Teaching my 10-year-old About Rape

The recent article in Rolling Stone magazine about sexual assault at UVA made me think about my experiences in college. I remember my first fraternity party, when I was a freshman at George Washington University. I am not a big drinker, and I wasn't drunk when a fraternity brother invited me up to his room. I can't say exactly what ruse he used to get me up there, but I have a faint memory of him wanting to show me his pet lizard.

Lost and Not Found

Here is how my children look for something they've lost:

"MOM! Where's my (shin guards, X Men comic, Messi jersey, homework folder, library book, drumsticks, etc.)"

Here is how I respond:

"I don't know. Have you looked?"

"I looked everywhere!"

Allow me to translate. "Looking everywhere" in boyspeak means standing in their rooms with their eyes open, followed by basketball dribbling. No "looking" actually occurs.

The Many Habits of Maxon

When Maxon was about 2 or 3 years old, he started making a gritty noise that sounded like he was chewing rocks. I quickly recognized it as tooth grinding. He would work his jaw intermittently throughout the day – a sound which both worried me and turned my skin inside out. I was reassured by the pediatrician and Google that this was a temporary thing, and after several weeks, he did stop.

I didn't think anything of it and enjoyed the absence of Grindy.

Bewitched by Shabbatoween

Halloween (aka Shabbatoween) was delightful. Ezra put his tiny body into a muscled-up Iron Man suit, then asked me to spray his hair black and give him an eyeliner goatee so he could be Tony Stark. I straightened and geled Maxon's hair and bought him an Ed Hardy shirt and costume rings so he could be Stefon, the flamboyant New York City correspondent fromSaturday Night Live's "Weekend Update."

Sleep Training a 10-Year-Old

Oh, evening grownup time. Kids-are-in-bed time. Clock-out-of-parenting time. It is a precious decompression period – a chorus line of hours once able to accommodate a meal, a drink and a three-episode binge of The Wire.

But older kids stay up later, eroding our grownup time to an hour, sometimes two.

Punished by Punishment

You break the rules, you get punished. That's how it works, right?

Well, it's not working.

When it comes to our younger son especially, while he vociferously protests the punishment as the punishment is happening, the memory of that punishment rarely prevents a repeat performance of the unwanted behavior. He's 8 years old and still throwing the same tantrums he was throwing when he was 2. He's still lying about brushing his teeth. He's still sneaking the iPad into his bed.

Sugar Momma

When it comes to sugar consumption in my house, I feel like I am running a methadone clinic. I make meals for the kids every day, doling out what I think is an acceptable sugar ration, then spend the rest of the day being hustled for early access to the Halloween stash and Gatorades and Lucky Charms and cereal bars that might as well be candy bars and crackers that might as well be cookies.

Ezra and the Angries

You know that time in your parenting when you and your child keep doing the same dance of an argument over and over again, and your punishments aren't working and his behavior isn't changing, and there is a huge pile of his stuff in your office because you keep removing his favorite things from his bedroom that he never earns back, and every time he takes slow motion steps when you ask him to hurry you realize he is actually flipping you the middle finger?

Well, that's been happening a lot to me. If you have been following my blog over the last few weeks, you have read about my 8-year-old son, Ezra, and his anger management issues. It's my go-to topic in conversations with my girlfriends, and Monday afternoon during Ezra's soccer practice I was at it again, unloading on a friend who wasn't familiar with the troubles I've seen. As a child therapist, she had some insight that I put to the test on our way home from soccer.

Waiting for Atonement

During the Days of Awe this year, I have been thinking a lot about a conversation I had last Sunday with my 8-year-old son, Ezra, after he angered me with his defiant back-talk. I have been asking myself – do I continue to forgive him for the same infractions over and over again?

Ezra is very good at apologizing for talking back and not listening. He is sincere, contrite and adorable. Until I ask him to do something he is morally against, such as teeth brushing or bed making. Then there is no justice, no peace. 

Mom vs. The Yetzer Hara

My youngest son turned 8 on Wednesday. This is how Ezra's lovely birthday ended: me versus his yetzer hara, separated by a bathroom door.

After a dinner of his choosing, an episode of MasterChef, and a cookies and cream birthday cake, I carried him up to bed. On our way up the stairs I held him tightly, his head resting on my shoulder and his toes brushing against my calves, wondering how much longer he will allow me to give him his nightly ride up the steps. 

The Kraken's Day Off

I released the Kraken.

I went all no-wire-hangers on the kids. 

They're gonna need therapy for that one.

That's a sampling of the kinds of things I say to myself and others about my mothering. I often swap these terrible mothering tales with my friends, mostly to receive kind reassurance that I am not, in fact, Medea. My friends say, "Oh, I would have done the same thing," or, "My kid does that, too," or "Don't beat yourself up. They'll end up in therapy anyway." Then they tell me an, "I'm a terrible mother" story.

You Win, September.

I have no idea what this blog post is going to look like. I have about an hour and 15 minutes before I have to pick the kids up at school and get them to their music lessons, then rush home to write the fifth-grade class chair welcome letter and a few stories about flu shots and Respiratory Syncytial Virus.

I can say I already miss summer, with its later mornings that don't include arguing with my 10-year-old about how he can’t go to school on a special dress-up day clad in shorts, sweat socks and dress shoes, or looking the other way when my 7-year-old clips a tie onto his short-sleeved striped polo shirt that is hiding under his David Byrne-sized suit jacket.

Not Even Almost Famous

While my son Maxon and I were having lunch outside on Wednesday, we overheard someone talking about Mo'ne Davis on the cover of Sports Illustrated. 

In case you are just emerging from a coma, Davis plays for the Taney Dragons, the Philadelphia team that is killing it in the Little League World Series, despite a loss last night to Nevada. 

"Everyone is talking about Mo'ne," Maxon said.

The Magic Number

When it comes to math, my 10-year-old doesn't just roll his eyes or whine. To Maxon, math isn't harmless like an annoying little brother. Math is dangerous. Math is a monster. Maxon runs from math like it's wielding a machete and wearing a goalie mask.

Over this past school year his math phobia intensified, hitting its zenith this summer as we struggle to help him complete the math packet that was sent home with him at the end of fourth grade.

The Battle on My Twitter Feed

Let me scroll down just a little longer, read one more article. Let me find one with the right balance of intelligence, facts and insight into this Israeli/Palestinian/Hamas conflict.

I recently beefed up my Twitter feed, adding several accounts including the Israel Defense Forces, the Embassy in Israel, the Philly Consulate, a New York Times reporter named Anne Bernard who I knew in my journalism days,The Jerusalem Post, the Times of Israel, Haaretz and a blogger named Sarah Tuttle-Singer.

Backyards? We Don't Need Backyards.

I recently picked up Maxon, my older son, from a friend's house in the suburbs. When I arrived, he and his friend were jumping on an enclosed trampoline next to a playground structure in the expansive backyard. His friend's mom was spraying water from a garden hose into the trampoline while the boys tried to avoid or trick over the spray. They were soaked, blades of grass stuck to their legs, breathless from one-upping each other. The mom seemed slightly apologetic for the scene, although she shouldn't have been. They had been in the pool, then in the woods behind the house discovering abandoned cars and doll heads, then playing with LEGOs in the basement that could fit five or six of our basements. 

The No-Kvetching Challenge

Last week, no one kvetched.

No one said it was too hot, or too far to walk. No one bellyached about taking a shower or brushing his teeth. No one protested bedtime or his lack of effective Bey Blades. No one engaged in fruitless arguments for play dates with unavailable friends, claimed the apples in the fridge were too cold to eat or whined about being bored.

For seven days, we didn't hear any complaints of any sort, due to my husband's brilliant No-Kvetching Challenge.