mamasboys

[mamasboys]

A little bit of magic.

A few weeks ago, my seven-year-old told us he had a new imaginary friend, a penguin named Sensei Wang. 

He wrote a letter and dropped it in our mailbox, and lo and behold, a few days later, the letter had disappeared. What’s even more, dear readers, is that a few days after that, Kass went to get the mail, and inside the slot, was a bright red envelope with his name on it, written neatly in a silvery pen. 

Sensei Wang had written back. 

The joy on Kass’s face was indescribable. 

There have been other imaginary friends. Carl, who died an untimely death in an auto collision. There was Mittens the frog, and Ed and Ash, who still come around sometimes. But none had written letters. Until Sensei Wang.

Since then, our fearless little penguin has written more letters. They arrive every few days, each time in a newly colored envelope, but all addressed to Kass in the same silver pen, and never stamped. Because you don’t need stamps when it comes to dexterous, witty and unflappable penguins. Turns out, you don’t need anything more than a firm belief that the world can still be a magical place.

I do it because we all need a bit of magic these days, as trite or oversimplified as that sounds. ( I’d fucking kill for some, right about now.) My children are learning day by day that cruelty exists, that bad guys are out there, that things can turn on a dime. And I’d like to take their minds off of that, steer them clear, and restore their hope. And I do, in my own small ways. Like letters from imaginary friends. 

I do it because it takes 10 minutes out of my life. I do it because I'm a nerd. I do it to make up for things I am working on as a mother. Things that might never change. Case in point - I picked up the guinea pig this morning who grunted in annoyance, and wistfully I remarked “I don’t think Wallace likes me so much.” Without missing a beat, Kass replied “That’s because he remembers you as The Yeller.” It’s true; I have no indoor voice when it comes to getting my kids to eat/do homework/brush teeth/wipe their butts. Instead, I bark. But I also take time to channel my inner penguin. 

I do it because it’s easy, and fun, and the reward is priceless. The reward is my son’s faith that life can be full of wonderful surprises. Of course Kass already asked if I was the secret voice behind Sensei Wang, but he didn’t wait for or want an answer. I think we both know the truth, as it stands, with regards to the letters. But we’re both game, willing to suspend our disbelief. Every day, we wait for the mailman. We wait with giant grins on our faces. Because we owe it to ourselves. We owe ourselves some happiness, no matter where it comes from, or how it gets here. 

[mamasboys]

I Don’t Want My Sons To Be Assholes.

And it looks like they won’t be. Whew.

The summer is done. I can feel it. I can feel it in the cool breeze come sunset, in the way we wake up with a little bit of dread, and nostalgia pulling on our hearts. In the way my older son stared at the ceiling at 6:30 this morning, resigned fully now, that this summer, this best summer ever, has run its course.

I’ve said it before: I’m nervous my sons are growing up privileged. I’m nervous they will never appreciate the things they have, because they’ve always had them. I’m worried they will not struggle, or ache for security. It’s a dumb worry, a privileged person’s worry, but it weighs on me heavy. Please don’t be assholes when you grow up, please don’t be assholes. This is the thought that circles above my head like a vulture. This is what deems me a “tough” mom, a mom who raises her voice, puts down her foot, sends them to their room, takes stuff away. This thought is why i tell them stories of when I was young, and how I hungered in a strange new land, how I starved for attention, stability; how scared I was, and how resilient. 

A few weeks ago I had them pen essays about their summer. I wanted them to reflect on the amazing things we’d done and seen, and experienced. They sat down and wrote, begrudgingly at first, and then with pride and happiness. Important things were mentioned, and silly shit, lots of things omitted, because how much can a ten and seven year old chronicle. Hindsight is not a daily part of their thinking, and neither is retrospect, but we are trying. I am trying to instill something. And that something is gratitude. 

You’re so lucky, you know that right? 

I can’t begrudge them how good they have it, but I can keep reminding them.

Today, back from another round of travels, I had them write again. I will share their essays, because I am happy with the results. Because this summer and all its spoils has not spoiled or ruined them. :)

I suppose there are a few things one can do to not be an asshole. 

Respect and acknowledge differences.

Listen, and when you do, don’t interrupt. Really listen.

Say ‘thank you.’ Say it a lot. 

Share your feelings, even the complicated ones, but know that they won’t always be regarded, or understood.

Be generous. Be aware. Be creative. Be kind. Be grateful. Be honest.

Try hard, with all you might, over and over again, but accept that sometimes, things do not go the way we want. 

Follow the rules, but also follow your heart. 

There’s more, but if my kids can do that - just the human humane basics - then we will be ok.

Here are their essays.

(I think we’re ok. For now.)

[mamasboys]

us, leaving las vegas.

“Perhaps home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.” ― James Baldwin

I woke up first. Our six-year-old was breathing raspy, through his mouth, a sudden summer cold having taken hold of him. He’d been waking and crying all night, complaining of burning eyes and burning skin. I hated when he was sick, I got scared that it wasn’t congestion, but tuberculosis. I groped his neck, checking lymph nodes, tender spots. Because he was small, skinny, weightless, my baby now and forever, and every bump under his skin, every bruise on top, any slight imperfection (like that wart on his toe, what the fuck?) was glaring and frightening. But I was forty now, and hoped this kind of worrying would stop.

I’d gotten home at 1:15am, to find him in our bed, snuggled up against my husband’s broad back, asleep but tossing and turning. I’d gotten back to the hotel room, is what I should say, but home is always where the three of them are - my two sons, and Patrick.

The hotel room was ridiculous. A two-floor loft, fancy and spotless, with giant floor lamps that stood over us like glowing giants, and velvet blackout curtains adjusted via remote control. We paid too much money, but it was my birthday, my fortieth. There were two lofts, because there were twelve of us. Twelve people who really, really loved me.

I’d spent the evening throwing money to the wind, and walking my eighteen-year-old cousin up and down the strip, where we took selfies and stopped every so often in front of cooling stations - whirring fans that lambasted us with a cold mist. It was late, and the streets were alarmingly, amazingly crowded. We had to fight hard at every crosswalk to make it to the other side. Back at the MGM Grand, I found my husband, said goodnight my boys, who were worn out from a magic show, but so happy, despite their colds. I kissed their soft, warm faces, and went away to win the jackpot on Wheel of Fortune. Sure, sure. The concierge ladies nodded and smiled at me and my gold fanny pack, which held nothing but room key and cash. Have a nice night, Mrs. Wilson.

Extravagance like that is not a daily thing, but it is possible, and it is something I still struggle with. It represents what America has to offer, what Americans and immigrants can achieve if the stars line up - the beautiful overwhelming success that can happen with luck, hard work, and faith. Luxury is a word I am still making friends with, and when it surrounds me I react to it from a place of disbelief, gratitude, glee, and embarrassment. It’s a strange thing to be poor one day, and wealthy the next, even though we are not talking days but years. But I digress.

I woke up first, and padded around the suite, listening for coughing and sniffles, packing dirty underwear and socks, phone chargers, watching the sun rise over Las Vegas. The weekend had been wonderful and bizarre, as if lifted from an ordinary time and place. Like a dreamscape. Saturday night, I’d still been 39, and I wanted to hold onto that number for dear life. I was clinging ferociously, as much as I knew it was an impossible task. So I left the gaming floor, and came back to loft ninety-five, and cried a lot. 

But what the fuck was I crying about? 

It felt like there was a current carrying me far far away from my youth or something like that. I could sink, or let it wash me ashore. My sisters came upstairs at one point, trying to cajole me, to shake my shitty mood, but I shouted at them to leave me alone. What was so big and bad about forty, they wanted to know. Nothing, and everything.

When they left, disappointed and resigned, I ate a lot of Pringles and cried some more and then I heard my six-year-old stirring and whimpering. He’d woken up from a nightmare, and I ran to him. It made me feel like I’d made the right choice, stealing away from the frivolity of slot machines and the company of family who adored me, who just wanted me to drink and celebrate my milestone birthday like a grown-up, and not be a brat. My son needed me, turned out.  

I soothed him, smoothed his forehead, and then, after he’d fallen back asleep, I played solitaire in bed, on my iPhone. I was a hot mess but only for a moment. It was a part of me I would accept now.

I would turn 40 surrounded by my most favorite people in the world, in a city that was full of energy and hope and desperation. Facade and optimism. A lazy river, and frozen beverages in containers the size of small animals. The dry heat felt like we were dough, not sizzling, but baking like what happens to puff pastries. So hot, it quietly destroyed me.

My birthday was the twelve of us in one of the crazy lofts, laughing and stuffing our faces. There was a hilarious video made by loveliest friend, and thoughtful, gorgeous gifts -and a cake that was out of this world. (My husband, just a word on him though he deserves tomes - my husband is EVERYTHING.) My panic had passed. I welcomed the moment, and those flickering forty candles with a sense of humor and an overwhelming sense of being loved and cared for. 

In his card, the six-year-old had scrawled “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SENIOR SIDISIN.”

We left Las Vegas this morning, stuffed noses and clogged ears, ‘broke’ and happy and tired as fuck. I worried all weekend, because my sons had come down with fevers and sore throats, headaches. I worried because that’s what mothers do. All mothers worry; how we worry varies. I worry hard, and constantly. 

The flight was bumpy, but nobody seemed to care. The clouds looked like menacing whorls, like they would swallow our airplane in one gulp, and I couldn’t stop staring at them. Nothing seemed real. We landed hard, swaying and bucking. 

But we were home, so soon, and finally. 

[mamasboys]

Her name is Aria and she's my twelve year old niece. The only one I'll probably ever have and we're so close I won't pine for more. She's the kind of kid that parents brag about to their co-workers and friends, who think it's all bullshit until they actually meet them. She's the kind of kid who does her homework first before playing... who keeps the comedy station on her bedroom radio 24/7... who rolls her eyes at her role playing group's adult jokes... who cried over 1st grade Common Core questions even though she already understood the "stacking and carrying" method... who sports hipster short hot pink hair... who continues to believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy just because she wants to... who likes to pick my nose and bite me... who once cried and wanted to ground herself for saying the word "crap" while she was alone in her room... who decides that twelve is an appropriate age for her to start cussing... who loves to do park bench improvisation... who's too easy to raise... who's outgoing and sensitive... To have her in this family is such a blessing and I'm eager to see where she goes.

Before she was born, my sister and brother-in-law had already picked out her name. Her first was appropriated from a character in a fantasy book, the middle was inspired by her father's eccentric ex-girlfriend who accurately prophesied her untimely death (from a car accident), and the last is Polish and easily misspelled. However, my mom didn't want her first name being so unique, she didn't fear any infamous individual sharing her name, she feared the entertainment industries would adopt that name for their antagonists which could potentially hamper my niece's social life.

Surprise, surprise! With Eagle Eye, Pretty Little Liars (the show is hinting that Aria might be A), and My Little Pony Equestria Girls: Rainbow Rocks, it seems that her intuition was spot on this time. At least there's Aria the Scarlet Ammo and Game of Thrones (though it's spelled "Arya", also she has an Aunt Lysa which is kind of similar to mine, Lisa).

It's strange how this happened, and even if her name leaves a bad taste in others' mouths, I doubt it'll harm her. Back in 1st grade, she had a bully who harassed her for weeks. She finally said something along the lines of, "You've done this for a while, is it really that fun? How about we play together instead?" He took up her offer and they became friends. If she can remember her capacity to forgive and willingness to move forward, she'll be alright... if not, I'll teach her to enjoy the fine art of trolling trolls.

[mamasboys]

Tell Me No Lies.

EARLY MORNING CONFESSIONS

The world came crashing down. It started at 9:15am, just as I’d gotten out of the shower, and lasted about 12 minutes. 

My husband catches our two sons involved in a heated, hushed conversation as they sit shoulder to shoulder on the stairs. 

Kal: Just tell me. I’m your brother. Brothers share.

Kass: No! Those are my private thoughts. All the bad things I’ve done. 

Kal: Like what? Like WHAT?!

Kass: I’m not gonna tell you! Numbers, 3 and 5 and 7 are my especially BAD ones!

As we eavesdrop, interest is piqued. Bad what?

Here are a few fun facts about our almost-seven year old.

1. He’s the best.

2. He’s also the worst.

Almost-seven is a tough age to be, no matter what. It’s tougher when your older brother - who is impossibly handsome and tall and bright - seems to handle the world in stride. He doesn’t throw fits. He doesn’t have to punch pillows when the answer is no. And he has his own laptop. And whatever he has/does/thinks is usually FIRST. As in, before you. You lag behind, but lagging behind sucks so you do all you can to catch up, out-do and out-run. It’s not jealousy per say - although that happens too - but it’s more of a desperate attempt to mark territory, to stand next to rather than behind. 

I’m the oldest of three girls, so I don’t quite get it. My husband in the youngest of three boys, so he does. He has a soft spot for all things Kasjan. 

We tell Kal to go downstairs. We follow Kass into his room.

“What bad things, son? What bad things could you possibly have done?”

But he is crying, snot running out of his nose, face red kind of crying. Terror and anxiety, not the fake thing he does when someone tells him no more ice pops. Did he maim an animal? Does he think about wielding an axe? DOES IT INVOLVE POOP?

“So bad! And you’re going to be so so angry, mommy!”

“Listen to me, son. Even if you like killed a cat - but confessed to it - I’d be way less angry than if you killed a cat and somehow got away with it and didn't tell us. OK? Truth trumps crime. Always always tell us if there is something ‘bad’ you think you have done. As for thoughts - you are right. Thoughts are private, and they belong to you, and it’s great that you write them down in a special place. You can share them only if you want to. But let this be a test. Open your journal and read us the “bad things.” And see how we’ll react. Because I promise you we will react calmly and with love, and then we can talk about it.”

My husband solemnly nods his head in agreement and we give each other a mental high-five (#teamwork) The two of us, kneeling before our little boy, oh that eczema on his cheeks, those longest eyelashes, that tiny mouth turned down and trembling. 

Kasjan studies us, nods his head, wipes his face and opens up the cover of his VERY SECRET JOURNAL.

“Number three: sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and draw.”

“OK. That’s nothing. That’s kind of awesome.”

 A small pause. A small smile.

“Number five...This one is really bad...”

“It’s ok, Kassie. Look at us. It’s ok.”

“...Number five: sometimes I say the F word in my mind.”

“Ok. No big deal. Me too, by the way”

“Sometimes I say it out loud. But quietly.”

“Ok. Me too, by the way. A long as you don’t say it at someone or in school,  then it’s just a word that let’s you express some anger or emotion. Right?

“Yeah.”

Bigger smile. Relief.

“And what about number seven?”

“Oh that’s a just a thought. But. I lie a lot.”

“You do? Why? How?”

“I don’t know. I just lie a lot.”

“Well, please try not to.”

We shake on it, metaphorically speaking. I go back to putting on my make-up, and my husband goes back to writing his script, and Kasjan goes downstairs to pour himself some cereal. Kal is less relentless now, but still bartering to be let in on the big bad truth. He cops to his own recent crime - looking up “how to get kissed” on a YouTube channel. At this admission we have a quick chat about online safety (even though his devices are fully on “restricted” mode) and kissing itself. “When it comes to kissing, know only this, son - it’s a really fun thing to do when you are older, with someone who wants to kiss you back.”

Then I go to the doctor where I get diagnosed with an ear infection. Awesome.

Of course I wanted to ask my youngest son what he lies about. What could his lies entail at this age? Flossing? Eating his vegetables? Stealing his brother’s mints? They must be small, innocuous things his mind comes up with - private thoughts he keeps to himself that somehow he equates with LYING. It’s not the same thing, and we will most likely go back to this topic, and discuss the beauty and danger of keeping certain truths to ourselves. I know his thoughts are probably the only things he has pure and total ownership of, and like I said at almost-seven, that is very important. To have something no one else can control or touch or shape or take away. But honesty is vital. It is something I hope and trust he will figure out by himself, as he stumbles along in life. At this age, though, it’s crucial to steer and guide, to point out the things he CANNOT keep to himself - if someone hurts you, if you witness someone being hurtful, if you steal, or cheat, get in trouble at school, or make someone cry. I must teach him that certain lies become burdens weighing us down, till our heads and hearts hang low and we burrow inside ourselves...

I never lied to my parents and yet, looking back, I ‘lied’ all the time because they never asked. They didn't ask about my thoughts, my feelings, my misgivings, my small helpless meaningless or meaningful “crimes.” My bad stuff was minuscule, but nobody seemed to wonder or worry about it. 

I wish they’d asked something.

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” - Oscar Wilde

So talk to your children about honesty, privacy and lying - and the complicated difference between the three. Make sure your kids understand that they can tell you anything at all...no matter what. 

[mamasboys]

Charting Summer

So I’m going to preface this post by mentioning something important - as of now I have no day job. Nor do I need one. My husband is not away working on film. We have enough money to be able to have a summer like this - both parents at home, planning vacations and/or spontaneous getaways. There is no office to go to, no childcare to fret about. We worked hard to have this kind of life, and also we’ve been very lucky. 

“What separates privilege from entitlement is gratitude.” Brene Brown

Once in a blue moon, the whole “I’m an artist” thing pans out and allows for a cushy, secure life. I am well aware that a lot of mothers cannot mentally or financially afford to wake up mid-week, sip coffee and blog about keeping the kids busy all summer. But this is my life right now. I still find myself having to justify it, or feeling guilty about it, especially because I started out in life with close to nothing. But such awareness also makes way for gratitude like you wouldn’t believe. I pinch myself daily, hourly. A constant thought in the back of my head, in the depths and shallows of my heart: we are so lucky we are so thankful. 

I take nothing for granted. 

Right now, the kids, having slept till 10:30am, are eating cereal and watching a movie on their iPad. My husband, having folded a load of laundry, is in his office working on a script. The dogs are in the yard waiting for a squirrel to fuck up. Outside my window loom giant oak trees and an empty, quiet street. Once in awhile a car drives by, and I look up and let my mind wander. The breeze comes and goes, the sun shines and disappears behind an errant cloud. And I am still in my pajamas. I could tell you about family drama, and things that have gone wrong, are wrong, but compared to what is happening in the world, all my shit pales, it’s drivel, the kind of problems that can get solved and resolved. Because the truth is, for the time being - 

Our summer days are glorious. 

In the midst of all this laid-back living, last week I started a chart thing, to make sure my grateful, lucky kids don’t turn into fucking zombies.

This is the chart. 

The chart has no name but if it did it would be called THINGS I CAN DO AS A HUMAN BEING THAT DON’T INVOLVE A HAND-HELD DEVICE.

It works like this.

Three Xs and you can go on electronics for 30 minutes. When the 30 minutes is up, another three Xs must happen. I love this chart because week two and it seems to be working. In the past, we’ve done chore charts, good-behavior charts, allowance charts but after a few days of gung-ho euphoria and good intentions, we get lazy and basically screw the chart. Recently, I saw an article online about how a mom sets boundaries with regards to multimedia and her kids and she shared a similar list and I loved the idea and promptly ‘borrowed’ it. 

(Last week our chart was marked up with a shitload of Xs so don’t judge this one. It’s only been up for a few days.)

I love the chart and also, I hate it. Because when my sixty-two-year old blue-collar Polish mom comes over, she laughs at it. “You care too much. They just kids.” It makes me question if the chart is for THEM or for ME. To make me feel like an invested, present parent. Busywork, to make up for my so called privileged life. You can be all kinds of 'parent' and skate by but the worst is to be called a lazy one. 

There were no charts back when I was growing up. There was only two things - watch TV or play outside. Otherwise my parents led their adult lives, not worried about what my sisters and I were up to. ‘Go do something’ was not followed by a list of titillating, educating, creative possibilities. It was just that - a tired, point-blank order.

What’s better or worse? I don’t know. I only know what makes sense for us. I suppose that’s the key to any kind of parenting.

I’m a girl. So when my mom ordered me to do something I would play with my Barbies, or drag my sisters into playing School (so fun to sit criss-cross-applesauce on the floor while I read out a roster of made-up American names in a haughty teacher voice and my sisters would raise their hands twenty-five times and call out “Here! Here!” and then they’d take written tests I’d created and I would get to mark them with a red pen, the end .) I would color, or draw, or write in my journal or just eat watermelon by the spoonful on my bed and READ. It was good, it was fine, it was summer. There were no electronics, or battery-operated toys (but when we got a Speak n' Spell, it was a game changer.)

I have boys. And like it or not, boys are different and keeping them occupied is a chore. We do have a yard and for the most part, we let them loose in it. They have sports-related props and a trampoline and a swimming pool and all that jazz, but so help me God, if they could, they’d EAT their iPads so that the iPads and them could be united forever.

So. I gotta do the chart. And it’s working.

Sometimes all the planning goes out the window, and the best kind of teachable moments happen by accident, in the blink of an eye. Last week, at 7pm, we got in the car, and drove into Greenpoint, Brooklyn and went to a bar that was set up on a barge on the East River. Around us, life thrummed, music blasted. Hip, scruffy, tattooed thirtysomethings sat at wooden tables and downed pale ales, while the Manhattan skyline twinkled like a movie backdrop. It was awesome. I got tipsy on rum. The boys ran around, invigorated by being out at night in a place that was crowded and urban and cool. I spotted only one other child - he belonged to a French woman who wore a loose camisole, no bra, and stained harem-pants. She spoke French and smoked cigarettes right in front of him. For a moment, I thought wow I’m almost as cool as this glamorously dirty European. :)

We drove home to the sleepy suburbs at 11:30pm, exhausted and bleary-eyed, and thoroughly happy with our adventure. The boys fell asleep in the car, like in the olden days. 

SO THIS WEEK

Go somewhere with you kids that you haven’t gone. Someplace that kids don’t usually frequent. Show them a different slice of life, one that will surprise them. Show them what it means when a parent can still feel care-free and young.

[mamasboys]

Mothers & Sons.

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I had no idea if I was carrying a boy or a girl. My mother told me there are so few surprises left in life. She was so wrong and so right.  

When we got back from the doctor’s - trembling with fear and excitement, two young people in love (God how I miss those young people who used to have sex five times a day and sleep till noon) I immediately started a journal for said child. I wrote earnest, longing things like this - 

“I want you to be fearless. I want you to be courageous and sympathetic - a good kid. Big, passionate heart, curious and hungry mind. And don’t be afraid. And love yourself.”

The child turned out to be a boy. A gorgeous little baby boy who once shit in the bathtub, and changed my life forever. Later, I got pregnant again. This time, we wanted to know - boy or girl? When the nurse pointed out a blurry speck she swore was a penis, I cried. Like, not in a good way. 

Two boys? Fuck. Two boys. 

Now, years later - light years it seems, eons -  Kal is newly 10 and Kasjan is almost 7. They are special and also ordinary. They are beautiful, compliant, and complicated. They are everything I ever dreamed of and yet nothing like I imagined. 

Kal obsesses over sneaker brands, magic tricks, crushes, grades, and staying up late. His goal in life is to kiss a girl and own an iPhone. 

Kasjan feeds his fish on a daily basis, reads like a champion, is working on building a time machine, and likes to urinate in things like sandboxes and trash cans. 

Kal is kind, sensitive, persistent, and recently asked me what exactly is inside his “balls.”

Kasjan cannot poop without his iPad. 

Welcome to boys.

I am a hands-on mother who is wary of helicopter parenting, and yet can’t quite loosen her grip. We talk about feelings here. We read. We do crafts. I value arts and education over travel football (Sorry, Kal.) I think today’s parents invest too much time, effort & money worrying about their sons’ future careers and athletic prowess and not enough time, effort & money nurturing things like arts, music, dance, writing, emotional expression. These things are also viable and valid. Exposure to these things will not hinder your future quarterback or CEO. (Listen to the soundtrack of Hamilton and dare to tell me otherwise.) When was the last time you painted with your son, or talked to him about what it feels like to fall in love? It is just as important to discuss empathy and equality with our boys, or show them how music is made, or to read them a story, as it is to teach them how to ride a bike or throw a ball. (I mean, that stuff is good too. That stuff is great. But let’s not go crazy.)

I grew up as an immigrant kid in housing projects in Flatbush, Brooklyn, oldest daughter of two people who never went to college and who worked their asses off to put food on the table. I grew up without an allowance, or coddling. I grew up with a father who drank, and a mother who cleaned houses for a living. My sons are growing up in a big, beautiful house in an affluent, suburban town In New Jersey. They are growing up privileged and tended to - daddy is a “movie star” and mom can afford to write novels and shop online. This is both amazing and a blessing, and yet somehow, it scares the crap out of me because I cannot relate to their childhood. Because on some days, truth be told, I resent their childhood. 

Any yet.

I buy my sons too much shit. I yell at them too much. I love them too hard. I let them go on iPads when I want to watch Real Housewives of Dallas. I worry about their headaches and coughs. Like WebMD-at-midnight worry. I wipe their tears and tell them it’s brave when boys cry. I make sure they respect their teachers. I send them to Polish school on Saturdays. I spoil them. I cuddle them. I make them read a book every single day. I am good cop, bad cop, moody cop. I am scared they will become entitled adults. I am scared they will live in fear when they learn about past & present atrocities. They don’t know about Sandy Hook. They don’t know that two planes flew into the World Trade Center. They know wars happen. They see homeless people. They love their toys and gadgets but they are beautifully generous. When I cry, they tell me it’s ok. When I tell them stories of my strange, tough youth, they listen with wide eyes. They are curious about bad guys. They believe in the good guys. They believe in Santa Claus. Even the 10 year old. They are unsullied, innocent, full of hope and optimism. But they are starting to ask the difficult things. 

Why does death happen? Can kids get cancer? What does it mean when a girl is ‘on her period’? Why are there terrorists? Why do some people not like gay people? Are we “rich?” They want to know about race, religion, injustice, Instagram. I want to answer them as profoundly and honestly as I can without sending them into a tailspin, or to the gallows of the Internet. I want them to stay little forever and then I want them to grow up into spectacularly decent men. How the hell do I do that? 

So many blogs, sites, chat rooms, theories, experts, coaches. And yet it is possible to still feel so incredibly alone and isolated in our experience as mothers. Talking to each other helps, more than anything. Talking freely, openly, willing to be judged, and owning up to judging others. Because we sure as hell do that, and that’s probably never going to change. So let’s be honest about it. Sometimes, it’s easier with strangers. It’s easier to spill the beans about how scared and unsure we are of ourselves. Let’s be pen pals, moms. 

A few more facts.

I was born in Poland in 1976. I am married to an actor. I have two sisters. I quit smoking last October. I’m afraid of bees, deadly illnesses with no apparent symptoms, and heights. My parents are divorced. My marriage works. I am spitfire, loud, I come out swinging. I speak my mind but must work on delivery. My husband is steady, unwavering, calm. He isn’t afraid of affection, or speaking softly, or weighing outcomes. He likes it when the boys say ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ I like it when they tell an off-color joke. The boys are wise to us. They’re getting good at understanding that we are only human, awesomely imperfect beings, who tell small lies, and let the dishes pile up sometimes. I watch them glean and parse, stockpile, and question our behaviors and examples. I watch them watching us. What a task and adventure; to have only been alive for 10 and 7 years and have to deal. Mysteries unraveling before their eyes. Every day, every hour. It’s miraculous to watch.

Kal & Kasjan (it’s Polish, the j pronounced like a y) are living proof of what happens when two people marry for love. That love comes in handy on days when somebody scotch-tapes their fingertips and blood stops flowing and the waiter asks us if everything is alright and do we need “a sharper knife” because suddenly the kid is yelling that his ‘skin can’t breathe.’ (I used my teeth, by the way, and carefully bit off all of the tape from Kas’s fingers, and then everything was fine again, and that’s the last time we are allowed to sneak our own roll of tape to dinner because we just learned a cool ‘disappearing’ toothpick trick on YouTube.)

The world is seemingly more and more an ugly & unpredictable place, run rampant by greedy, ignorant, unkind, angry men. Raising our sons right means we are also looking out for the girls out there, the ones we know, or read about, the ones we’ll one day meet. It isn’t easy, it isn’t over-night and it starts with tiny, hard-earned lessons, baby steps. There’s always the risk that no matter what we do, our sons will stray, they will break. But we must try. So that our boys might one day grow up and make this world beautiful and safe again. Or that at least they’ll want to try.

“Tell me and I forget, teach me and I may remember, involve me and I learn” - Benjamin Franklin

THIS WEEK - do something with your son you’ve never done before. It can be a small thing, like reading a poem together, or going on a walk, or looking through a photo album, or letting him fix you a sandwich. Ask him something you’ve never asked him before. You might both learn something.

So that’s why this blog. Feel free to respond anytime with questions, tips, anecdotes, frustrations, humblebrags, or even selfies.

LOVE DAG