At some point or another I’ve started noticing little bits of me filtering into each of my kids. For instance Callum has my sense of humour (lucky, lucky boy), Jack has inherited my particular talent of tripping over nothing and breaking limbs (not so lucky boy) and Nathan - well, neither Nathan nor I seem to have a real sense of social boundaries. Things like close talking, or leaving enough ‘dance space’. Or just plain old too much talking. And Ben? Ben…has inherited my nose. Which is not a bad thing.
Ben is my second oldest boy, neither youngest nor oldest nor even officially middle. He is kind and handsome and thoughtful. And he is the one son of mine of whom I have felt the least sure. It isn’t that we aren’t close to each other - or at least, I hope it isn’t about that. I love Ben as much as the other boys with the same sort of singular list I carry in my heart for each of them, a list that will always be theirs and theirs alone. The problem isn’t loving him enough; no, my problem lies in getting him enough. In becoming more sure than I am now.
I am not a brilliant woman (I can actually feel you all nodding in agreement and I will try not to hold it against you). I am smart enough, funny enough and (sometimes) kind enough. Ben is a brilliant boy. He is single minded in his pursuits, of which there are many. Whereas I have a few pursuits which I forget about once there’s a good show or book in front of me. Ben is one of those people that can quote parts of the dictionary to you, can bend over a creek and watch the same fish go by for hours until his slender little back is burnt in the sun, who bounces a basketball a thousand times in a row until it bounces the way he wants it to. He would eat the same meal for dinner (meatballs in sauce, mashed potatoes and carrots) every single night and wear the same Led Zeppelin t-shirt, shorts and shoes every day. I can barely make it through one meal without wanting something different.
Our one saving grace seems to be his quirkiness - thank God because that’s all I’ve got. Quirks. When he was a little boy he was deathly - DEATHLY - afraid of flies. If one landed near him he was inconsolable for hours. He is almost irrationally emotional, and I too have had a moment or two of overwhelming emotion. A day. When we bake together he ties his apron - yes, he will wear an apron for me and how great is that? - tightly and trimly around his middle. He also likes to wear robes and slippers. I don’t, but I really love that he does - and I especially love that he walks around in said robe and slippers and hums to himself just like my Grandpa used to. It’s different and precious.
I must admit that there have been times when I have felt judged by Ben. He is very - moral. And I don’t mean to make that seem like a bad thing. I’m glad he has a fine sense of morals. I just wish he wouldn’t use them against me. Like the time I got a speeding ticket (or would have if I hadn’t cried my eyes out until the policeman, terrified, told me to ‘just go’.) and Ben looked at me with censure in his eyes, muttering “You’re a really bad driver, Mom.” I’m really not. Or every once in a while he will catch my mother and I gossiping in the kitchen with a glass of wine - not that we do that very often. He will look at us with this sort of world-weary impatience and ask “Who are you two talking about THIS time?”. We usually stop then. Or go red, or both. Because we don’t want to look bad in his eyes. Especially since he is almost always such an incredibly ‘good’ boy. Such a good boy, in fact, that when he feels like being a ‘bad’ boy he feels a sort of justification. “I deserve this”, his eyes will say to me as he slowly beats his younger brother to a pulp. “I am really good a lot of the time and you need to give me this moment to act out.” Which I never do.
Here’s the thing - a lot of the time it’s true, I don’t really get Ben. I don’t share a lot of his interests or many of his passions. I don’t see a lot of myself in him. But at the end of the day I think it’s really okay. I think the wanting to get him is as important as actually getting him. Being proud of who he is, letting him become even more of who he’ll be every time I encourage him or just allow him to be. Especially when who he’ll be, I’m certain, is better than me.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Back waxing????
Summer is coming, and pretty soon we’ll all be seeing a lot more of each other. In more ways than one. As all of my magazines keep reminding me, we won’t be able to hide behind long dark yards of clothes any more. Which really has me thinking about only two things. I need to start back into my half-hearted yoga regimen pretty soon. And, perhaps even more importantly, all of the men out there need to start waxing their backs. Seriously.
I don’t think it should be a legislative issue at this point, although any candidate who might want to add this matter to their platform would certainly have my support. It’s just that - I think male back-waxing should be a sort of assumption at this stage of the game. Like anti-perspirant or after shave. Hey, if about 95% of women are willing to shave their legs every second day BARE MINIMUM, there should be nary a man out there who still makes us suffer through the hair patches, hair vest, hair shirt, hair coat or the Wookie. It’s really just a question of common courtesy. And in my opinion back-waxing is the very least you can do (I’d also like to eradicate the speedo and the sandals with socks, but those are other columns for other days).
Here’s the thing; every woman out there -and I really mean pretty much EVERY woman - is primping in some way or another. Even if it’s just moisturizing or blow-drying your hair it’s primping. Most of us, of course, have signed up for the more intense primping programs. Like pedicures, manicures, highlights, lowlights, makeovers, make-unders, self tanners, eyelash curlers…and the list goes on. A lot of these things are wonderfully soothing but some are…well. I don’t want to scare any of the men off with wax horror stories. Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face.
Even someone like me, someone who is seen out in public in flavoured chapstick and a pony tail most days. It may seem like a bit of a blank page at first glance. But really, if you only knew the upkeep that needs to go on behind the scenes. It’s not a blank page, it’s more like a plain dust jacket for a really long novel. Because looking basically decent is a far cry from basic.
In the last few years I think most of us have become familiar with a new phenomenon called the ‘metro-sexual’. For those of you who don’t know, it’s basically men who primp. A lot of regular Joes out there tend to disparage this lot as effeminate or ridiculous or foolish. The truth is, I think the metro-sexual makes the regular Joe a little nervous. I think there are a few men who don’t want this particular cat let out of it’s huge bag. Because we women are a pretty accepting group for the most part (now, now, fellas, don’t snicker). So it takes you about two hours to get ready for a party and it takes him three minutes to put on that outfit you laid out for him, so what? So what if he never shaves on the weekends, wears the same dirty baseball cap to dinner that he wore to mow the lawn, that his favourite outfit is worn boxer shorts and a dirty t-shirt? Scruff is adorable, right? Well, maybe not. Maybe these other men, the ones who smell unbelievably wonderful, who’s outfits are probably even better than anything you would have chosen, maybe they’re on to something. Scruff is fine and dandy, but what if? With a little work and a little consideration, what if you could make your fella look better, and cleaner, and even smell prettier? So far the men have had it pretty darn easy. But I sense there may be a change a-comin’.
Here it is, fellas. I’m really doing you a favour in the long run. Think about the few seconds of minute - well, considerable; okay, excruciating pain balanced against the reward. Think about how great you’ll look at the beach this summer. Or how appreciative the lady in your life will be if you comply…nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And hey, nobody’s asking you to give up being manly. Especially not me. Body hair is great on a man, neigh on indispensable. There’s nothing like a little five o’clock shadow, some hairy forearms or slightly furry legs. We want you to be men, after all. Just men with nice, smooth backs. And possibly moisturized feet. Who smell great. And have neatly trimmed nails…
I don’t think it should be a legislative issue at this point, although any candidate who might want to add this matter to their platform would certainly have my support. It’s just that - I think male back-waxing should be a sort of assumption at this stage of the game. Like anti-perspirant or after shave. Hey, if about 95% of women are willing to shave their legs every second day BARE MINIMUM, there should be nary a man out there who still makes us suffer through the hair patches, hair vest, hair shirt, hair coat or the Wookie. It’s really just a question of common courtesy. And in my opinion back-waxing is the very least you can do (I’d also like to eradicate the speedo and the sandals with socks, but those are other columns for other days).
Here’s the thing; every woman out there -and I really mean pretty much EVERY woman - is primping in some way or another. Even if it’s just moisturizing or blow-drying your hair it’s primping. Most of us, of course, have signed up for the more intense primping programs. Like pedicures, manicures, highlights, lowlights, makeovers, make-unders, self tanners, eyelash curlers…and the list goes on. A lot of these things are wonderfully soothing but some are…well. I don’t want to scare any of the men off with wax horror stories. Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face.
Even someone like me, someone who is seen out in public in flavoured chapstick and a pony tail most days. It may seem like a bit of a blank page at first glance. But really, if you only knew the upkeep that needs to go on behind the scenes. It’s not a blank page, it’s more like a plain dust jacket for a really long novel. Because looking basically decent is a far cry from basic.
In the last few years I think most of us have become familiar with a new phenomenon called the ‘metro-sexual’. For those of you who don’t know, it’s basically men who primp. A lot of regular Joes out there tend to disparage this lot as effeminate or ridiculous or foolish. The truth is, I think the metro-sexual makes the regular Joe a little nervous. I think there are a few men who don’t want this particular cat let out of it’s huge bag. Because we women are a pretty accepting group for the most part (now, now, fellas, don’t snicker). So it takes you about two hours to get ready for a party and it takes him three minutes to put on that outfit you laid out for him, so what? So what if he never shaves on the weekends, wears the same dirty baseball cap to dinner that he wore to mow the lawn, that his favourite outfit is worn boxer shorts and a dirty t-shirt? Scruff is adorable, right? Well, maybe not. Maybe these other men, the ones who smell unbelievably wonderful, who’s outfits are probably even better than anything you would have chosen, maybe they’re on to something. Scruff is fine and dandy, but what if? With a little work and a little consideration, what if you could make your fella look better, and cleaner, and even smell prettier? So far the men have had it pretty darn easy. But I sense there may be a change a-comin’.
Here it is, fellas. I’m really doing you a favour in the long run. Think about the few seconds of minute - well, considerable; okay, excruciating pain balanced against the reward. Think about how great you’ll look at the beach this summer. Or how appreciative the lady in your life will be if you comply…nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And hey, nobody’s asking you to give up being manly. Especially not me. Body hair is great on a man, neigh on indispensable. There’s nothing like a little five o’clock shadow, some hairy forearms or slightly furry legs. We want you to be men, after all. Just men with nice, smooth backs. And possibly moisturized feet. Who smell great. And have neatly trimmed nails…
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Mother's Day
This Sunday is Mother’s Day. Now did everyone read that perfectly clearly? This Sunday is MOTHER’S DAY! It’s a day for us, the moms. Not that we care, naturally. No, seriously, it’s fine if you just call. Or drop in if you have a minute. It’s not as though we should figure into your plans, what with having given birth to you and raised you and all. A card would be nice, but only if you really want to give us a card. You don’t have to, though. Do whatever is in your heart. The heart we gave you.
I’ve been a Mom for - what? - about thirteen Mother’s Days. I remember my first one like it was yesterday. Callum was about four months old and his Dad and I were out at the mall shopping. Normally I’m not really a ‘gift hoarder’ if you will, but I figured I was in for a pretty good haul this year. Between the breast-feeding and diaper changing and the loss of my misspent youth, I calculated that I would be in for a whole outfit - shoes included - at least, maybe even a dinner out at a restaurant besides Wendy’s. My fella went for a ‘wander’ around the mall (in the general vicinity of the Gap! Yeah!) and called out for me to pick up a card for his Mom while I was getting a card for my Mom.
That’s right. I hadn’t really figured on this Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday) being his first as well. He got his Mother a card, a few flowers and a plate of Weiner Schnitzel at the local German eatery. I got a takeout container. We broke up a few years later. I still swear that had nothing to do with it.
As the years have passed the boys have grown and each year they find a new way to surprise me. Not always pleasantly - like the year after my divorce when Mother’s Day sort of snuck up on us and we sat around, startled, for the entire day not knowing what to do, or the infamous year when one of them (and I won‘t say who) asked why I got 2 special days in a year. Uh-huh. - but usually they can be counted on for some enforced thoughtfulness. They try to fight a little less, stay a bit cleaner, recognize my ‘beauty’ as best they can without gagging. I love every saccharine sweet second of it. I love Nathan’s bouquets of dandelions wilting in a mug of warm water on my kitchen sink, the soggy overflowing bowl of Cap’n Crunch Jack serves me in bed, Ben’s Popsicle stick framed class photo, with his usual sweet poem, the delicate stained glass butterfly Callum made for my bedroom. I love every unselfish moment of Mother’s Day. Which is this Sunday.
Now here is the question of the day - how do you go about being a pampered Mom on Mother’s Day and still manage to be a good daughter? You see, this is a tough one in my case because I have two brothers who just sort of…suck at Mother’s Day. And birthdays. And Christmas. And Groundhog Day. So it falls to me to make a decent go of it for Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday). I don’t mind, really. Actually, I don’t mind at all. She certainly deserves it. It’s just that…sometimes, when I’m in her kitchen and my sons are in the backyard playing while her sons are on their you-know-whats watching football or whatever, waiting for their dinner to be prepared and served to them on a silver platter, I can’t help but think;
“Why am I the one in the kitchen sautéing the bleep-bleep mushrooms for the steaks? I’m a mother too, darn it! I want to be pampered! Wahh, wahh!”
But you know what? My mother does a million tiny and huge things that help me be the wonderful mother I undoubtedly am (right?). Like cutting up watermelon for those darn litter-less lunches, buying me that blouse she knows I can’t afford, taking me for pedicures, doing the dishes while she forces me to have a bubble bath, telling me I ‘deserve better’ (this applies to soo many situations, believe you me). And what am I doing for her? Well, I did bring her a really nice bottle of wine…okay fine. I’ll keep the petulant whining down to a minimum this year. Because she’s a great Mom, who doesn’t always know that she’s a great Mom and who helps me to be a sort-of great Mom. But next year, I think we should go sans-men to some sort of fantastic spa for Mother’s Day.
Which is this Sunday. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
I’ve been a Mom for - what? - about thirteen Mother’s Days. I remember my first one like it was yesterday. Callum was about four months old and his Dad and I were out at the mall shopping. Normally I’m not really a ‘gift hoarder’ if you will, but I figured I was in for a pretty good haul this year. Between the breast-feeding and diaper changing and the loss of my misspent youth, I calculated that I would be in for a whole outfit - shoes included - at least, maybe even a dinner out at a restaurant besides Wendy’s. My fella went for a ‘wander’ around the mall (in the general vicinity of the Gap! Yeah!) and called out for me to pick up a card for his Mom while I was getting a card for my Mom.
That’s right. I hadn’t really figured on this Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday) being his first as well. He got his Mother a card, a few flowers and a plate of Weiner Schnitzel at the local German eatery. I got a takeout container. We broke up a few years later. I still swear that had nothing to do with it.
As the years have passed the boys have grown and each year they find a new way to surprise me. Not always pleasantly - like the year after my divorce when Mother’s Day sort of snuck up on us and we sat around, startled, for the entire day not knowing what to do, or the infamous year when one of them (and I won‘t say who) asked why I got 2 special days in a year. Uh-huh. - but usually they can be counted on for some enforced thoughtfulness. They try to fight a little less, stay a bit cleaner, recognize my ‘beauty’ as best they can without gagging. I love every saccharine sweet second of it. I love Nathan’s bouquets of dandelions wilting in a mug of warm water on my kitchen sink, the soggy overflowing bowl of Cap’n Crunch Jack serves me in bed, Ben’s Popsicle stick framed class photo, with his usual sweet poem, the delicate stained glass butterfly Callum made for my bedroom. I love every unselfish moment of Mother’s Day. Which is this Sunday.
Now here is the question of the day - how do you go about being a pampered Mom on Mother’s Day and still manage to be a good daughter? You see, this is a tough one in my case because I have two brothers who just sort of…suck at Mother’s Day. And birthdays. And Christmas. And Groundhog Day. So it falls to me to make a decent go of it for Mother’s Day (which is this Sunday). I don’t mind, really. Actually, I don’t mind at all. She certainly deserves it. It’s just that…sometimes, when I’m in her kitchen and my sons are in the backyard playing while her sons are on their you-know-whats watching football or whatever, waiting for their dinner to be prepared and served to them on a silver platter, I can’t help but think;
“Why am I the one in the kitchen sautéing the bleep-bleep mushrooms for the steaks? I’m a mother too, darn it! I want to be pampered! Wahh, wahh!”
But you know what? My mother does a million tiny and huge things that help me be the wonderful mother I undoubtedly am (right?). Like cutting up watermelon for those darn litter-less lunches, buying me that blouse she knows I can’t afford, taking me for pedicures, doing the dishes while she forces me to have a bubble bath, telling me I ‘deserve better’ (this applies to soo many situations, believe you me). And what am I doing for her? Well, I did bring her a really nice bottle of wine…okay fine. I’ll keep the petulant whining down to a minimum this year. Because she’s a great Mom, who doesn’t always know that she’s a great Mom and who helps me to be a sort-of great Mom. But next year, I think we should go sans-men to some sort of fantastic spa for Mother’s Day.
Which is this Sunday. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Sun Times Column May 1st
There are a few things I’m good at, and quite a few at which I’m not so great. I make a fantastic pumpkin loaf, have excellent taste in scented candles and possess a natural instinct for when a show will be cancelled. Survivor is my next bet. The list of things at which I am not so accomplished - well, this isn’t the day for that particular list. But if there is one accomplishment I have mastered it is this - I am an excellent third wheel. Impressive, no?
You may ask, who in their right mind would want to master such a lost art? Well, I’ll tell you. Some of us who have remained single for an almost obscene amount of time need to integrate. Girls nights are fun, and giggly and full of wine and cheese and all of that, but they’re limited. Eventually, especially if you move in tiny social circles as I do myself, you must learn to ingratiate yourself with the male of the species. In my experience, some beer and any foods with melted cheeses should have you well on your way. But to be a welcome addition to a couple - it requires finesse, my friend.
You can’t seem too clingy to either male or female. Or dominate the conversation - or seem like a victim. We‘ve gotten a bad rap over the years, we third wheels- there is an instant resentment that you must beat down with wit and charm. But there’s value in what we do, really. A good third wheel will always be on her (or his) best behaviour, always pick up the slack in a dull conversation, always encourage you to get along. As with everything else there are rules that should be adhered to if done right. You must choose your ‘dates’ carefully. No Friday nights, because that’s real date night. No New Year’s Eve, because that’s just terribly sad (believe me, I know.). Obviously no Valentine’s Day, but I tend to be busy eating a lot of fine chocolate and drinking a lot of cheap wine that night. I recently had to attend a family wedding with a couple - not because there wasn’t a date of my own to be had, but because I would not subject a virtual stranger to such a McGuire-dense event. It would scare away the normals. The three of us ended up sharing a hotel room - not in a dirty way - so that meant that my friend and I were able to get ready together, laughing and primping like we did when we were girls and needed much less primping. And her adorable husband lay on his bed smiling, enjoying this rare glimpse into the secret life of girl-talk.
What on earth is the appeal for the man in all of this? Well, said husband told me that night, actually, that it was an ego boost. He said that he gets to take two beautiful women to the wedding (aw, shucks) and that we are both in such good moods that we’re more fun to be around. Personally, I suspect it also has something to do with the attention. Whenever I’m out with a girlfriend and her husband, every little kindness is amplified and praised. Like a precious only chid of two doting parents. When he holds the door for us, fetches a glass of wine, gallantly offers to pay for dinner, we both smile and say thank you, and isn’t it nice that chivalry, in fact, is not dead? He’s such a good boy! Also, our conversations are different from the ones he probably has with his friends. With us, he can talk about his emotionally unavailable father, or his upcoming knee surgery or his overstuffed Christmas list. Or the time he cried for hours when his dog died. Or how much he secretly hates hockey (you’d be surprised, my friend, how many times I’ve heard that). He gets to be ‘one of the girls’ for the night.
As for me? You’re probably thinking ‘Why bother?’. Well, I’m not much of a dater, and in a way this is sort of like fake dating. It’s a way of staying connected but still separate. A glimpse into the men my boys could very well grow into - what are they like? What do they worry about? What makes them happy? How much do they love their moms? Seriously, what the heck is with the fascination with video games? I get answers to questions I can’t ask the boys (When did you start to like girls? When is it normal to need more alone time? Why must they wrestle to convey every emotion?), and I get to keep great friends close and make a few great new friends in the process. Ain’t life grand?
You may ask, who in their right mind would want to master such a lost art? Well, I’ll tell you. Some of us who have remained single for an almost obscene amount of time need to integrate. Girls nights are fun, and giggly and full of wine and cheese and all of that, but they’re limited. Eventually, especially if you move in tiny social circles as I do myself, you must learn to ingratiate yourself with the male of the species. In my experience, some beer and any foods with melted cheeses should have you well on your way. But to be a welcome addition to a couple - it requires finesse, my friend.
You can’t seem too clingy to either male or female. Or dominate the conversation - or seem like a victim. We‘ve gotten a bad rap over the years, we third wheels- there is an instant resentment that you must beat down with wit and charm. But there’s value in what we do, really. A good third wheel will always be on her (or his) best behaviour, always pick up the slack in a dull conversation, always encourage you to get along. As with everything else there are rules that should be adhered to if done right. You must choose your ‘dates’ carefully. No Friday nights, because that’s real date night. No New Year’s Eve, because that’s just terribly sad (believe me, I know.). Obviously no Valentine’s Day, but I tend to be busy eating a lot of fine chocolate and drinking a lot of cheap wine that night. I recently had to attend a family wedding with a couple - not because there wasn’t a date of my own to be had, but because I would not subject a virtual stranger to such a McGuire-dense event. It would scare away the normals. The three of us ended up sharing a hotel room - not in a dirty way - so that meant that my friend and I were able to get ready together, laughing and primping like we did when we were girls and needed much less primping. And her adorable husband lay on his bed smiling, enjoying this rare glimpse into the secret life of girl-talk.
What on earth is the appeal for the man in all of this? Well, said husband told me that night, actually, that it was an ego boost. He said that he gets to take two beautiful women to the wedding (aw, shucks) and that we are both in such good moods that we’re more fun to be around. Personally, I suspect it also has something to do with the attention. Whenever I’m out with a girlfriend and her husband, every little kindness is amplified and praised. Like a precious only chid of two doting parents. When he holds the door for us, fetches a glass of wine, gallantly offers to pay for dinner, we both smile and say thank you, and isn’t it nice that chivalry, in fact, is not dead? He’s such a good boy! Also, our conversations are different from the ones he probably has with his friends. With us, he can talk about his emotionally unavailable father, or his upcoming knee surgery or his overstuffed Christmas list. Or the time he cried for hours when his dog died. Or how much he secretly hates hockey (you’d be surprised, my friend, how many times I’ve heard that). He gets to be ‘one of the girls’ for the night.
As for me? You’re probably thinking ‘Why bother?’. Well, I’m not much of a dater, and in a way this is sort of like fake dating. It’s a way of staying connected but still separate. A glimpse into the men my boys could very well grow into - what are they like? What do they worry about? What makes them happy? How much do they love their moms? Seriously, what the heck is with the fascination with video games? I get answers to questions I can’t ask the boys (When did you start to like girls? When is it normal to need more alone time? Why must they wrestle to convey every emotion?), and I get to keep great friends close and make a few great new friends in the process. Ain’t life grand?
Sun Times Column April 24
You know, as you can well imagine, there are very few things about boys that surprise me any longer. Their fascination with all bodily functions, their need to change the lyrics of every song into something slightly dirty, their knowledge of all things superhero. I really had the market cornered, in my mind. Even with my oldest son Callum nearing his teen years. I knew things were going to change just slightly, I knew he was going to get a little crankier, a little taller, a lot more interested in girls. But for the most part, things would probably remain the same, right? In fact we had a conversation about this at the end of last summer. We were driving back from the beach with the windows down and listening to the Beatles, and his man-boy feet (which remind me of a puppy, always two sizes bigger than where he is) were bare, propped up on the dashboard.
“You know, hon, in about a year, you’re going to start to think you hate me. And I just want you to know that it’s alright to feel like that for a while - we’ll get over it.”
“As if, Mom. I would never hate you.” We smiled at each other, supremely smug in our closeness.
And he doesn’t hate me. Not really. It’s just that - well, you know when your kids are small, and the worst thing in their world is when you’re angry at them? All you have to say is their name like a question and they almost instantly flush and say ‘sorry, Mom’. Now when I say ‘Cal-lum?’ in my best reproving voice he shrugs and says ‘What?’ He has even told me he’s angry with me sometimes. Like when I act goofy or silly or normal or breathe a little loud. I didn’t know he would ever really be angry with me.
There is this incredible remoteness with him sometimes, too. He’ll be leaning against the kitchen counter drinking his pulp-free orange juice and he is just so - gone from me. I can picture his future suddenly as clear as a bell, I see him as that handsome man in a crowded room, leaning against a bar with his open-necked shirt and his fancy watch (I always picture him as a fancy watch kind of guy), not talking to anyone. And some poor frazzled woman will keep walking by him thinking ‘Has he noticed me? Does he like my hair? I wonder if I should put on more perfume?’. I bet he’ll even have a lot of blond arm hair, which disturbs me even more for some reason. As for me - I am mostly in his peripheral vision these days, a sort of colourless shapeless entity who cooks his meals and gives him curfews and censors ‘Borat’. Sometimes I feel like I should put on a little makeup or fluff my hair a bit for him - what is it about a teenage son that makes you eminently conscious of your old sweats? Maybe even a little judged. Although if I tried to look nice, he would be furious with me for that as well.
He isn’t always so remote, though. He may be a teenager but he’s still - Cal. He is still wise beyond his years in a lot of ways, still makes me laugh until my sides hurt, will still cuddle in with me to watch a movie I’ve chosen as long as I’ve billed it a ‘romantic comedy’ (okay, so ‘The Notebook’ wasn’t really a romantic comedy, but he really liked it anyways.). And there’s a new facet to our relationship that is oddly satisfying. When your kids are younger it’s ALL about the shielding and monitoring. Sometimes it still is, and then it isn’t. Every once in a while I’ll make some sort of PG-13 little aside and he’ll put his arm around my shoulders and laugh. We talk about the future, have the whole ‘what do you want to do when you grow up?’ conversation with notes and facts, discussing universities and R.E.S.P’s. Although I do miss the days when his answer was ‘I want to be Spiderman’. We talk about girls - actually I talk about girls and he listens silently. But he does listen.
He makes me think of my favourite bridge, the one I cross on my walks almost every day. I’ve always looked out over my left shoulder at the great view, the willow trees and sunlight and groups of plump ducks drying on the shore. I love that view. But just the other day I crossed the street to check out the other side. It was a little bit the same, but a little bit different. I liked the old view a lot, but I could learn to like this one, I suppose. Maybe this view will turn into something even lovelier than before
“You know, hon, in about a year, you’re going to start to think you hate me. And I just want you to know that it’s alright to feel like that for a while - we’ll get over it.”
“As if, Mom. I would never hate you.” We smiled at each other, supremely smug in our closeness.
And he doesn’t hate me. Not really. It’s just that - well, you know when your kids are small, and the worst thing in their world is when you’re angry at them? All you have to say is their name like a question and they almost instantly flush and say ‘sorry, Mom’. Now when I say ‘Cal-lum?’ in my best reproving voice he shrugs and says ‘What?’ He has even told me he’s angry with me sometimes. Like when I act goofy or silly or normal or breathe a little loud. I didn’t know he would ever really be angry with me.
There is this incredible remoteness with him sometimes, too. He’ll be leaning against the kitchen counter drinking his pulp-free orange juice and he is just so - gone from me. I can picture his future suddenly as clear as a bell, I see him as that handsome man in a crowded room, leaning against a bar with his open-necked shirt and his fancy watch (I always picture him as a fancy watch kind of guy), not talking to anyone. And some poor frazzled woman will keep walking by him thinking ‘Has he noticed me? Does he like my hair? I wonder if I should put on more perfume?’. I bet he’ll even have a lot of blond arm hair, which disturbs me even more for some reason. As for me - I am mostly in his peripheral vision these days, a sort of colourless shapeless entity who cooks his meals and gives him curfews and censors ‘Borat’. Sometimes I feel like I should put on a little makeup or fluff my hair a bit for him - what is it about a teenage son that makes you eminently conscious of your old sweats? Maybe even a little judged. Although if I tried to look nice, he would be furious with me for that as well.
He isn’t always so remote, though. He may be a teenager but he’s still - Cal. He is still wise beyond his years in a lot of ways, still makes me laugh until my sides hurt, will still cuddle in with me to watch a movie I’ve chosen as long as I’ve billed it a ‘romantic comedy’ (okay, so ‘The Notebook’ wasn’t really a romantic comedy, but he really liked it anyways.). And there’s a new facet to our relationship that is oddly satisfying. When your kids are younger it’s ALL about the shielding and monitoring. Sometimes it still is, and then it isn’t. Every once in a while I’ll make some sort of PG-13 little aside and he’ll put his arm around my shoulders and laugh. We talk about the future, have the whole ‘what do you want to do when you grow up?’ conversation with notes and facts, discussing universities and R.E.S.P’s. Although I do miss the days when his answer was ‘I want to be Spiderman’. We talk about girls - actually I talk about girls and he listens silently. But he does listen.
He makes me think of my favourite bridge, the one I cross on my walks almost every day. I’ve always looked out over my left shoulder at the great view, the willow trees and sunlight and groups of plump ducks drying on the shore. I love that view. But just the other day I crossed the street to check out the other side. It was a little bit the same, but a little bit different. I liked the old view a lot, but I could learn to like this one, I suppose. Maybe this view will turn into something even lovelier than before
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