLOW-UP:  The lip piercing lasted for the summer.  Yawn. Boring.  :)

So You Think You Can Blog

I don't blog. I don't journal. I don't write down anything that I wouldn't say aloud.

Putting private thoughts in writing, allowing someone to read my heart on paper, is a dangerous game. I've always thought it better to just keep my secret thoughts and feelings tucked away inside where they're safe from the judgment of others.

I know I'd love to find out that my mom had written a journal at any time during her life. I know I would laugh and cry with her - and I'd never judge her no matter what she wrote.

I wish I could do it for my children - and stick with it - but I can't, and so I don't.

Well, actually, that's not entirely true. Sometimes I go through a rough patch in my life and I journal for a day or two to help me through it. When I found out I was pregnant I would usually start a journal, talking to the baby, filling him/her in on my life and my thoughts, only to leave 6 full pages in an otherwise empty book. I'd be more ashamed to let them see their journal than to have them believe it was never written. It's so embarrassing the way I would start out with such zeal and promise, then miss a day or two, or twelve, and get tired trying to catch up.

When I was little - around age 10 - I kept a diary pretty faithfully for about 2 years. During that time I had a merciless crush on a boy from my church who was a couple of years older. I had perfect attendance thanks to him, and every week I wrote in my diary about each mean little thing he did to me as if it were a blessing. It was your typical "ponytail in the inkwell" kind of behavior, and I never gave up hope that the grownups were right: He treated me that way because he liked me, too. (It's no wonder some of us are too tolerant when we're treated badly in adult relationships!)

He and I spent our tween years together in a tiny church of mostly elderly couples and a small handful of kids our age. When I was about 12 (and he 14), the adults asked us to teach a VBS class together. For this one perfect week we got along beautifully. We had to. Our young students knew that we were not prepared to teach and they were absolutely HORRIBLE! He and I teamed up, a formidable alliance, to conquer the brats and feed them their daily lesson. When our class time was over, we'd go outside to decompress. That's where he taught me to throw (and catch) a baseball.

Much to my dismay, this war that we survived together did not cause our love to blossom. Eventually I stopped going to that church and our late-night "Chase around the Tombstones" during Revival and Fifth Sunday Night Supper became a distant memory, and the boy I had crushed on so hard was almost forgotten.

That is, until we ended up attending the same high school several years later.

I was a freshman and he was a junior. No one ever had a clue that he and I had past. We never spoke a single word to each other in the two years that we roamed the same halls. In fact, we were so silent, someone should have been suspicious of that - if anyone had bothered to notice.

You see, while I had no problem recognizing this boy from the outside, he had become someone completely unrecognizable on the inside. He had become a player - so much so that I should submit his yearbook photo to Urban Dictionary for display next to the definition.

Player: A male who is skilled at manipulating ("playing") others, and especially at seducing women by pretending to care about them ... Possibly derived from the phrases "play him for a fool", or "play him like a violin"...

Yes, my sweet "Brandon" spent his high school years un-apologetically dating 3 or 4 girls at the same time on a regular basis, almost daring them to discover it. One time, two of the girls he dated were cousins - He was especially proud of himself for this accomplishment. He used a lot of girls and broke a lot of hearts, but he never seemed to notice.

As for me, I hated how he made me feel inside: Disappointed in who he had become, disgusted by what he was doing, and annoyed by the butterflies that still fluttered inside me every time I passed him (silently) in the hallways.

Once or twice I went back and re-read my old diaries, where every entry ended with "I HEART BRANDON." No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't reconcile the boy from my past with the 'womanizer' he had become.

Being a little older, he graduated before me, and I was glad to finally have peace at school. I was blessed to have plenty of attention from the opposite sex, but I never could quite figure out why he hadn't tried to add me to his list of conquests. Of course, I assured myself that even if he had tried, I'd never have given him the time of day.

Wouldn't you know it? One fateful night, I was given an opportunity to prove it, and I failed.

First let me state for the record, that when I was a teenager, I was not allowed to go out. For some reason my mom never let me go anywhere. It became a not-so-funny joke that she would usually say, "No" before I ever finished asking a question. I wasn't her first daughter, or her last. I have no idea why she only let me out of the house a handful of times, but I can assure you, I made the most of those times.

One of those times, I had been given permission to go to a birthday/slumber party for a girl whom I'd recently met through a mutual friend. My mom knew her mother pretty well (so she thought) so she let me go, almost before I even asked. I had no idea what was in store for the night, but I wasn't complaining that we didn't see that girl's house until well after 3am.

It was a long time ago. Most of the details are foggy. I know I had just had a fight with my long-time boyfriend and we were on hiatus. My mom didn't like him at all, and that probably played a role in her letting me get out and explore a little, hoping I'd find a better distraction. As for me, I went out with my girlfriends looking for assurance that I was even half as cute as I thought I was.

There was no cake or candles or presents, but there was a party - and not at "Connie's" house. She had made arrangements to take us all to a real blow-out! The obnoxious "parents-are-out-of-town" kind of party which I had never seen before.

The party was great fun - a once in a lifetime for me. Loud music, lots of food - and drinks - and plenty of flirtatious boys I'd never met. One particular guy who was quite a bit older (7 yrs) and had a very nice car (Oh, the things that matter when you're 16!) showed me a good bit of attention. Some time after midnight, though, he bid me a fond farewell (took my number ... and by the way, he DID call.) and left.

I nibbled on some watermelon and sang along with some fun tunes while I waited for the other girls to get bored/tired/ready to go.

Then "he" showed up.

The pest from my past who would never leave my head alone.

Brandon.

He joined me at the watermelon basket and asked me about the guy who had just left. I told him we'd just met. He said he was too old for me, and he began to joke about the troubles of being a young girl with an old man. We talked and laughed and enjoyed each other for the first time ever. The whole time I was thinking, "I can't believe this is really happening! I must be dreaming! No, I've been dreaming of this for years, THIS is real!"

He was so genuine and entertaining - and so into me! It seemed like he had really grown up, finally, and I felt it really was a dream come true.

He told me I looked amazing, but that it was nothing new. He said he had always liked me back in the day and that his aloofness was all an act to keep his mom happy. He said after all of her man troubles, she would have freaked out if she thought he had a girlfriend at that young age and so he had to pretend not to like me.

I didn't actually really buy that whole story, but the fact that he might even be lying to impress me was enough. So what if he didn't like me when I was 10? He clearly liked me at 16, and NOW is all that matters NOW, right? After all, I'd grown up a bit myself.

I was delighted - Swept away by the music, the laughter, the culmination of my past crush, and yeah, probably whatever that watermelon had been soaking in. When he kissed me that first time, I am pretty sure my heart (or something inside me) exploded.

We made out like silly teenagers at a party at 2am, and then ... we went our separate ways.

And I was actually surprised, and devastated, when he didn't call.

I found out through the grapevine a few days later that the night of the party was his last night in town before joining the army. Turns out, I was his final fling, and then he was gone.

"Crushed" again, but in a different sense this time.

I can't even begin to list the range of emotions that I experienced. How humiliating!!! He was so smooth and convincing!! I had been completely suckered! I had no one to talk to about it because I still hadn't told anyone the whole story. Most everyone around me only knew that I'd had my heart broken by my boyfriend earlier that night. No one knew the turmoil I was in as a result of my rebound fling with my first crush. I had to cope alone on this one.

I tried to read my diaries again, to complete the picture and close that chapter, but I felt like such a fool even as I read the innocent words of my 10 year-old self. Looking back at my sweet girlish ideals, I was angry and embarrassed; confused, furious.

So I put on my big girl panties, and I burned my diaries.

Yep. I took them outside, looking at them as if they were Brandon himself. They glared back at me, filled with all their infatuation and excitement and the pure pleasure I took in the tiniest things (sitting beside him at the movies on a Sunday School class outing) and I cried my pathetic heart out as I lit them on fire. It was the ultimate revenge.

And that is why I don't have any diaries from my childhood :)

It might be why I never really wrote much else.

Who knows, maybe I've finally grown up enough to try again. Maybe this Blog will work for me. I'll change some names along the way so my stories won't cause issues for anyone today. After all, even "Brandon" has re-surfaced several times over the years, and I suspect he wouldn't want his wife to know just how often, or how recently (although I have no doubt he could talk his way out of it if she found out). He's still a player, but not with my heart. I'm glad he came back around long enough for that piece of my past to heal. We were able to become friends, and that works for me.

The fact that my first Blog seemed to be about him does not nearly make him the most important part of my past. The truth is, this story is more about why I don't keep a diary any more, rather than who was the main character in my old writings. At least that's what I tell myself.

Rehashing this painful series of events has really made me think. I hope I get to know my daughter just a little better than my mom knew me. I want to be a safe place where she can bury her broken heart, even if I detest the person who gave it to her (which I obviously would!) I know I can't protect her from the inevitable, but I desperately want to be there to cry with her when it happens.

And some day, when I have left this earth, I hope she discovers my blog and cherishes the words shared from my heart, just as I would cherish my mother's if there were any.

That's what it's all about.

Yeah, I think I can do this.