Mom's False Alarm at the Hospital

I was away on the Shore with my mother on Sunday when she complained of chest pains. "I'm sure it's nothing," she said.

I tried not to freak out but at age 72, I think you have to do something about chest pains so I urged her to go to the doctor. OK, I insisted she go to the doctor. She took some aspirin and then said she would take the train home. Fortunately, my uncle stepped in and said he would drive her home so we both took her to a hospital near her house in Brooklyn.

Six hours later, they found nothing and released her. It apparently wasn't heart-related, although I hope that she sees a doctor. My mother felt annoyed at the whole incident but I was left still feeling shaken. It made me realize that my mother's at an age where I have to worry about her. She's always been so strong and independent that I've always assumed she'd be fine. But despite the fact that she hates being fussed over, she's not always going to be fine. I have to step in as the bossy caretaker once in awhile and that's her role. That feels strange but hey, I boss everyone else around, why not her?

She's far from being a frail little old lady but age is catching up with her. She still plays with the kids and travels out to see us. She's still involved in a thousand organizations and working three days a week but I have to realize it might not always be that way. I have to start paying more attention to what she needs and mother her a bit even if she hates it. It makes me sad even saying this much but now that I'm half a century years old, it just might be time to be a grown-up.

Bad Grades

When your child comes home with bad grades, you feel like you've failed as a parent too, so when we got an interim report that my older son was getting a D in math we hit the roof.

"You either don't understand it or you're not studying," I snapped. "Which is it?" "I am studying," he insisted. "Then you must not understand it." "I do understand it."

It turns out that he has failed a couple of quizzes and a big homework assignment. We told him he would have to take responsibility and ask what he could do to make up the grade. Turns out he can redo the homework assignment but not the quizzes.

I asked him to go check if he had a quiz this week and he came back and said he didn't. Then I checked a couple of days later and then it turns out he had a quiz THE NEXT DAY after our big talk.

We had to have a second talk about lying this time and this time I was mad. We had another serious look in which he admitted that he hadn't told us he had a quiz because it was the Pythagorean theory and it was "really long and boring." If he told me about it, I'd make him go over it again and again, he said. So we took away his computer and his Legos during the week. He's agreed to study more and study better and keep track of his quizzes and I told him he has to win back my trust.

The parenting experts say parents should help encourage children to build good study skills and that punishing them or yelling at them for bad grades doesn't work. Duh. But what does work? I obviously don't have the answers.

I'm hoping I can find out though because I'm hoping to bring that F up on my parenting report card. I'd like to feel that I'm at least getting a C.

My Bad News Bears

I've been spending a lot of time watching sports and it's been exciting, heartbreaking, painful and exhilarating.

I'm talking of course about Little League baseball. My two sons are playing on the "sky blue team" with their dad coaching and it's been a great season despite the fact that they lose every game.

In the beginning, they would get a few hits and then several strikeouts. They'd have humorous moments in the field where kids would either stand with the ball wondering where to throw the darned thing or they'd throw it the wrong way. Kids were in tears. There were games that were called because the other team's score went too high.

As for me, I'm not the competitive type. I sit out there on my camp chair with the other moms and root them on. I'm not an athlete and I only recently learned how the game is played myself. I once stood at the plate (as an adult) and froze. I have the utmost sympathy for these boys.

Meanwhile, my husband was sweet and encouraging to the team. At home, he fretted about the losses but on the field, he pointed out the positives and gave a "game ball" to one kid at every game. "The kids take their cue from you," I told him. "If you're discouraged, they'll be discouraged. If you're having fun, they'll have fun."

They practiced batting. They practiced fielding. They got better and better but they still lost even when they outhit the other team.

Meanwhile, I was doing my own practicing. I practiced not looking anxious when my kids are up at bat. I practiced concentrating on the one great catch rather than the three strikeouts. I'm good at this because deep down inside I really don't care if they win or lose. After all, this is Little League not the majors and the whole idea is for them to have fun, right?

But it turns out that deep down inside, I do think that the winning thing matters just a little bit. For one thing, I hate to see the kids get discouraged. You can't separate the game from the competition because it's all about the competition.

So I was thrilled when they finally snapped to it last night and started whacking that ball out there. I sat on the edge of my seat along with a cheering section of moms on our camp chairs. We cheered when they caught it on the field. We cheered when the pitcher caught fire. And none of us even dared say the word "win" because we didn't want to jinx it.

When that game ended, we moms in the cheering section jumped up and down and hugged each other. The kids had wide grins and a look of sheer disbelief. It was better than the World Series.

I still think it's all about how you play the game. But maybe it does matter if you win or lose. Just a little bit.

Teenage attitude

I got to observe young teenagers at work today when I taught eighth grade science and now I'm scared. They are so full of hormones and attitude it is terrifying.

I know a lot of it is swagger. The boys swagger around the girls and act out, the girls giggle and whisper around the boys. It's kind of funny. If you turned off the soundtrack (and who wouldn't want to turn off the soundtrack?), it could almost be a show on the nature channel.

I made the mistake of letting the kids use Slinkys today and in one period, they managed to wreck, not one, not two, but three Slinkys. The kids just got to hyper. This is a testment to the aforementioned hormones and the fact that I am a brand new substitute teacher who is used to well-behaved, grade-grubbing college students.

I had several kids who were throwing things, talking loudly, laughing. I'm sure it's all just another day at the middle school but I had to keep it under control. So I went and sat next to the one kid who was really acting out. I also stood among the loud, giggling girls and asked them to stop. "We're not doing anyting. We're talking," one girl practically shreiked and she gave me the eye roll. "Attitude," I said with a smile. "I'm not giving you attitude," she said with a huge amount of attitude. "OK, if you say so," I said. "I call that attitude."

There were plenty more encounters during the day.The kid on the skateboard. The kid who went to put on goggles. The kid throwing pencils and writing on his friend's shirt. It's OK. They're testing me. Apparently, the job of the substitute is to put up with a bunch of craap to prove themselves and then go home. Fun, fun.

When I came home, I walked in on a conversation between my two boys and blurted out something that had nothing to do with what they were talking with. My youngest son, who mind you is only 10, shreiked out "We're talking about something totally different. You don't even know what we're talking with. That's very rude." Then he gave me the eye roll.

OMG! "Attitude," I said. "Don't roll your eyes at me. I wasn't interrupting. I was joining in and I don't like the attitude.

If W. is a teenager when he's just short of 10, what will he be like when he's 13 or 14 and he has all those hormones pushing him to show off in front of the girls and mouth off to the substitute teacher? I hope I don't have nightmares just thinking about it.

Lockdown with kindergartners

When I got the call to substitute teach a kindergarten class, I was eager to accept. What better place to start than with the littlest kids in the school? I thought. I'm pretty sure I can take any kindergartner and at that age, they don't even know about spitballs.

But that was before I ended up being in lock down - a code gray with a class full of 5 and 6-year-olds for 20 minutes.

It turns out that not only was this my first day ever substitute teaching but it was also the day the school would practice "code gray": their procedure for what to do if something unthinkable happens and someone comes into the school with an AK47. I applaud this idea of preparing students, truly I do. We think it can't happen here but that's what everybody thinks until it does. But applauding it and carrying it out with two little kids are two different things.

The principal asked a first grade teacher to put the kids through the procedure, seeing as I was a newbie. The first grade teacher started out well. She told the kids that we would have something like a fire drill and that we would practice what to do if there was an emergency. "Say there's a dog in the school," she said. "A mean dog or a nice dog?" one little boy asked. "A mean dog," she replied," and the dog is loose. We have to practice what to do." Then she had the kids practice "squishing" themselves on one side of the room to get ready for our drill.

Well, the rest of the day the kids wanted to know where the dog was and when it was coming. They said that they didn't see the dog but they wanted to see it. They wanted to know when we were going to have a dog drill.

Finally, I sat them down with another teacher to try again. "There's no dog," I told them. They looked up at me, bewildered. "There's no dog. It's just pretend. Just like when you have a fire drill. Do you see a fire in the halls?" They shook their heads. "We're pretending to get ready for an emergency like a dog in the hallways but the dog was pretend. There's no dog."

We waited and waited for the drill and finally the announcement came and we herded about 15 small children into a small area to wait. "Why are we doing this?" one of the boys whispered. "I don't understand why we're doing this for a dog," another boy said softly. "I think I see a dog," another boy said. Troublemaker. "You don't see a dog," I whispered back. "There's no dog. It's pretend."

Twenty minutes later the children were fidgeting, lying on the floor and trying to climb into the cabinets. There was giggling and poking, all the things you would expect from a bunch of kindergartners trying to sit still. Finally, the announcement came that the code was over.

"Where was the dog? We never saw the dog!" said another little girl in a pink dress. Groan.

Maybe we can have a full out evacuation on my second day. It has to be an improvement.

The Case of the Missing Uniform

I could hear that my son was in distress from the tone of his voice. It was something between a wail and a whine with a bit of a sob thrown in for good measure. "Mommy," he pleaded. "Can you find my blue uniform? I can't compete unless I have it."

"Are you sure I don't have it?" I asked him. "Yes." "Check your gym bag and your backpack right now," I demanded. Shuffle. Shuffle. "It's not here."

"OK," I reassured him. "Where do you think your uniform is?" "I think it's in my top drawer." So off I went like the good mom I am to find nothing but mismatched socks in the top drawer and no blue uniform in the other drawers either or the closet or underneat the bed.

Then my husband got into the act after another frantic phone call. "He says it's in the top drawer," he told me. "It's not in the top drawer," I snapped. "Maybe it was last week but not anymore."

Half an hour later and we were still searching. We searched the dirty clothes in the laundry room a dozen times and the clean clothes half a dozen times. We overturned the hampers and searched through smelly socks and worse. We did everything but check the refrigerator.

We were unable to rescue my son from the situation. He had to face the consequences. We're so used to rescuing him but we couldn't produce the blue track uniform and R. came home feeling humiliated and nearly in tears.

I felt like crying too and my husband was angry at the coaches who let other kids play without their blue gym shorts. "Rules are rules," I told him. You can't tell a policeman that other people were speeding if you're caught doing 50 miles per hour ina 30 mile zone (not that I would know anything about that). You can't argue your kid should slide by because other kids are sliding by and it's the wrong message for your kid.

Long after R. had gotten over his disappointment and consoled himself with some video games, I was still searching for that darned uniform. I knew it could be hidden somewhere on his bed where you could easily hide an 800 pound gorilla under the blankets, animals and junk. But there were no blue shorts and shirt there or underneath or anywhere.

Finally I saw some papers underneath R.'s desk and underneatht he papers was the balled up uniform. I made him and my husband come in to see it before I fished it out. "What is the moral of this story?" I demanded. "To look everywhere?" my son ventured. "Wrong," I snapped. "To always put things where they belong. That was a hard lesson but you've got to learn."

And what was the moral of the story for us? The moral was that you can't always rescue your kid. And while it might be painful, it's the only way they learn for themselves.

overscheduled kids

I have always railed against parents overscheduling their kids. Kids need time to be kids, I argued. They need time to run around. They should be out playing hide and go seek, not zipping from activity to activity.

But now my sixth grader is on the track team at his middle school, he's playing Little League and he's taking piano lessons. My fourth grader takes ballet three days a week (yes ballet), plays Little League and plays the piano. Add in homework and you have a recipe for stress for all of us.

We cheered my older son on when he wanted to join track because he never seems much interested in joining things. But now he's sometimes going from track to Little League (thank you Chauffer Mom) and barely getting a breath in between.

My younger one has been dancing since he was 6 and he's at a level where he has to go three days a week. He still loves dancing but by this time of the year, there's a lot of whining before we get to those dance lessons.

Even their beloved baseball, coached by their own Dad, can elicit groans. Sometimes they come back from baseball games complaining that they haven't played all day. "Baseball is playing," I say sternly. "If you think it's work, don't do it next year."

The good news is there's no time for computers or TV. They get plenty of time outdoors and all this activity makes them eat well and sleep well. The bad news is that down time has become a precious commodity for all of us. If there's a game or a track meet, we have to be there. Likewise baseball games, piano recitals. The ballet recital is a joy to watch but takes major coordinating of grandparents and relatives.

This is how our life is now. I'm resigned to that. But forget the moral high ground about overscheduled kids. Mea culpa. I'm as guilty as anyone.