What?!

I remember a time when we couldn’t wait to hear our little guy talk. Actually talk, say some real words that we might be able to understand. We could have conversations, teach him things, and tell knock-knock jokes. Baby Babble is cute, but we looked forward to a time when he could finally carry on a conversation.

Our days were filled with words only a mother could understand. While the incoherent snippets of speech were cute, when darling little sentences started drooling out of his mouth we thought we were making forward progress. We can communicate with the alien!

Now we are back to babble. We’ve come full circle in 16 years of parenting.

He does actually talk. And although he does speak some pretty mean German, the bulk of what he says at home is supposedly in English.

We just don’t understand it.

One reason is that acronyms have taken over the language of the young, and if you can’t keep up with them you are SOL (I will say this is “so out of luck” for my readers who prefer I have a clean mouth). Throw in a few twists like quotes from movies we’ve never seen and references to books we’ve never read and our dinner conversations seem like a throw-back to baby babble times. With a deeper voice.

Added to this problem is the fact that he is very much into science and is taking three science classes this term. Hubs and I were business majors in college. Even if we had been science majors, I think the whole field has changed since back then. Those science dudes just keep discovering new stuff. Or making it up.

So much of what he tells us about his school day is cloaked in Forensic-speak or Physio-babble.

We still ask him what he did in school while we are eating dinner. But while he’s spewing science words and phrases (we think he makes half of them up), we politely nod and look interested. More acronyms, a few words that we remember from watching the whole glove scene in the OJ Simpson trial, and a hypothesis for his independent research project. More nodding, maybe an “I see” thrown in for brownie points.

The overwhelming sound of “duh” fills the air as he waits for some sort of question or comment from us.

Then we turn our attention to our daughter, asking about her day. How hard can it be to understand 7th grade?

OMG (that’s like “wow”)….did you know Pluto isn’t a planet anymore?

Exit Interview

I sit waiting in the small room, my portfolio lying on the desk in front of me. It seems decent enough, filled with pictures and art work, certificates and ribbons. I wonder if there was anything else I should have included that would make a difference. I guess it’s too late now.

Maybe some sort of bribe would help.

I wonder if there’s an ATM nearby.

I feel awkward in my fancy skirt, blouse, and pumps; they look like a Catholic school uniform all grown up. I should have worn the same clothes I’ve worn on the job site all these years. There was never a complaint, unless you count that unfortunate clogs-with-skinny jeans incident.

At least nobody took pictures.

The door swings open and the interviewer glides into the room, taking the seat across from me. She wears beautiful clothes, flashy jewelry, and not a hair is out of place. Her nails are impeccably manicured without a chip in sight. Her shoes match, she looks rested, and she has no spit/mud/coffee/rice cereal/zit cream stains on her clothes.

Why did I have to get the one interviewer who can’t possibly relate to my job?

“Good morning, my name is Miss Dopportunity, and I will be interviewing you today.” She looks down at the stack of papers she has taken out of my file. “So, I see here that you are nearing the end of your current position as Mother to a High Schooler. My paperwork states that you were on the fast-track, climbing rather quickly through the ranks of Mother of an Infant to Preschool Mother and PTA Mom.”

“Well…,” I stammer, “if you can correct that in the paperwork please, I never requested to be on the fast-track. I really wanted to master each position before being promoted to the next.”

She chuckles quietly, glancing up at me for a moment before regaining her perfect composure. “There really is no “other” track for this career. True, some of those early days may have actually seemed longer than 24 hours, but in reality the whole career path moves at lightning speed.” She rifles through the papers a bit more and makes a few notes on them, then fixes her gaze on my portfolio. “Let’s have a look at what you’ve brought here today.”

I quickly open the large folder, anxious to show her the fruits of my labor (and delivery). There are baby footprints inked at the hospital, a lock of newborn hair too fragile to handle. Lost teeth, certificates for library summer programs, report cards, and class pictures. Paintings, crayon drawings, necklaces made of dried pasta. Letters from grandparents loved and lost, newspaper clippings, baseball team pictures, autographs of famous people, and movie ticket stubs.

Random reminders of a childhood that slipped through my fingers.

Junk, really. To any other human being who isn’t a mother.

I wonder what she’ll think of the job I did as she sifts through the things with efficiency and tact. I want her to be careful with them, but I hesitate to say anything for fear of sounding rude. Then again, with those fancy fingernails, she might damage something.

Or break a nail.

She stops thumbing through my things and pulls out her notes.

“Now then, I have a few questions to ask you. These are standard questions at this point in your career, but your answers might determine your exit strategy so please think carefully before you answer.”

A tiny sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak leaves my lips. I hope she didn’t hear it.

“Did you let him play in the rain? Catch tadpoles at the creek? Did he see museums and movies, plays and magic shows? Was he allowed to get dirty, taste the snow, wade into the freezing cold surf, bury his sister in the sand?”

“Was he taught to be kind, to think of others? Does he have a pet? Did you make his home a soft place for him to land when he falls? To read? To relax? Chase a dream, develop a passion?”

“Were there scraped knees, bloody noses, toothless grins in Christmas card pictures? Did you tell him about the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, only to have to come clean later? Did you help him dig to China in the sandbox? Make a dinosaur skeleton out of chicken bones? Fingerpaint in the house?”

“Did you ever just sit and watch a herd of cows graze, hang out in the backyard hoping to see a shooting star, look for owls, go fishing at dusk or hike an incredible hike? Was he ever allowed to spend the day in his jammies, eat ice cream for dinner or just sleep until noon?”

“Did you enforce the rules, dole out punishments, make him apologize, send him to his room? Did he have to make amends, write thank-you notes, remember to say “please” and be nice to teachers?”

“Can he tie his own shoes, pack a suitcase, use a payphone, schedule an appointment, brush his teeth, make his bed, keep track of his own money, build a campfire, open a small carton of milk, mow the lawn, pump himself on the swing, ride a bike?”

She pauses here, giving me a chance to take it all in. I am so nervous, feeling that there must have been something that I overlooked, one or two major steps along the way that I neglected to take. I nod my head, maybe a bit too tentatively, and wait for her to pepper me with more questions.

“Well then, it seems that everything is in order. You still have some time remaining in your current position, but I am recommending that you be considered a candidate for the next level, Mother to a Young Adult. I will forward the paperwork sometime in the next few months.”

I am stunned. Shouldn’t there be more questions to ask?

Maybe a lie-detector test?

“That’s it, that’s all you need from me? Are you sure? How can you really know that I’ve done my job well enough to move on? How will I really ever know? Is there a salary increase with this new level? What about vacation pay? Does this skirt make my butt look big? How do we really know that Humpty Dumpty was an egg?”

She stands up and smoothes out her skirt, pushing her chair back in as she heads for the door. As she reaches the door she stops, turns, and looks me in the eye. “This career is what you make of it. There are no right and no wrong answers. What you do with it is your choice. Once you are promoted to the next level, there is no going back. The hours can be pretty crappy, the pay is lousy, and your insubordinates can be, well, insubordinate. But don’t get me wrong; this is a lifetime career. The positions may change along the way, but you will always be employed.”

She walks out the door, shutting it quietly behind her. I slowly gather my treasures and put them back into the file folders, ready to return them to the drawer at home. No ribbons or certificates for me here today, not even a candy bar or a pat on the back. But I do a little happy-dance, just because I can. The rewards of motherhood are immeasurable, and can’t be compensated with cash, prizes or chocolate. I will never know for sure if I did a good job, but I do know that I did my best.

And I’m pretty sure I’ve earned that promotion.

Playgroup, Revisited

Warning:  To my blog readers who have small children running amok, destroying your house with kitchen utensils and scaring the pets, you might want to skip this post.  You might not like me anymore after reading about my day.  Remember, I warned you.

Back when I was a new mommy, glowing with new-found motherhood, raging hormones, and lack of sleep, I joined a playgroup.  I said that it was for my little guy to find new friends, learn to share, and develop wonderful social skills. 

I lied.

Playgroup was really for me.

I mean, how social can an 8 week-old baby really be?  Sure, babies smile and all that.  Eventually they even start to grab hair and steal toys from their rivals playmates, which we interpret as interacting.  But when they are very small, there really isn’t any playing in a playgroup.

When you have extracted yourself from your former life as a worker bee/wife/friend and whatever else you did before baby (because you can’t remember) you need to find others like you.  Other grown-ups who can appreciate the fact that you slept for a whole four hours straight or actually remembered to brush your teeth.

We would meet at parks on a weekly basis when the weather was good, and during bad weather we took turns hosting the group in our homes.  It was a LOT of work, and we were all tending to our kids constantly it seemed.  Someone always needed a diaper, a snack, a nose wiped, or just had to cry.  Loudly.

I was lucky enough to find two of my most favorite lifetime friends in this group.  Yeah, they have great kids too….but hey, it was my playgroup to start with.  And yesterday one of those friends invited us over for lunch and swimming.

It was heaven.

You see, once they get to be a certain age you just don’t really have to DO ANYTHING for them.  Yesterday was like fast-forwarding an old movie reel to remember these same kids, us same moms, 16 years earlier in the same situation.

Pizza lunch and swimming?  For a playgroup meeting back in the day that would have been a mountain of work.  Cutting up pizza, pouring sippy cups, cleaning up spills, taking potty/diaper breaks, applying sunscreen, fixing boo-boos, applying more sunscreen, putting on water wings, “helping” them swim…..well, you get it.

Pizza lunch and swimming now? 

  • Set pizza boxes on counter next to paper plates. 
  • Pull a lounge chair up next to the pool. 
  • Start gabbing.  Gab for hours and hours, about puberty and driver’s permits, about college costs and scout camp, vacations and jobs.  Real, grown-up talk with one of my favorite friends.

And the kids?  They took care of their lunch, helped themselves to drinks, made their own snow cones, applied their sunscreen, swam, played a board game, talked, and had fun.  The moms hardly had to lift a finger.

It was the best playgroup I’ve been to in years.

Driving Miss Crazy

little tikes cozy coupeThere are so many milestones in childhood that come and go, usually with great fanfare (at least when it’s YOUR kid).  First smile, first steps, first time on a bike, first day at school… these are all met with smiles, video cameras, phone calls to Grandma and notations in the baby book.

We celebrate each new step towards independence too.  That first day at school starts a whole string of “firsts” that slowly push them out into the world without 24/7 supervision.  I enjoyed each of these in their own time, snapping pictures and crossing them off my mental mommy list.

And then he got his learner’s permit.

At first this sounded like wonderful mother/son bonding.  We’ll be in the car for 50 hours of practice time!  We can laugh and talk, just like when he was younger!

And then we went out for the first time.

My perceptions of how close the curb is, how close we are to cars parked on the side of the road and how closely we are passing the cars in the oncoming lanes are VERY different when I am the passenger and my son is driving.  I try to remain calm (“Honey, watch for that stop sign ahead.”) when on the inside I am not (“STOP!  THE LIGHT IS RED!  WATCH OUT FOR THE CAT!”).  Being the control freak that I am, I find myself looking for something to do with my hands, since I can’t grab the wheel or use the turn signals.  I try to keep them folded in my lap, but my inner urge to survive kicks in and I have to grab the door panel.

At times, this has been before we have even left the driveway.

There are so many things about driving that become second nature after a few years.  I can drive anywhere in town that I need to go while at the same time memorizing my grocery list and listening to talk radio.  I don’t have to think about the rules at a four-way stop or that I need to yield to oncoming traffic when making a left turn on green.  I just do it.  Now I have to think about the rules, and the whole outing becomes a complete recitation of the DMV Driver’s Handbook.

This isn’t the mother/son chatting I was envisioning.

There are quiet moments while we are out, when I am sure my son is breathing a sigh of relief (She finally shut up!).  These are times when we are on a long stretch of road, with no stop signs, lane changes or crosswalks.  Even then, I think there should be something I could point out (“The bumps in the middle of the road are called Botts’ Dots.” or “Did you know it would take us 11 hours to drive to Vegas?”).

We still have many hours to practice before the final exam for his license.  My son?  He’s doing great with the driving.

It’s his mother who needs some more practice.