I'm Number One!

There was a sappy commercial on TV years ago that went something like, "My father never told me he loved me, but he always let me win." I chuckled when I heard that (probably not the response the ad creator had in mind) because my father told me every day that he loved me, but he never let me win.

I, in turn, have never let my boys win. I figured, if they want to win, let them get good. Checkers, Go-Fish, Yahtzee, Connect Four, Ping Pong, Cribbage, Dominoes--I played them all and I won. Now I probably didn't have to do the victory dance, but I did. I'm a pretty dedicated mother.

So when we purchased our first video game system (as a good mother, I resisted this for years, but I live with three boys, resistance was futile) I was determined to win. (NOTE: I freed Princess Peach from Bowser's Castle when no one else in the family could).

However, I had a really hard time winning any of the multiplayer games. I just kept losing and it wasn't even close. Let me note that I lost half of my left thumb in a freak stroller accident when I was only four. I pointed this fact out to my boys on numerous occasions to petition for a head start or something that would make the game fair--or would allow me to at least come close to winning.

But I had raised my boys to love me, not to let me win.

Hair Do's and Don'ts

I have always had short hair. There was a month or so in my life that I could put my hair in a single pony tail, but that didn't last too long. Generally, I have sported a boy's haircut. In fact, recently I think my father and I have the exact same cut. My bangs may be a bit longer, but the concept is spot on.

I had not-so-short hair when I got married--it was clear past my ears. Soon after the wedding I cut it all off again. My husband tried to be supportive, but really, he didn't love my short hair.

"I always dreamed of marrying a girl with long, dark hair" he said. I think he hoped I would cancell all future hair appointments and morph into his dream girl.

"Huh," I said, "I always dreamed of marrying a millionnaire. How about you make a million bucks and this hair is any length you want it?"

Since then, he has only complimented my short locks.

Privacy Please

All mothers know that the onset of motherhood means an end to privacy. My abandonment of privacy began in the hospital labor and delivery room. It was August, I was hot and extremely pregnant, and even a light bed sheet seemed too much. But that is another story entirely.

Soon after giving birth to my first son, I tried to breast feed him. But my boy didn't know how to suck (isn't that an instinct?). Our failure resulted in strangers touching my breast to help my son and me get things figured out. Okay, the strangers were employed by the hospital--but that did not change the fact that I was sitting in my bed, holding my son, bare chested, and letting a woman I had only just met grab me.

So once Evan could crawl, I never pottied alone. If I was in the potty, so was Evan. I got used to it, but at some point I realized that it had to stop. I mean, there must be an age where it is inappropriate for a boy to follow his mother into the bathroom.

One Thanksgiving the entire family and extended family were gather at my parents' house for a pleasant meal. I snuck away from the festivities to go potty. Naturally Evan, who was three or so, followed me into the bathroom.

As I sat on the toilet doing my deal, Evan said "Mom, you can go pee without a penis?"

"Yes, son, I can" I declared.

"How can you go pee without a peeeeeenis?" He asked.

"I just can." I really wasn't intereseted in providing more of an explanation than that.

I thought I was off the hook when he said, "huh."

But while I was still in the bathroom putting myself back together, I heard Evan announce to the entire family, "My mom can go pee without a penis!" It was the most perfectly clear and articulate sentence he had ever uttered in his young life.

Keep the Change

We didn't give the boys an allowance, but we did allow them to pick up any loose change they found around the house. This kept us from having piles of quarters and nickels cluttering up the space and we didn't always have to have a certain amount of money at the end of each week to hand out to the boys. We also frequently let the boys keep the change after running a shopping errand.

"Here is the 18 cents change from the bread" they would say.

"Oh, keep the change!" We would say. I mean, 18 cents, really.

When Quinlan wanted an expensive jacket, we told him that it was just too much money. So we were surprised when he walked into the house wearing his new expensive jacket.

"How could you afford that?" I asked, desperately hoping that he wouldn't reveal that he had stollen it.

"You know how you told me I could keep the change?" he asked slyly, "I did."

Is this an Emergency?

The boys frequently accompanied me to the library when I was working on my dissertation. I would walk through the stacks of books in the research library, find the books and journals that I needed, hand them to the boys, and they would pile the books onto my cart and help me transport them. They became familiar enough with the library that I could send them into the stacks to retrieve a volume. Evan was even able to go the computer and find out if the library had volumes that I had found referenced in other books and articles. I felt pretty proud that my boys, at the tender ages of 11 and 13, could successfully navigate a research library.

One day, we parked in the university parking garage, and the three of us spent several hours in the library. As per our tradition, I stood at the copy machine making copies of articles. From there I could watch Quinlan take the books over to the circulation desk to check them out. And Evan returned journal volumes to the shelf for reshelving and helped Quinlan pack the books into the cart for our return to the car.

On our way back to the car I realized that I had left my copy card in the copy machine. Not wanting to simply lose copy money, I sent Evan back to the library to retrieve my card. Quinlan and I continued on to the garage and I told Evan to meet us at the car. I figured that if Evan hurried (which he never has, so I am not sure why that factored into my logic at all) that he would catch up to us before we even got to the car.

However, Quinlan and I made it to the car and Evan still hadn't returned. We loaded the books into the car and sat there and waited for him. Still no Evan. Finally, we got out of the car and returned to the library, expecting to find Evan along our route. We made it all the way back to the library and never found Evan.

Naturally, the library didn't have a PA system (something about not wanting to disturb patrons). I called my campus office to see if anyone had seen Evan; they hadn't. Trying not to panic, I called campus police and gave them a description of Evan.

In less than 15 minutes, the campus police called. They had found Evan and picked him up. It turns out that when Evan had returned to the parking garage, he went to the wrong floor to look for the car. When he couldn't find the car he waited at the entrance/exit of the garage. He figured that when we drove out we would see him. Like we were going to drive out without him.

The thing is that there were emergency telephones in the parking garage--at least four on every floor. Evan had seen the emergency phones. I asked him why he didn't pick one up and call.

"I didn't know if I was in an emergency" was his reply.

Have You Heard the One About ... ?

You know that really bad racist joke that describes how stupid folks from a particular race lock their keys in their car--with their family in it? Well, it is not funny to tell racist jokes. It is really not funny when you are living it; when you are being the example of stupidity. Only it was much worse...my family had the chicken pox. I pray my race and gender will forgive me!

It was the heat of the summer. I was still working on my undergraduate degree in mathematics and I had a final scheduled on a typically hot, Nevada day, in July. Evan was three and Quinlan was just 18 months old. They both had chicken pox. They looked sad and pathetic.

That summer I had worked out my child-care needs with my mother-in-law (who does truly deserve a mother-of-the-year award!). I pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine, got out of the car, locked it using the door-lock button on the door, shut the door, and realized that I had locked my keys in the car--with my sick children. Naturally, all the windows were up since just before I turned off the engine the air conditioning was running.

It quickly got hot and Evan began to cry. I yelled through the closed window, "get out of your car seat and unlock the door."

Evan, through sad tears, said, "Mommy, get me out."

But I couldn't. It turns out that in my zeal to ensure complete travel safety, I had failed to teach my child how to escape from his car seat (a skill I didn't have to teach Houdini Quinlan).

It was as if I could sit there and watch the little pox break out on their sad, sweaty faces. I called my husband who came over from work to unlock the doors. It took him just a few minutes, but by that time, both the boys had broken out into a sweat and a screaming fit. I dabbed them off and tried to settle them down so I could leave them.

Needless to say, I was late for my final. I picked up the test and took my seat without explanation. I decided that there was no way for me to explain to my professor that I was smart enough to pass his mathematics class, but too stupid to be a mother.

Back-to-School Shopping

Evan was well over six feet tall by the time he was in middle school (he is just over 6'10" now). Therefore, he has always stood out in a crowd and especially at school where he was typically the tallest kid in his class (the youngest, too, with an August birthday). Given that Evan has always been a quiet and reserved kid, he didn't do things that would bring extra attention to him--this has particularly been the case with his clothing.

During our back-to-school shopping before his junior year of high school, I suggested that Evan try on a diagonal stripe shirt (like the one in the picture).

Evan looked at me oddly. "I don't want to wear a shirt that draws the eye down to there," he said while using both hands to point to the fly area of his jeans.

Good grief. It was not my intention to dress my son in clothing that would call undue attention to his personal parts.