One of the Many Reasons I'm Glad I'm Not a Teenage Boy

Apparently nothing is the same for a teenage boy. Even going to Walmart.

As usual, my whole family exchanged names this December for the annual Christmas Angel thing we do. For the most part it's just an opportunity to be extra nice to someone/everyone. The most important goal is to be extra nice to whoever you drew. The over-achiever's goal is to be so nice to everyone that they all think you have their name. On Christmas morning when we tell who we had, the person who fooled the most people into thinking he/she was their angel gets to play Santa. C wins every year.

Anyhow, back to teenage boys and Walmart. This year, since all the kids are older and (most) have their own money, I decided we'd also purchase gifts for our special person. The logistics of taking four kids shopping with only one parent around to help while trying to maintain secrecy gets a little sticky, so I decided to take the kids on two separate trips. First I'd take my fourteen-year-old son and my sever-year-old daughter, then the two in the middle.

So last night L, M and I get to Walmart. I look at my mature teenage son and have no qualms at all about sending him off on his own. (Well, other than the fact that he has no watch or cell phone, and absolutely no sense of time. But at least I knew we'd meet up again eventually...) I told him to do his shopping, check out, and go to the benches at the front of the store. We'd either be there before him, or he could just sit there and wait for us.

Good plan, right? Did I mention that he's six feet tall and weighs 190 pounds? This is no helpless little adolescent here - I was not worried. (Which says a lot if you know me.)

I'd told him we'd plan on meeting back up in about forty minutes from when we separated, but my daughter and I got bogged down in electronics, and when I checked my phone for the time it was dead. But I wasn't worried. It wouldn't hurt him to wait for me. He'd be fine...

When I came out of the electronics section, I saw a wide-eyed L coming at me. Here's how our conversation went:

L: Mom! Where have you been!

Me: Shopping. Why?

L: I have been waiting and waiting for you!

Me: Why? Is something wrong?

L (Looking at me as if I am an errant child who has just asked a very stupid question as he lists off the following on his fingers): I have been sworn at, flipped off, threatened, and offered drugs. Get me out of here!

All of which happened while he was sitting on that bench, minding his own business and waiting for his mother.

Can I just say that nothing like this has ever happened to me anywhere? Let alone Walmart! I've sat on that bench and waited for people lots of times, and no one has ever done more than nod at me as they walked past. My poor little giant son. Sitting there with his crew cut hair and big dimpled smile, just minding his own business and bothering no one. I mean, maybe if he were decked out in chains with huge gauges in his ears (like the drug salesman's), or had missing teeth (like the girl who called him a naughty word and flipped him off - I guess she was rather threatening looking) I could understand, but L just has the look of a nice person!

Suffice it to say that when I took C and N (10 and 12, respectively) shopping tonight, we did not split up. The secret of the Christmas Angels was pretty much sacrificed, but better that than my children, right? So glad I am not a teenage boy!

I Have a Confession...

I've been writing a book.

I'd been working on a novel before I started blogging, but the sad truth is that all my friends in blogland were just way too interesting, and before long my book project was pretty much shelved. When I finally did get another computer I had a choice to make: give back in to my blogging addiction, or focus on my writing.

And so I wrote.

I have to admit that it was very difficult to stay away from blogland and all the fabulous friends I have here, but it was worth it because MY BOOK IS OUT!!! The title is Laryn Rising, the pitch is here, you can buy it here, and here's the amazing cover created by my good friend Olivia:

Can I just say that I am so excited?!? I also have a new 'author blog', but I have to admit that it isn't nearly as much fun to write over there, because I don't have very many friends in the writing world yet.

But enough of my book and on to a more entertaining subject - my children. Specifically, my oldest son, who is now a freshman in high school. For homecoming this year we made a deal that he could ask a girl to the dance as long as he went with a group of three or more couples. So, he picked a good friend of his (not the girl in the picture)and got all set to go.

Enter 'Shopping For Homecoming Clothes'.

We go to Ross. I select five pairs of slacks for him to try on. I send him into the dressing room with VERY clear instructions that he is to show me every single pair of pants he tries on. And then I wait.

And wait.

AND WAIT.

I am not exaggerating when I say that I waited for at least ten (TEN) minutes before he finally came staggering out of the dressing room in his first pair. The following conversation ensued:

Me: What took you so long! Did you try them all on without coming out to show me?

Liam: No. I fell asleep.

Me: You did not, you're joking.

Liam: I'm not joking, Mom. I sat down to take off my shoes, and I just kind of leaned back, and then...

I have never heard of this falling-asleep-in-the-dressing-room syndrome before, but if anyone has I'd love to know that my son is not the first to have this serious condition. The dance was a success, however, and he had a blast with his good friend Maddie. Here they are in all their homecoming finery!

The First Frightening Signs of What's to Come...

So I had this conversation with my ten year old today:

Me: (looking admiringly at his handsome-cuteness) L, you're a good looking kid.

L: ("Awww shucks" expression)

Me: No, you really are. Do you know you're nice looking?

L: Not really.

(about twenty seconds of silence)

L: Mom, there's something I have to tell you. But I don't know how to say it.

Me: What?

L: Well, it happened a couple of weeks ago.

Me: And...

L: (getting close to my ear and whispering, even though no one was around) This girl asked me out.

Me: What! Who? What's her name? (the hussy, I silently think to myself)

L: Uh, (thinks for a second) I don't know.

Me: Well what did you say?

L: (with an appropriately shocked and horrified look on his face) NO! I said "Sorry, I can't have a girlfriend till I'm sixteen," what do you think I'd say?!

Isn't he a good son? Just look at him -






Any girl would want him.

A Sad Tale

I have this really cute pair of earrings. They fit into that "perfect earring" category, if you know what I mean. They're smallish, so they don't overwhelm. They're pewterish silver, so they go with anything. They're dangly but not very long, and they have this cute little rosette at the bottom with a cute little low-profile pink stone in them.

And I can never wear them.

And no, it's not because I'm allergic. The real reason is much, much, more pathetic and sad than that. The story goes something like this:

Two years ago (yes people, that said TWO YEARS AGO), I was doing my thing, just walking around my house (cleaning again, because as you know I am ALWAYS cleaning), when I find this cute little pair of earrings lying on the bureau in my living room. They sparked the following conversation:

Me: Hey, does anyone know where these earrings came from?

Liam: (seven yrs old at the time) Oh yeah, those are from Grandma.

Me: They are? How do you know? Did she give them to you?

L: No, I found them in the mailbox.

Me: The mailbox? Well how do you know they're from Grandma if you found them in the mailbox? (My mother always writes old-school cursive, and I knew there was no way he could have deciphered that).

L: Because it came with a note.

Me: What did the note say?

L: I can't remember.

Me: Well, where is the note?

L: I threw it in the garbage.

Me: The kitchen garbage?

L: No. The big garbage out by the road.

Are you following this? That would be the big, disgusting, garbage garbage, that all the other garbage goes into. The big smelly one the actual garbage truck dumps on Wednesdays. The garbage way too disgusting for me to scrounge around in looking for some mysterious note from some really nice, thoughtful person.

I was irritated. Frustrated. Exasperated. Why? Why, why, why would he think it was okay to throw away a note? A note written to his mother, accompanying a gift? If he hadn't been so cute - and so pathetically sorry when he realized he'd done something horribly wrong - I would have turned into "Mean Mommy".

But I didn't.

I still had hope. After all, surely I could find the giver of the cute earrings, right? I mean, I don't know that many thoughtful, generous people, right?

Wrong.

I called everyone I could think of. For weeks, I would randomly think of names and call people to ask them if they, by any chance, left a cute little pair of dangly earrings in my mailbox.

No one knew anything about it.

"That's okay," I told myself, "even if I can't thank the person, I can still wear them - right?" Wrong. I can't wear them, and it's so unfair. It's bad enough that some kind, thoughtful person was generous to leave me cute earrings and a note, and I never even thanked them. They no doubt already think I'm the most ungrateful person ever.

But how much worse would it be if they saw me WEARING the earrings - actually utilizing the results of their generosity? There I'd be, with the cute earrings dangling from my earlobes, talking away, STILL not thanking them for the kind, thoughtful gift. Then they'd know - without a doubt - that I really was the most ungrateful person ever.

As it is, the mystery giver probably thinks I just didn't like them. But why, oh why couldn't they have ever called just to say: "So, did you ever get those earrings I left in your mailbox? I was worried one of your kids might have taken them and thrown the note into your big nasty garbage can, and that you might not have known they were from me."

But no, instead they were just too kind and thoughtful to bring up the subject of a pair of earrings I no doubt hated.

And so, the moral of this story is - If you ever mail (or leave in someone's mailbox) a cute, thoughtful gift accompanied by a note, but then never hear from the person regarding the cute, thoughtful gift - CALL THEM! Make sure they actually received the gift (and accompanying note)!

And if anyone reading this blog is the sender of my cute, anonymous earrings, please reveal yourself! I'm tired of only wearing them when I'm out of state visiting strangers, or taking the risk, wearing them anyway, and then feeling compelled to ask every person I know if my earrings look familiar to them.

It's bad enough that someone out there thinks I'm the most ungrateful person ever - I should at least get to wear the earrings

The Truth Hurts

I love it when little kids coin phrases that become family tradition. Take my sister Laura's son Kenyan, for instance. (He's going to love that I'm posting this story about him, by the way - now that he's thirteen and immune to all embarrassment). When he was being potty trained, he was having a hard time with the whole BM thing. Just couldn't really let it go on the potty, if you know what I mean. Finally, in his moment of triumph he excitedly yelled, "Hey, I dropped some!" A family phrase/code word was born. In our family we don't say a child has to "go", we say he has to "drop some."

My favorite of all time, however, is a phrase that originates with Liam. Liam has always been aware of other people's feelings. Even when he was really little, he never wanted to make anyone feel bad, or be mean in any way.

Yet, being a small child, the truth must be said.

One day when he was about four, Liam and my mother were outside together. I don't remember exactly what it was they were doing, but while they were doing whatever it was, my mom exhibited poor judgement on some level. A level low enough that my four year old son noticed.

Standing next to her, he critically examined the situation from his four year old perspective. Reaching his conclusion, he looked up at her with an apologetic expression on his little face, and gently said, "Grandma? I think maybe you're just a little bit not so smart."

It was clear that it pained him to be so brutally honest, but at four what other choice do you have?

Since this occurrence, my mother eventually recovered her self respect in the eyes of my child, and we have continued to use the phrase, "just a little bit not-so-smart" to lovingly point out judgement lapses, and various other, well, not-so-smart things committed by those we love.

Armpit Hair, Anyone?

So, as a general rule, body hair is not a very desirable thing. Unless you are a nine year old boy. Then, apparently, it's fascinating, and you really, really, really want some. Especially if your friend gets some first.

Liam, my nine year old, has a best friend. We'll call him B. B is a hilarious kid that is a kick to have around. B is seven months older than Liam, and is not what you'd call a skinny kid - but this totally adds to his charm. I have been hearing for a while about B's "armpit hair." Liam is completely awed by the fact that a kid his age could have already acquired such a thing. Several times now he has asked me to inspect his own armpits - just in case.

The other day I took the boys and B to the lake. They had a fabulous time swimming around and playing in the sand. Finally it was time to pack things up, and we got in the car and headed home. Niall, Liam and B are all sitting in the back seat as I hear (and watch via the rear view)the following conversation.

B: I have armpit hair.

L&N: Can we see? (in their "like totally cool! No way, dude!" voices)

Rear view mirror shows B proudly thrusting his armpits in the direction of my children's scrutinizing faces.

N: Wow, cool!

L: I think I'm getting some armpit hair!

Rear view mirror shows Liam hopefully displaying his armpits.

Some general conversation follows about different people and their armpit hair, until someone says:

"I know a kid who has armpit hair on his face!" followed by oooohs and ahhhs at the coolness of this statement.

How exactly do you follow a such a statement? I'm at a loss. I laughed all the way home. Since then, Liam has had me inspect his armpits, chest, and face. I had to disappoint him on all three accounts by describing the difference between "hair" and "fuzz". He rallied right back, however, and informed me that he has some "pretty good arm hair." I don't know, it looked pretty fuzzy to me. But he swears that when he gets out of the shower and rubs it with a towel it looks "Sooo hairy Mom!" Again, what can I say? Goooo Liam!

P.S. I told my mother this story, and like the fabulous grandma that she is, the next time she saw Liam the first thing she did was ask about his arm hair. He was thrilled.

Night Walkers

Little known fact about me - I love to be out at night with out a flashlight. Walks in the dark, or being in the woods when camping - as long as it's dark, and nature-y, I'm all over it.

This probably originated from my childhood. We had acreage and cows, and occasionally nighttime hunts for an animal were necessary. The ones that made the biggest impression happened when I was about eight or nine. This makes Laura 10-11, and Annie 6-7.

Missing cows usually ended up in a two-acre stand of large trees (i.e. woods) in our lower field. It was always the same - Dad and Annie would go one way, Laura and I would go the other in the pitch black forest of darkness. We would be totally terrified. Eventually, however, we'd calm down and start having fun with our adventure.

Running around on prank errands at girls' camp, and huge nighttime games of capture the flag cured me of the need for a flashlight. By the time I reached adulthood I was a veteran night walker. (That doesn't sound quite right, does it...) Until walking home tonight with Liam and Niall, I'd completely forgotten what could be so scary about a walk in the dark.

The boys were horrified that we were actually heading into the night with no flashlight. In their defense, it was a dark, moonless, foggy night with that dense blackness hanging in the shadows...but off we went. They were clinging so tightly to my arms I could hardly walk. They were scared of coyotes, stray dogs, large (as in giant) snakes, and every single sound they heard. No one wanted to get behind or in front of the group - especially after I told them that "things" always get the loner. Aren't I a mean mom?

Eventually they relaxed a little, and Liam admitted it wasn't "that scary". When we got close enough they even ventured out of the herd to sprint home - until they got too far ahead of me, then they sprinted back.

Overall, I figure we can chalk this up as our first night-walk together. Who knows? Maybe we can make it a tradition, and it will be something my children will always remember doing with their fearless mother. That really is the great thing about kids - they know what you know, and you can almost always pass on the things that are most important to you. To my boys, thank you for helping me remember what it's like to be a little person with a huge imagination, and here's to the future of a new Baxter tradition.