Geronimo!

I had the most strange experience this afternoon. At Speedreader’s Karate class. Where, you know, he has just earned his yellow belt. Because he is an attentive student. A serious student. A good boy.

Today, as one of the other boys was receiving his Yellow, Speedreader was seated beside a friend. Another good boy. But today, they were chatting. Not loudly, but not giving the boy in his Bow Out ceremony the full and proper respect their instructor expects, and fortunately requires. Fortunately, until today.

I have always appreciated that this man does not take guff off the kids. That he will not allow a paying student (his folks, that is) to remain in class if the child cannot maintain enough self control as to not disturb the others, and actually learn. I wouldn’t want our son in any other kind of class. This instructor has also stated clearly, that if your child is not ready to test, he’ll talk to you ahead of time, because he will not give an advancement that is not actually properly learned and earned. I like this, too. And he fosters comradery with the students; smiling big, praising, high fiving. But when it is time for class, and work is to be done, or someone is due quiet respect, Mr. Tim means it.

So today, my boy was a young boy. He forgot to concentrate on the ceremony at hand, as he sat by his buddy. And as the ceremony ended, Mr. Tim said evenly, calmly Speedreader, since you and Jordan were chatting through the Bow Out, when your classmate deserved our attention, drop and give me 25 push ups. Nearly before I could register what he had said, and clearly before Speedreader thought he was very serious, he let out a soft chuckle. More of a “gosh” sound, really. It needs to be understood, that while he is yet just a boy, disrespect to authority is not something he struggles with. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed him give lip to any adult. Not even slightly. Don’t get me wrong. We go round and round around here. But out there, he puts on his armour of correct behavior. And I appreciate it. And we thank him, and praise him, as many other adults over the years have. Total strangers on a not infrequent basis. I say this not to brag, but to give background to the predicament Speedreader found himself in. This is just the kind of boy he is. The situation in which he found himself is not common.

At the sound of this presumed chuckle, Mr. Tim said quickly, Speedreader, since you laughed, give me 35. Even as I type, my hands begin to quake. I was suddenly a schizophrenic female bear, with cubs weaning age. Do I refuse him milk? Do I insist on the grass? Do I allow him to spar with a superior bear, as he needs to learn his place in the world? Or do I completely rip the entrails out of the beast that has just had the supreme stupidity to threaten him??? Like a large part of me most definitely wanted to. The entire room quited, students and parents alike. I caught meaningful glances from other mothers around me. I felt suddenly hot, fiercely protective, a bit confused, embarrased for him, embarrased for me. The several minutes to complete the task seemed half an eternity. He took it on the chin, like the other boy, and pumped out those push ups, the best he could. Never having done more than maybe 5 in his life, it was a herculean task. Or felt so to me. Maybe it was just that it was a herculean task for me to sit back and allow him to handle that by himself.

The time crept by, one earnest push up after another, with the other boy finishing first, and mine…mine left to finish the last 10 all alone. I could see his arms shaking, his sweet face red. His knees buckling. And I continued to resist the urge to tackle Mr. Tim and pummel his bald head. I would have jumped out there in half a second, if I could have. But I couldn’t. It was a moment of defining himself, for my son. A time to follow the rules of the world around him, and show he could. Without his mommy rescuing him, as I so desperately wanted to do. Really. It was so incredibly emotional for me, that even now, as I digest it all in this post, I’m teary. Kind of breathless and shaky. I’ve spent this last entire decade protecting him in incremental degrees. Today was like throwing him in the ocean, with only a few YMCA swimming lessons under his belt. But he did it. He did not sink. And afterwards, he apologized to his instructor, who holds no grudges. All was well in the studio, and apparently, in my son’s spirit.

He seems to have weathered no damage. In fact, as I sat and wished I could morph into him and spirit him away from the evil Push Up Commanding Karate Man, I knew. I knew that this was something that he could do. Should do. And it was a tremendous life lesson. Strengthening. It was important for him to prove to himself he could live through the embarrasment, and the physical strain. And for the rest of the day, he truly seems great. Outside right now playing kick ball with his brother and sister, he actually looks a bit older. And somehow, that almost makes me more sad. For I surely only want the best for him, which includes getting knocked around once in a while to see if you can hack it. And being proud when you can. But when he can indeed hack it, like today, it only proves he’s getting all the older. More mature. That there truly is a man in there, waiting and working to come out. That he is not my baby boy, and really, never was. That I was only loaned a child, with the tremendously high interest rate of nearly unbearable love and attachment, to be paid in full, sometime not so far in the future. Some moments, I’m not so sure I’m going to be able to hold up my end of the deal.

I jotted this down yesterday morning. If you’re back, thanks. Blogsome has been down. A whooole lot of bloggers have been groaning loudly. If you’re not back, then this doesn’t apply to you.

I am reading The Gold Coast. Nelson DeMille. Great book. Loaned by my Dad. And I’m liking it so much, I *gasp* crawled back in bed with it this morning, while the children still slept. And. did. not. get. on. the. computer! Till now, of course. What’s to become of me???

Mafia dons, old east coast very monied families, country clubs, restless mid life crisis lawyer to the elite, gentry and servants, regal women, a little great marital sex (even some fantasy)…all the good stuff. And that’s just the first 50 pages. Now, my dear husband has just finished a book of, well, substance. The Holiness of God. R.C. Sproul. And suggested on his way out the door that this is a book I would like. I should read. It is compelling, and thought provoking. Challenging. I must have stared back at him as if he had just suggested I shave my head and march naked down the street singing Yankee Doodle Dandy, for he just shrugged, shook his head, and stated you’ll never read it. And he seems to think (I’m talking to you, love) that I never read anything he suggests. I have a simple answer. And it’s not some form of subtle passive-aggression. Really. It’s just that I have chosen, for a some time now, to read nothing that challenges me to anything other how to retrieve the Cheez-its from the kitchen while I turn pages breathlessly to discover if the lawyer really does get into cahoots with the mafia don, and is she, his wife, as I suspect, going to have an affair with same said don?!?

So just in case you’ve forgotten, hon, I used to read for brain stretching. Really I did. Whitman poetry. Faulkner. Kate Chopin. Doris Lessing. Thomas Hardy. Some Shakespeare (for pleasure, no less), Christian theologians. And you, my dear husband. You still readMere Christianity, and The Business of Heaven by C.S. Lewis. The Narnia series. This Sproul book. Waking the Dead, John Eldridge, and Purple Cow…Transform Your Business by Being Remarkable, Seth Godin. And Lord love you hon, I really admire your brain and stamina to get through such incredible material, but I. don’t. want. to. think. any. more. than. I. have. to. I have to think all the time. Why does electricty work? Don’t you think I’ll be bored in Heaven when games are played, because no one wins or loses? What’s for breakfast…what’s for lunch…what’s for dinner…where are my socks…how do you spell ‘tenuous’…why do you like him more than me…why do I feel melancholy…he said I’m stupid…she won’t let me in her room…Moooommmmm, he won’t put his pants back on…Moooommmmm, that thing is gross…Mooommm, why do I have a penis…no you didn’t, yes I did, no you didn’t, yes I did…

This is all along the lines of the fact that I stopped listening to/buying/understanding current music somewhere in 1998. And when you, my sweet hubby, want to share your latest discovery, it gives me a headache. The girl who used to roll down the windows, and blast the stereo, and sing at the passing cars has gone away somewhere. The girl who let you convince her to smoke a Clove and really inhale, to ‘carpe diem’ , and didn’t mind the price of wretching on your sofa an hour later, in the name of mad infatuation…she isn’t here right now. Or at least, she’s temporarily on hiatus. I hope it’s temporary. That I don’t stick this way. Like if I cross my eyes too long. I loved that girl. Or parts of her. Some of her was just ridiculously self absorbed. And I loved her with you. Oh, that was awesome. That time in a relationship when you just. can’t. keep. your. hands. off. each. other. When it’s a good thing you may still be on your parents tab, because if were up to you to make a living, you couldn’t. You’d be too busy sneaking around to steal a little nookie. But somehow, that girl would be too flighty to hack it in our current world. Which is full of, along with real joy, sacrifice, long hours, choices about bills, how to raise the children, can we handle our mortgage, and the neighborhood assessment bill being due. She’d bail out for sure. The first bad hair day, and she’d be out the door. Forget the ripped up nipples of early breastfeeding. And these stretchmarks {shudder}. And the giving up great new shoes for 3 children’s wardrobe.

In her place, I pray is someone better. A bit more stable. And able to be counted on. Someone who may be filtering the not so important from really important. Someone who, while seemingly having lost a good portion of her thinking capacity, has really just been forced to replaced it with something worthwhile, eternal even. If I have to choose between great stimulating literature, and being able to absorb all our children have to throw out at me, I guess the later is where I have to go. Not that it’s always great fun. Or that I come off as very bright. I cannot tell you, or anyone else, the real current state of the affairs in Iraq, or give you a reasonable opinion on whether or not we should really be over there in the first place, but buddy, let me tell you how to get an unwilling toddler to use the potty. I’m somewhat embarrassed to say I don’t really understand the NASDAQ, or even what those letters mean, but I’ve got some good coping skills for sleepless nights. And I know how to have a rocking anniversary celebration on $22. And how to check out 53 books from the library, keep up with them all for a month, and return them on time. Usually. Want to know how to continue to sit on a sofa, and love it, years after it should have been curbed? I’m your gal. What’s for dinner with 7 left over ingredients that in my right mind would never ever never go together, and wow, it’s yummy? Me. I can do it, go figure. I can take days, weeks, months, years of constant child care, birthing and nursing, while we move, many times (OK, with a little help from my friend Zoloft). I just can’t take Radiohead. I can turn a house into a home with some cheap Christmas lights, $50 and my designer hubby’s input. I’ve learned to say things like stop diddling yourself at the table (to our sons, not you dear, that’s strictly up to you), and don’t draw on the toilet seat while you potty, like they’re perfectly normal statements. These are the things of survival now that 15 years ago, I would have thought were a pathetic excuse of a life. The things, that when as a teenager, I pointed out some youngish mom to my own mother, inquiring how could she be so lame? and she replied, no really, it won’t matter, I couldn’t decide which was worse. That anyone could be like that, or that it had indeed, become no issue over which to fret and fuss. How could a woman be so pitiful as to not care?

What makes me a bit nervous, truth be told, is whether or not, when the intensity of this season passes, I’ll be able to let loose, or looser, again. Not with my personal hygiene. I can only go up from here. But be a bit more free, in my spirit again. Run out the door without the forethought of drinks, snacks, is- everyone-buckled, no-you-sat-in-the-front-last, I said-sit-on-your-bottom, do-I-have-to-come-back-there. But with the hard earned wisdom that comes with getting that far. To sort of rediscover who I was, and meld it into who I have become, and who I can be. Is that possible? I don’t want to be the mad-face-no-fun mom (you get wrinkles on your forehead), but sometimes, that comes with the job description. I don’t want to be the grumpy say-no Mom, but I’m not put on this earth to be their best friend. Not yet. You know, you get into this mode, of responsibility and real consequence. And really, we can forget what it was like to have the deepest worry of our life be passing the oral Spanish exam, a big zit on my nose, or if the clothing allowance check from your parents would come in time to buy some more ripped up jeans and margaritas for Friday night. When my brow didn’t furrow 712 times a day.

I just can’t help it. That how I cope with all this seems to be by eliminating most of the current world input as it zooms by me, and that it leaves me to think the Rachel haircut is still hip (is hip even a usable word now?). And just what kind of shoe do you wear with satin cargo pants? Should I wear satin cargo pants? Should anyone wear satin cargo pants? I am in brain overload all day, every day. The constant input, output, stimulation, challenge. It is exhausting. Yet this thing of raising our children. This thing of being called to educate them here. These I have to do. I want to do. Most days. I do not have to read a book that doesn’t fly by like a beach bodice ripper, or listen to any music post Y2K. And you can’t make me. Nanny nanny boo boo. But when they’ve grown, and I’m not wishing it to pass quickly, just don’t leave me in this current state. Get me out of the house and show me what I’ve missed. Or actually, didn’t miss. But just didn’t experience, because I really didn’t want to miss what matters most. This job of loving and raising our children. Are we on bell bottoms, straight leg, or back to pegged jeans now?