Parents have a license to discuss their children's bodily functions, especially when they are actively training them to go on the toilet. It's a dirty business, but...
The Diaper Fairy came this past Sunday morning and left Maya two gifts, a twelve-pack of Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear for toddlers and a toy. The night before, Verna and I had boxed up all but one or two of her cloth diapers and wraps and happily bade them adieu. We will happily ship them to a new home--for free.
Verna promised I wouldn't have to change diapers (other than my own) once I turned 50, and she was more than two months ahead of schedule. I will hit the milestone this April.
We were worried how Maya, who turned three less than two weeks ago, was going to react to having her diapers permanently swiped from her. She peed once while on her potty several months ago, but hasn't really been very interested in using it or the toilet.
We tried sweetening things by offering her Annie's gummy fruit, Trader Joe's oreo cookies, and even chocolate if she went either on the toilet or in her potty. That worked three or four times where we could hoist her up on the toilet, without a child's seat cover, and she would go and then immediately blurt out, "Gummies now?!"
We upped the ante last week when we started giving Miguel chewy calcium vitamins in addition to his regular multivitamins. Maya wanted some, so we said, "Once the diaper fairy comes and you are wearing big girl underwear, you will get the vitamins."
Verna had been showing Maya her new underwear (not the ones left by the diaper fairy) for a few weeks. Much like successful marketers, we were trying to create an early buzz and excitement for potty training by revealing to Maya the ultimate reward: big girl underwear.
And it worked.
She was so psyched to get into big girl underwear and earn the right to chomp on gummy vitamins, that she asked us to stop her diapers Saturday night.
So far, so good. She's had two pee-pee accidents, but has been amazingly controlled and cooperative about using the toilet. Sunday morning, while I was out at the Farmer's Market and Verna was upstairs with Miguel, Maya walked into the downstairs bathroom by herself, pulled down her pants and then her underwear, climbed onto the toilet and went #2.
Verna told me about it when I got home, and we were so excited that we high-fived each other, smiles beaming across our faces. You'd have thought David Ortiz had rocketed a homerun past the Green Monster for another dramatic Red Sox win.
When we were potty training Miguel, also at three years of age, he peed all over my hands as I tried to scoop him off the carpeted floor of Performance Bicycles, one of two stores that were part of our nightly walking ritual when we lived less than a mile away. He was also in the middle of training that same month when we visited my father and stepmother in Florida and journeyed with them to the other side of the state. We had to stop at least once an hour, so a normally three-hour ride took us more than four.
Verna and I are very focused now on asking Maya every 10 minutes or so, "Do you need to use the potty?"
The other ironic (or cosmically poetic) component to this story is we also have a puppy, Gigi, who is only eight months old, and is experiencing her own kind of bathroom issues that are giving us more headaches by far than Maya.
Gigi is the ultimate scaredy cat dog. Getting Gigi to urinate let alone anything more after dark is an often impossible chore. She bolts forward at every crunch of grass, car whooshing by, rustle of leaves. She whimpers loudly and yanks on her leash in the direction of home. If I yelled and yanked back at Maya as I do with Gigi, I'd be arrested for child abuse.
Maya we praise, while Gigi frustrates us, even though we reward her with treats as well. And she is the only one whose tummy I scratch morning, noon, and night.
Potty training, doggy training. It's a thankless job, but...
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Celebrate The Whole Boy
"Miguel, what are you doing?" I asked nonchalantly after I bounded into his room last night.
"I just wrote a poem."
"Really? What made you do that?"
It was his bedtime and he'd been waiting for either Verna or me to stay with him for a few minutes while he fell asleep. I expected and hoped he was going to say he scribbled a few lines of verse down after being inspired by watching Obama's inauguration at school.
"I was bored."
Oh well. So much for MY parental hopes. Seriously, though, I was still mightily impressed with Miguel. He created something with his mind and heart. He does well in school, but Miguel would trade in a heartbeat a day of being in the classroom for sport and play outdoors in almost any kind of weather. I did put a poster up in his room showing a small group of boys, all clad in football gear, clustered around one who is playing the violin. It reads: Celebrate the Whole Boy.
Yes, I want to nurture Miguel's dream to become a professional athlete, but I am also as glad that he wears a t-shirt with the following quote from John Steinbeck, "I guess there are never enough books", that he picked out at the Steinbeck Museum gift shop.
So I was even more impressed that he jotted down the following in a matter of minutes. I also think it was influenced by all that he saw and heard as his 5th grade class watched history being made when President Obama recited the oath of office.
Miguel's poem:
Wonders
As I sit on my front step looking out into space, I see the wonders of life,
The wonders of painting a picture with words,
The wonders of America,
And the wonders of everything beyond that.
Yes, we do celebrate the whole boy. Our boy, Miguel, blossoming, almost, into a young man.
"I just wrote a poem."
"Really? What made you do that?"
It was his bedtime and he'd been waiting for either Verna or me to stay with him for a few minutes while he fell asleep. I expected and hoped he was going to say he scribbled a few lines of verse down after being inspired by watching Obama's inauguration at school.
"I was bored."
Oh well. So much for MY parental hopes. Seriously, though, I was still mightily impressed with Miguel. He created something with his mind and heart. He does well in school, but Miguel would trade in a heartbeat a day of being in the classroom for sport and play outdoors in almost any kind of weather. I did put a poster up in his room showing a small group of boys, all clad in football gear, clustered around one who is playing the violin. It reads: Celebrate the Whole Boy.
Yes, I want to nurture Miguel's dream to become a professional athlete, but I am also as glad that he wears a t-shirt with the following quote from John Steinbeck, "I guess there are never enough books", that he picked out at the Steinbeck Museum gift shop.
So I was even more impressed that he jotted down the following in a matter of minutes. I also think it was influenced by all that he saw and heard as his 5th grade class watched history being made when President Obama recited the oath of office.
Miguel's poem:
Wonders
As I sit on my front step looking out into space, I see the wonders of life,
The wonders of painting a picture with words,
The wonders of America,
And the wonders of everything beyond that.
Yes, we do celebrate the whole boy. Our boy, Miguel, blossoming, almost, into a young man.
Friday, January 9, 2009
S-s-s-sick
I rolled over and asked Verna how she was feeling.
“Don’t talk to me,” she mumbled, “I’m sick.”
Maya, nestled between us on the bed, woke up and said, “Don’t talk to me Daddy; I’m sick.”
Life imitates life.
Verna came down with some devastating virus the second day into the New Year. Kaiser said it was RSV, which means no fever, no flu, but Verna still feels like crap: pounding headache, raw and painful sore throat, extreme desire to be shot like a rabid dog.
Maya has a slight fever and general malaise, but overall she’s been fine. That hasn’t stopped her, though, from telling me now several times not to talk to her. And also having her mimic her mother’s coughs, where she opens her mouth and emits a low-key machine gun sound. The girl has a flair for drama and excess already.
Where did that come from?
Being sick sucks. It might’ve been different for Verna if she hadn’t survived cancer. But when this virus hit I know that Verna was thinking: “Shit, my body has betrayed me yet again.”
She hasn’t felt much better for a week. A woman I know casually from the park, who happens to be a nurse, said she and her daughter had the virus, and it often lasts for 4-5 weeks. Weeks?
Fortunately for Verna in terms of having help and unfortunately in terms of our finances, I started only a part time job this week, Wednesday-Friday. So I was able to take Miguel to school and pick him up on Monday and Tuesday. And also play with Maya before her nap. On Tuesday she and I went to the library where we got five books, one of which she seems to love most, Click Clack Quackity Quack. She’s been repeating that phrase a lot since then.
Since my job is only part time, I am also busy on Mondays and Tuesdays with freelance writing assignments, finding additional work, and figuring out the meaning of life. But one of my other priorities now is just picking up the slack so Verna can remain camped out on the couch.
So what if the kids get chocolate ice cream for dinner with gummy bears as an appetizer? There must’ve been at least two or three minor food groups in those selections. OK, just kidding. I made wholesome meals: pasta with broccoli, veggie stir-fry with tofu over brown rice, organic macaroni and cheese with tofu hot dogs. Sounds yummy, eh?
Last night Verna decided to use a folk remedy suggested by our witch, er, friend, Amanda, a native of Transylvania, er, England. She told Verna to rub Vicks on her feet before bed and then cover them with socks. Supposedly this will cure Verna of her hacking cough that threatens to explode one or both of her lungs.
Vicks vapo-rub wafting in the living room brought me back to me childhood when my mother rubbed the goop on my chest and covered it with a small towel so it wouldn’t get on my pajamas. The powerful aroma of Vicks means to me childhood, sickness, warmth, being nurtured back to health by my mother.
When I got up this morning to take the dog for a walk Verna was sleeping soundly. I woke her, though, because I had to leave for work and she wanted to make breakfast for Miguel.
“Did the Vicks work?”
“I was fine until three a.m.,” she said. “Then I started coughing and couldn’t stop for hours. I’d just fallen back to sleep.”
Maya would be up soon, we knew, mouth wide open, coughing and telling me not to speak with her.
“Don’t talk to me,” she mumbled, “I’m sick.”
Maya, nestled between us on the bed, woke up and said, “Don’t talk to me Daddy; I’m sick.”
Life imitates life.
Verna came down with some devastating virus the second day into the New Year. Kaiser said it was RSV, which means no fever, no flu, but Verna still feels like crap: pounding headache, raw and painful sore throat, extreme desire to be shot like a rabid dog.
Maya has a slight fever and general malaise, but overall she’s been fine. That hasn’t stopped her, though, from telling me now several times not to talk to her. And also having her mimic her mother’s coughs, where she opens her mouth and emits a low-key machine gun sound. The girl has a flair for drama and excess already.
Where did that come from?
Being sick sucks. It might’ve been different for Verna if she hadn’t survived cancer. But when this virus hit I know that Verna was thinking: “Shit, my body has betrayed me yet again.”
She hasn’t felt much better for a week. A woman I know casually from the park, who happens to be a nurse, said she and her daughter had the virus, and it often lasts for 4-5 weeks. Weeks?
Fortunately for Verna in terms of having help and unfortunately in terms of our finances, I started only a part time job this week, Wednesday-Friday. So I was able to take Miguel to school and pick him up on Monday and Tuesday. And also play with Maya before her nap. On Tuesday she and I went to the library where we got five books, one of which she seems to love most, Click Clack Quackity Quack. She’s been repeating that phrase a lot since then.
Since my job is only part time, I am also busy on Mondays and Tuesdays with freelance writing assignments, finding additional work, and figuring out the meaning of life. But one of my other priorities now is just picking up the slack so Verna can remain camped out on the couch.
So what if the kids get chocolate ice cream for dinner with gummy bears as an appetizer? There must’ve been at least two or three minor food groups in those selections. OK, just kidding. I made wholesome meals: pasta with broccoli, veggie stir-fry with tofu over brown rice, organic macaroni and cheese with tofu hot dogs. Sounds yummy, eh?
Last night Verna decided to use a folk remedy suggested by our witch, er, friend, Amanda, a native of Transylvania, er, England. She told Verna to rub Vicks on her feet before bed and then cover them with socks. Supposedly this will cure Verna of her hacking cough that threatens to explode one or both of her lungs.
Vicks vapo-rub wafting in the living room brought me back to me childhood when my mother rubbed the goop on my chest and covered it with a small towel so it wouldn’t get on my pajamas. The powerful aroma of Vicks means to me childhood, sickness, warmth, being nurtured back to health by my mother.
When I got up this morning to take the dog for a walk Verna was sleeping soundly. I woke her, though, because I had to leave for work and she wanted to make breakfast for Miguel.
“Did the Vicks work?”
“I was fine until three a.m.,” she said. “Then I started coughing and couldn’t stop for hours. I’d just fallen back to sleep.”
Maya would be up soon, we knew, mouth wide open, coughing and telling me not to speak with her.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Armed and Dangerous
I dislocated Maya’s left elbow on Christmas Eve.
We were getting ready to go to the Farmer’s Market, but she was on the floor in her feet pajamas. She offered me her left hand so I could pick her up and change her upstairs. Instead of lifting her under her arms, I yanked her hand and she immediately started screaming.
“What, what is it?” I asked.
“You probably did something to her arm,” Verna said, maternal concern etched across her face.
No swelling, she could still move it; OK, she was writhing in pain and refused to let us near the arm, but she’s fine, I thought. I had that empty feeling in my stomach, though, a this-can’t-be-happening twinge of guilt and fear that I had done serious damage to my daughter.
I called the Kaiser advice line and the nurse scheduled an appointment with Maya’s pediatrician for 10:45 am. It was 8:30. The nurse said we didn’t need to rush to emergency because they’d only refer us to her doctor anyway.
At this point, Maya had cradled her arm against her body at a 90-degree angle as if it were in a sling. She would only sit on Verna’s or my lap. How were we going to change her into her clothes?
She cried and cried and made sure we didn’t even go near the arm. She kept the arm close to her body, but I was able to pull her sweater over to cover it. I did the same with her jacket: stuffed her right arm through and draped it over the other side.
Maya screamed and cried when I placed on her on the scale in the doctor’s office. After the assistant left, I read to Maya in the examination room. There were two books: one about Clifford and manners, another about a boy who befriends a brush that magically turns into a canine after the boy had to give his dog away. I read each of them twice before Dr. Patel rescued me, er, came in.
Dr. Patel, who has an 8-month-old, is an osteopath and a pediatrician. She started manipulating Maya’s left arm while Maya was once again screaming and crying.
“I felt something pop back into place in her elbow,” Dr. Patel said.
“So I dislocated it?”
“It’s pretty common,” she said.
More often than not, ‘nursemaid’s elbow’ occurs when a child yanks his or her hand free from his or her parent’s grasp, she said. The treatment? Ibuprofen, ice, x-rays to make sure there was no substantial damage.
“She should be fine within an hour,” the doctor said.
At each interval during the morning—in the exam room, after Dr. Patel came in, before her x-rays—Maya’s mouth quivered as she tried to hold back the tears. The nurse or medical assistant kept telling her how brave she was, so maybe she thought she had to act that way.
We sat in another exam room after the x-rays, waiting for Dr. Patel to tell us the results. Maya looked over at me and smiled.
“My arm is better, daddy.”
“Can I put your arm through your sweater?”
“Yep,” she said.
By the time Dr. Patel returned, Maya was smiling, laughing, and raising her arm as if she were in a toddler aerobics class.
Even though Maya’s injury was an accident by a parent who should have known better than try to hoist her up by her immature bones and tendons, I was worried how the medical people would react. I half-imagined child protective services rolling up to the house to take Maya away or an alarm blaring and lights flashing as I registered Maya for her appointment.
See, we have a history of injuring our children. When Miguel was about 8 weeks old, I cut one of fingers too far past the nail line and it started bleeding. And wouldn’t stop. The Kaiser nurse said to apply direct pressure. It worked.
Two months later, Miguel was lying on the bed with Verna in the bathroom about ten feet away. He rolled off and conked his head on the carpeted floor. Kaiser said to monitor him and come to the emergency room if he exhibited any signs of a concussion. About a year or so later, Miguel went to put on his rain boots that were collecting cobwebs outside, and a small rodent bit his finger. Kaiser said there was no need for a rabies shot because mice and rats were not considered dangerous.
But I knew we were on some kind of list. Legally, medical professionals and hospitals must report ‘suspicious’ incidents in order to protect the safety of all children. So after I called Kaiser about Maya I imagined the following conversation at the hospital.
“Just took another call from the Friedman-Wefald home.”
“What’d they do to Miguel this time?”
“Actually, it’s for a Maya, must be the younger sister.”
“That’s it. These people must be stopped. We must prevent them from intentionally harming yet another child. Call child welfare and the police. Stat.”
In the end, though, everything was OK. Maya showed no signs of injury at all the remainder of the day or yesterday, Christmas. She even spent part of Christmas Eve evening jumping from the couch onto pillows on the floor with her cousin Madelyn in Lafayette.
And I certainly learned my lesson. Finally. Yesterday, Maya was standing on our bed after I’d changed her diaper. She lifted her hands above her head and wanted me to grab them by her wrists so she could float to the floor.
“No, no, I can’t do that,” I said. “I have to grab you under your arms.”
“Why?” she asked. It’s her most used word.
“Because I don’t want to hurt you again.”
She smiled and said, “OK.” Then she leaned her body toward me and let me her guide her carefully off the bed.
We were getting ready to go to the Farmer’s Market, but she was on the floor in her feet pajamas. She offered me her left hand so I could pick her up and change her upstairs. Instead of lifting her under her arms, I yanked her hand and she immediately started screaming.
“What, what is it?” I asked.
“You probably did something to her arm,” Verna said, maternal concern etched across her face.
No swelling, she could still move it; OK, she was writhing in pain and refused to let us near the arm, but she’s fine, I thought. I had that empty feeling in my stomach, though, a this-can’t-be-happening twinge of guilt and fear that I had done serious damage to my daughter.
I called the Kaiser advice line and the nurse scheduled an appointment with Maya’s pediatrician for 10:45 am. It was 8:30. The nurse said we didn’t need to rush to emergency because they’d only refer us to her doctor anyway.
At this point, Maya had cradled her arm against her body at a 90-degree angle as if it were in a sling. She would only sit on Verna’s or my lap. How were we going to change her into her clothes?
She cried and cried and made sure we didn’t even go near the arm. She kept the arm close to her body, but I was able to pull her sweater over to cover it. I did the same with her jacket: stuffed her right arm through and draped it over the other side.
Maya screamed and cried when I placed on her on the scale in the doctor’s office. After the assistant left, I read to Maya in the examination room. There were two books: one about Clifford and manners, another about a boy who befriends a brush that magically turns into a canine after the boy had to give his dog away. I read each of them twice before Dr. Patel rescued me, er, came in.
Dr. Patel, who has an 8-month-old, is an osteopath and a pediatrician. She started manipulating Maya’s left arm while Maya was once again screaming and crying.
“I felt something pop back into place in her elbow,” Dr. Patel said.
“So I dislocated it?”
“It’s pretty common,” she said.
More often than not, ‘nursemaid’s elbow’ occurs when a child yanks his or her hand free from his or her parent’s grasp, she said. The treatment? Ibuprofen, ice, x-rays to make sure there was no substantial damage.
“She should be fine within an hour,” the doctor said.
At each interval during the morning—in the exam room, after Dr. Patel came in, before her x-rays—Maya’s mouth quivered as she tried to hold back the tears. The nurse or medical assistant kept telling her how brave she was, so maybe she thought she had to act that way.
We sat in another exam room after the x-rays, waiting for Dr. Patel to tell us the results. Maya looked over at me and smiled.
“My arm is better, daddy.”
“Can I put your arm through your sweater?”
“Yep,” she said.
By the time Dr. Patel returned, Maya was smiling, laughing, and raising her arm as if she were in a toddler aerobics class.
Even though Maya’s injury was an accident by a parent who should have known better than try to hoist her up by her immature bones and tendons, I was worried how the medical people would react. I half-imagined child protective services rolling up to the house to take Maya away or an alarm blaring and lights flashing as I registered Maya for her appointment.
See, we have a history of injuring our children. When Miguel was about 8 weeks old, I cut one of fingers too far past the nail line and it started bleeding. And wouldn’t stop. The Kaiser nurse said to apply direct pressure. It worked.
Two months later, Miguel was lying on the bed with Verna in the bathroom about ten feet away. He rolled off and conked his head on the carpeted floor. Kaiser said to monitor him and come to the emergency room if he exhibited any signs of a concussion. About a year or so later, Miguel went to put on his rain boots that were collecting cobwebs outside, and a small rodent bit his finger. Kaiser said there was no need for a rabies shot because mice and rats were not considered dangerous.
But I knew we were on some kind of list. Legally, medical professionals and hospitals must report ‘suspicious’ incidents in order to protect the safety of all children. So after I called Kaiser about Maya I imagined the following conversation at the hospital.
“Just took another call from the Friedman-Wefald home.”
“What’d they do to Miguel this time?”
“Actually, it’s for a Maya, must be the younger sister.”
“That’s it. These people must be stopped. We must prevent them from intentionally harming yet another child. Call child welfare and the police. Stat.”
In the end, though, everything was OK. Maya showed no signs of injury at all the remainder of the day or yesterday, Christmas. She even spent part of Christmas Eve evening jumping from the couch onto pillows on the floor with her cousin Madelyn in Lafayette.
And I certainly learned my lesson. Finally. Yesterday, Maya was standing on our bed after I’d changed her diaper. She lifted her hands above her head and wanted me to grab them by her wrists so she could float to the floor.
“No, no, I can’t do that,” I said. “I have to grab you under your arms.”
“Why?” she asked. It’s her most used word.
“Because I don’t want to hurt you again.”
She smiled and said, “OK.” Then she leaned her body toward me and let me her guide her carefully off the bed.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Holy Days
We celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas because Verna is Catholic and I am Jewish. When I told Maya we were going to a Hanukkah party and were going to eat latkes (potato panckaes) and light the menorah, she said, "Bubbie Brayna."
Those two words shed for me nearly over-powering light into the mind of a toddler. How do their cerebral synapses fire so brightly and quickly?
I'd read her the book Chanukkah Guest (by Eric Kimmel ), in which Bubbie Brayna, hard of hearing and failing sight, mistakes a lumbering bear in the forest for the village rabbi and prepares a holiday feast for him, a few times last week, and now she connected our Hanukkah celebration with the story.
Or she'd say "Bubbie China" because it sounds just like Brayna in her 3-year-old mind. After that she 'd say, "Luca say that."
Luca is her friend, about 2 1/2, who lives just down the street. Maya was there recently when he picked up the telephone. His mother asked, "Luca, who are you calling?"
"China," he said.
So Maya remembered the incident and connected it to Bubbie Brayna and the latkes and the menorah. And all of that got me thinking how uncluttered a child's mind is, and how much room there is for them to make those amazing connections. Children don't have to and shouldn't have to worry about paying the mortgage, having money for holiday gifts, dealing with grief and loss, job insecurity, clogged highway traffic, or gorging on Christmas cookies.
Most kids just live in the moment. Whenever Maya hears the words 'party', she automatically responds, "Cake." Now, when she hears latkes and menorah, it's "Bubbie Brayna."
Their minds are uncluttered, one of Miguel's preschool teachers likened it to living in the pink soup (and she said we must, as parents, ensure they are in that soup for a long time), but that doesn't mean we should have high expectations about what those beautiful minds can handle.
Maya has already perfected the well-worn adolescent response of "I don't know" to many of my queries. It's not that she doesn't know, I think, but that she is merely saying, "I am so in the present, dad, give me a break with your incessant need to know."
So we lit the menorah last night and Maya connected that with birthdays. We sang the blessings and she promptly blew out the candles.
"Bubbie Brayna!"
Those two words shed for me nearly over-powering light into the mind of a toddler. How do their cerebral synapses fire so brightly and quickly?
I'd read her the book Chanukkah Guest (by Eric Kimmel ), in which Bubbie Brayna, hard of hearing and failing sight, mistakes a lumbering bear in the forest for the village rabbi and prepares a holiday feast for him, a few times last week, and now she connected our Hanukkah celebration with the story.
Or she'd say "Bubbie China" because it sounds just like Brayna in her 3-year-old mind. After that she 'd say, "Luca say that."
Luca is her friend, about 2 1/2, who lives just down the street. Maya was there recently when he picked up the telephone. His mother asked, "Luca, who are you calling?"
"China," he said.
So Maya remembered the incident and connected it to Bubbie Brayna and the latkes and the menorah. And all of that got me thinking how uncluttered a child's mind is, and how much room there is for them to make those amazing connections. Children don't have to and shouldn't have to worry about paying the mortgage, having money for holiday gifts, dealing with grief and loss, job insecurity, clogged highway traffic, or gorging on Christmas cookies.
Most kids just live in the moment. Whenever Maya hears the words 'party', she automatically responds, "Cake." Now, when she hears latkes and menorah, it's "Bubbie Brayna."
Their minds are uncluttered, one of Miguel's preschool teachers likened it to living in the pink soup (and she said we must, as parents, ensure they are in that soup for a long time), but that doesn't mean we should have high expectations about what those beautiful minds can handle.
Maya has already perfected the well-worn adolescent response of "I don't know" to many of my queries. It's not that she doesn't know, I think, but that she is merely saying, "I am so in the present, dad, give me a break with your incessant need to know."
So we lit the menorah last night and Maya connected that with birthdays. We sang the blessings and she promptly blew out the candles.
"Bubbie Brayna!"
Monday, December 22, 2008
In The Beginning
Shhh! I am at work now, trying to sell luxury cars during a severe economic downturn, days before Christmas. So I might as well start writing when things are s-l-o-w.
Our son is spending the next ten days or so with family four hours south of us. It hit me last night that he won't be home for Hanukkah or Christmas this year. He's only 10, so I am not ready to abandon watching the sublime joy on his face as he opens and uses his holiday gifts. When he's in high school or college and only wants to spend time with his buddies and significant others, I will be prepared. But now he's still a kid.
Anyway, I had no legitimate reason to balk when he called me yesterday (while I was at work) and said somewhat meekly, "Dad, can I go to Uncle Marty's for vacation?"
"What did Mommy say?" I asked.
"She said to ask you."
Oh, thanks, Verna!
Later, when he and Marty stopped in to say goodbye, Marty said, "I didn't think you'd let him go."
What can I say? I've earned my reputation for being a neurotic Jewish mother. But the truth is if the ties are too tight, he will choke or suffocate and the subsequent resentment will fester.
And he will have a great time. He'll play with my niece and nephew: sports, computer games, movies, outings to the beach, more sports, dining, and all the rapid activities a large family can handle.
If he'd stayed here, while I was working most days and weekends, he'd have to compete with the tornado we call Maya, nearly three and as demanding and exciting and frustrating as any toddler. So he told Verna he wanted some peace and quiet, and now he's gone until just after the New Year.
Until then, I've had an involuntary glimpse into the future when he will choose more often than not to do things without us.
It's all about trust. I have to trust others to care for him. I have to trust Miguel to act wisely and graciously. And I have to trust that Verna and I have done pretty well with his foundation so far.
Our son is spending the next ten days or so with family four hours south of us. It hit me last night that he won't be home for Hanukkah or Christmas this year. He's only 10, so I am not ready to abandon watching the sublime joy on his face as he opens and uses his holiday gifts. When he's in high school or college and only wants to spend time with his buddies and significant others, I will be prepared. But now he's still a kid.
Anyway, I had no legitimate reason to balk when he called me yesterday (while I was at work) and said somewhat meekly, "Dad, can I go to Uncle Marty's for vacation?"
"What did Mommy say?" I asked.
"She said to ask you."
Oh, thanks, Verna!
Later, when he and Marty stopped in to say goodbye, Marty said, "I didn't think you'd let him go."
What can I say? I've earned my reputation for being a neurotic Jewish mother. But the truth is if the ties are too tight, he will choke or suffocate and the subsequent resentment will fester.
And he will have a great time. He'll play with my niece and nephew: sports, computer games, movies, outings to the beach, more sports, dining, and all the rapid activities a large family can handle.
If he'd stayed here, while I was working most days and weekends, he'd have to compete with the tornado we call Maya, nearly three and as demanding and exciting and frustrating as any toddler. So he told Verna he wanted some peace and quiet, and now he's gone until just after the New Year.
Until then, I've had an involuntary glimpse into the future when he will choose more often than not to do things without us.
It's all about trust. I have to trust others to care for him. I have to trust Miguel to act wisely and graciously. And I have to trust that Verna and I have done pretty well with his foundation so far.
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