The Burrow

The toddler is getting into her personal space, and FlapJilly is not amused.  She doesn't want to be aggravated with her funchie cheeks little brother, she just wants to eat her lunch without his hands on her plate.  It's her one meal in front of the television; she wants to savor the experience. Mommy to the rescue.  Out come the blueberry Cheerios Chelle bought them for their birthdays.  Although Little Cuter thinks that the honey nut flavor is far superior, the blueberry box was close to hand.  And so she spread some out on the coffee table and let Giblet loose. That worked for a while, but his sister was still there on the couch, eating salami and grapes (her current go-to meal).  He had only cheerios, and they were insufficiently entertaining.  So, back he went to her plate. She being the charming and thoughtful and kind individual her parents have raised her to be, took pity on the poor boy and placed a small piece of salami on top of t...

(TBG spoke.  I typed and lightly edited.) Dear Cuters, The conversation as we warmed up before spin class this morning came around to Mayor Pete. Some of my fellow Medicare recipients, while admiring his intellect, were concerned about his age.  Could they trust someone that much younger?  Had he lived enough to be relied upon? And I sat there, on my bike, feeling enabled, enabled to reach the right decision about an impressive guy.  He does have good experience; the only thing slowing me down would have been his age. But that is so easily overcome-able when I have the example of my own children, who, in their mid-30's, consistently exercise great judgment, fine intellects, and unquestioned integrity.  Thank you. Dad

Amster was updating me on her kids' achievements: their grades are solid, their friends are good people, they are respectful. There are issues, but no one is doing drugs or abusing other humans. “ Congratulations!” said I, and then began to wonder why. I flashed back to tenth grade. There was a reception in the high school cafeteria to celebrate the newest National Honor Society inductees. Standing beside my parents,  I listened to grown up after grown up congratulating my folks on a job well done. I remember the outfit I was wearing.  I remember clutching my new NHS pin in my hand. I remember being really annoyed. “ Why are they my congratulating my parents? I did all the work/” Sure, they fed me and clothed me and made sure I had a quiet place to study and all the materials I needed to complete any project thrown my way. Sure, they set high standards and took an interest in my assignments. But I'd have done the work anyway. That's the kind...

How's this for manipulation:  I  will take all this blame for your horrible life, if you just please try and realize... that I never meant any harm on you guys. Trust that the facts are not in her favor, that you guys  are teenagers, and that she started it.  Yes, the grown up's feelings were hurt and she went for the jugular. And then she defended it, and herself. You guys saw through it and called her on it, not with any hope that she would listen, but to speak up, with love and admiration, for themselves and the other objects of her scorn.  Watching resilient kids discover their power is both heartbreaking and exhilarating.  That's the only silver lining I can find in the whole sordid mess.     The grown-up is making deals, is demeaning the pain, is seeking forgiveness.  She's the definition of a tricky person." Have you seen the story about the kids who saved themselves from a child abduction? They recognized that the ...

FlapJilly is being promoted. She's leaving the world of The Two's  and crossing the parking lot to The Three's .  Her first friend at school moved over a month or so ago, so she'll have a familiar face in unfamiliar surroundings.  The play equipment is bigger and more challenging and the curriculum is less pre  and more school .  She's ready for the challenge, and her parents couldn't be more proud. And then Little Cuter and I exchanged the glance that said it all: OH, Where has my baby gone?   It's a mixture of joy and yearning and overwhelming heart exploding love.... and it left us both just a little bit teary.  She's such a big girl now.

A course in manners was needed, or so her parents thought.  Standing in front of the pantry while yelling M&M’s PLEASE!!!! at the top of her lungs was not to be rewarded. And so, they began to work on Excuse me.  She’s a fast learner, my delightful granddaughter. As her parents made sure to use the phrase at every possible moment, she figured it out rather quickly. Pleasing the grown-ups is FlapJilly’s favorite pastime; their smiles and congratulations on her polite asking brought joy to everyone.  But, would the work done in private translate to a social situation? She’s often a little shy when there are others about, especially if some of them are men with great big loud deep voices. Would she be brave enough to interrupt when others were watching? The question was answered last Sunday. After a grueling weekend spent removing the old roof from the new house, Daddy and Papa and Uncle were sprawled on FlapJilly’s couch, recuperating, paying minimal attention t...

They are not our problems. We keep telling ourselves that, but it doesn't help.  We have all these ideas.  We have years of experience.  We've been there, done that, or some variation thereof, and we could help. But, we can't. They are not our problems.  The kids own them and take responsibility for them and are doing what they deem right and it is so so so so hard to sit back and watch, instead of swooping in and saving the day. Not that we are capable of saving the day.... but at least we could try. No matter how old they are, children are still a piece of your heart walking around, unprotected.

and I'm not there to help. I packed no boxes.  I taped nothing closed.  I held no fragile objects as bubble wrap surrounded them. I did nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I made sure that the plastic container with the clothes I leave at their house held everything I'd left behind, but I didn't do anything more than push it back into the closet when I was done. Okay, I'll give myself some credit - I took our toiletries out of the bathroom and placed them in the sealed plastic container, leaving one less set of drawers for them to empty.  It doesn't seem like much, does it? SIR is a master packer, and my efforts would, no doubt, have required supervision and a great deal of angst on his part.  He's much neater than I am; last year's Christmas presents sat in their beautiful white Crate and Barrel shipping box so that he could admire the precision with which I had placed the gifts.  He was amazed... wondered that I, the Queen of Disarray, could have ...

SIR took a vacation day on Tuesday.  It was his birthday present to himself.  Little Cuter was at work, but that was okay.  His plan was to spend the day with his daughter.  He took her to swim class. I don't remember my father ever taking a day off work to spend with me.  I went into The City to his work when I had vacation days, but the notion of turning that on its head and having him follow me around on my daily rounds was never considered. TBG never missed a game or a performance (for the most part), but he never took a whole day and spent it hanging with the kids.  I was there.  The babysitter was there.  Work beckoned... and it was a workplace that took pride in the fact that the employees retired with years of vacation days in the bank.  He never took a vacation without feeling guilty. The thought of being home and available when his colleagues were at their desks was filled with angst. When Little Cuter spent a weekend in Texas...

Twenty-two years ago,  the blonde bride  refused to get out of the car. It was the first soccer practice of the year, two weeks before school started.  She was new to town and knew no one.  And so, there stood her mother, totally perplexed. If the kid didn't want to play, she didn't want to play.  That was fine.  She didn't have to participate if she didn't want to participate. The team had yet to meet; she hadn't made a commitment. She'd be disappointing no one.   Her mom could drive her home and that would be that. Except, the kid did want to play.  She just didn't want to get out of the car. She was good at the game and she liked running around and there was the uniform and the cheering and it was all to no avail.  On the field side of the car, looking down on the gathering eight year olds, her mom was out of ideas.  She sighed. It was a loud sigh, or maybe I just happened to look up, but we were friends from the moment our ey...

To the 7 people who saw this title and nothing more yesterday, here's the rest of the story: The Lady Lawyer said it at lunch, and I stopped chewing. "Say it again," I asked and she did and Amster tried to explain it further and we both turned and said " No is a complete sentence! " It's a powerful concept. Apply it to sexual power and it obviates the need for explanations.  No means No ; it is complete within itself.  Don't ask why  or what about; No  is a complete sentence. But it became more interesting the more I thought about it.  Narcissists can suck the life out of you; remembering that No  comes with its own period can be a tool to break the cycle.  Refusing to engage is the best strategy, but sometimes its just too hard to turn your back.   No  and nothing else might be a way to take care of all the pieces of yourself until you are ready to walk away. Being able to say No  to a restaurant which allows guns and alcoh...

Today has gotten away from me, so I'm going to reprise, with some editing, an old post.  The Hormonal Demons are attacking a formerly delightful 13 year old.   I really hope this helps, MS. Would You? A question for my female readers over the age of 15: Would you go back to being 12 again? OK, you can stop screaming now. I am absolutely confident that the thought of living through that year or so makes you want to leave the room and begin drinking. Even if it is 6 am. And you're underage. Or your medicines contraindicate it. I don't care how old you are, you still remember. It's a horrifying idea. The year Little Cuter turned 12, I was sitting at the kitchen table writing the 10 or so holiday cards I'd send to my close but far-flung friends.  "I'm doing...... TBG is....... The Big Cuter's so...... and The Little Cuter is trying to survive being a 12 year old girl." TBG, reading over my shoulder, was appalled. How dare I? It wa...

She was a blob of protoplasm, carried from room to room, doted on and stared at.  She absorbed it all. Long, slow back rubs led to cat-like stretching.  Whispering into her tiny ear brought her head closer to my mouth. Singing Miss Adelaide's songs from Guys and Dolls slowed her breathing.  She lay on my chest, swaddled or naked, rising with my every breath.  There were creases and folds and curves to love.  The nape of her neck.... the inner bend of her elbow.... all those thigh rolls.... I could lose myself for long, lovely minutes at a time.  Her wishes were expressed in scrunched eyeballs and loud yelps, in twisting and curling away. Displeasure was clearly understandable; her face became square and purple and full of angry wrinkles.  It never felt sad; she was pissed off and letting us know it. Falling asleep with the baby on my chest, matching inhales and exhales, everyone tiptoeing around so as not to disturb the scene.  Daddy da...

The Burrow is a personal blog.   That seems to be the current catch-all for those of us who don't concentrate on politics or fashion or giving advice.  I started writing in April, 2009, at the suggestion of my then 20-something son, Big Cuter.  He told me to write because he liked reading my words.  He thought others would like them too; "You are much hipper than you think you are, Mom." That was my favorite compliment for many years.  I write what I like to think about.  I adhere to Dooce 's primary blogging rule: I don't write about anyone whose feelings would be injured by my words.  There have been some marvelously snarky unwritten posts over the years.  They rattle around in my brain, tempting me with an apt phrase or description that perfectly captures the absurdity I'm not posting for you.  There are some mournful posts which touch on the lives of others in a way that might be intrusive; those, too, live only in my brain.  T...

The loaded pellet gun was in a glass-fronted cabinet.  The 12 year olds had access, so the security must have been pretty thin.  One picked up the rifle, one walked in front of him, and the evening ended in the emergency room. No one is dead.  No one is in jail. I'm disturbed. Is there a person on this planet who believes that unsupervised tweens should be holding an ammo-filled weapon at 2:30 in the morning?  The most trouble my kids got into at a sleep-over was calling the most popular boy in the 6th grade and hanging up .... over and over and over until it was Little Cuter's turn and his mother answered, asked who was calling, and my child gave her name... her real name.... which led to a phone call to me and a phone call to the poorly supervised party's hostess and notes of apology written the next morning.  It never occurred to me to worry about loaded rifles in unsecured cabinetry.  It never seemed likely that a 12 year old would e...

It's one of those weekends, denizens.  One of those weekends when my heart is exploding, wondering if it can contain all the love. The sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, I have a comfy chair in the shade and the ocean's roar in my ears.  There are children playing Marco Polo in the pool and lots of very fit men responding to DAD!  and PAPA! with smiles and dry t-shirts and a wave of the go-back-and-play-with-your-friends hand, a command which is happily followed.  They are happy to get up and watch me hold my breath under water , and they are smiling even when she's down there and can't see him.  The smile is not for her or for me or for anyone but himself.  He's easing himself into the pool to have fun with the only female in his life right now, and Papa's face is barely big enough for his grin. There are late teen children communing with their parents, and there's nary an electronic device in sight.  I had breakfast on the plaza this mor...

Mr. 10 is nearly as tall as I am.  This has happened with alarming rapidity.  Last month I looked down at his shoulders; now they are bumping me in the chin. There's a charming quasi-adultness in his demeanor.  The little boy giggles have turned into a tween's chortle.  There's kid-like joy combined with teen angst all mixed up in his heart before the sound bursts from his lips. Is it okay to laugh? Is anyone watching? Will I be judged? The carefree child is now wondering about the world around him.  Always conscious of following the rules, his ten year old self is noticing that it's not only the grown-ups who are creating the constraints around his life. Suddenly, his peers are making an equally strong impression. There's a new swagger in his step. He decorated and coordinated his family's Halloween extravaganza, dressed as Flo, the insurance saleswoman. The gender bending didn't upset him, not one bit.  The costume met my three rules ...

Grown up children... is that an oxymoron? I'm looking across the family room to the kitchen.  SIR is unpacking the treats he bought for his in-laws on his way home from work.  Chocolate Lovers Chocolate Cake put a huge smile on TBG's face, especially since he hadn't asked for anything.  It speaks to the relationship the boys have that SIR knew exactly what would put a smile on his father-in-law's face. Little Cuter has the cold from hell.  She can't take anything stronger than the occasional Tylenol since Flapjack is growing inside her baby bump.  Congestion, sneezing, and a dry cough left her with a very sore throat.  Channeling Daddooooo, I recommended a salt and warm water gargle.  As she has since childhood, the girl grimaced and refused.  Then, because she is now a grown up and because her throat was on fire and because there were no alternatives, she filled a glass, whisked in the salt, tipped her head back and gargled.  After o...

Her kids don't get on the computer without a good reason and an adult present. She works and volunteers and dances and chairs benefits and serves on boards and does pro-bono work and, like most moms who do even half of what she does, she feels guilty all the time.   I try to reassure her that it's a natural state of affairs, reprising MTF's advice to me upon learning of my pregnancy: No matter what you do, you'll feel guilty.  So, you might as well do what you want to do. Or, as Dr. Spock put it, Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do. Beautiful Annie sent me the story below to make me smile; I'm not sure she realized how well it fits into my head right now.  I've been looking for a reason to smile while life throws curves at my friends , and I'm not doing a very good job of it.  I try to find an angle from which to approach it... and I fail.  I like the way Thing 1 turns a new diagnosis into a positive ... and then goes on to turn ...

She's the girl at climbing camp.   Not the only girl, the girl. She sat next to someone else at lunch. He was devastated. Acorns not falling far from oaks, this son of two lawyers made a list. The title is my favorite part: do . Not "to do," which would put it out in the future somewhere. Not "what i can do to make her like me," which drowns in its own verbiage.   do. He starts out by taking matters into his own hands - he will choose to sit beside her. How often have I waited to see what life would bring, rather than making the decision my own? This is a confident young man, and it shows. He will excel, because success is very attractive,  and he will be sure that she notices, since he'll be in her line. While they are waiting and chatting, he'll give her his undivided attention, while behaving like a gentleman. Resisting the urge to mess around is tough when you're a tween. She must be a very special youn...