I miss being that young

Rachel is either just young or a freak of nature, or perhaps a combination of the two. She was up at a reasonable time this morning, bouncing around, claiming that she was only a little achy and didn't even need Motrin for it. She was also upset with the news that no matter how good she feels, she's not going jogging with Rob, she's not going to TKD, she's not taking the dog for a walk, and she's not doing much of anything. This includes going out with New Guy Rob, Alex, and Stephanie tonight.

She didn't try to argue the point when she normally would have, but still, she was not happy about it. Sitting around with Mom and Dad would be boring and even Kevin has plans with Elizabeth and Grandpa.

Alex and Stephanie are fairly laid back and don't go out every weekend; half the time they hang around here and watch DVDs, so Alex didn't feel especially out of line telling Rachel that they'd just stay here with her, order a pizza, and watch movies or play games, whatever she wanted. He called Steph to double check, and she was fine with the idea.

That lifted Rachel's mood considerably, and she called New Guy Rob to tell him about the change of plans. New Guy Rob, however, was less enamored with the idea and told her he assumed she wouldn't be able to go out at all, so he made other plans.

With another girl.

Granted, he and Rachel are not "a couple." She accepts that. But she's mad as hell that he didn't have the courtesy to call her and cancel their plans instead of just assuming. She was also ticked off that in the same 3 minute phone call he wanted to know if I still wanted to go running with him this morning even though it was obvious she couldn't go.

I'm trying to remember if I was as much of an ass when I was 14.

As annoyed with him as she is, when Kevin asked her if she was going to break up with him, she shrugged it off and said he's thoughtless but he's still a nice guy and there's nothing to break up, so she'll give him another chance.

I suppose this means I have to, as well.

I assumed his absence would mean Alex and Stephanie would be the only ones hanging around with her tonight, but no. In the half an hour I was outside walking the dog she called five of her friends, and they're all coming over, too.

Six fourteen year old girls. One fifteen year old girl. I'm already dreading the noise level.

Alex and I may have to go off and shoot pool or something.

I wanted Mom, too

The girl is not a complainer. She's a drama queen sometimes, but that goes with the territory of being female and fourteen; it's her divine right, and she'll outgrow it. She's also prone to hyperbole, but she comes by that honestly, having learned it well from my father, who was the master.

This evening Char went out with her sister and a few friends, leaving me with the kids and assuming, I suppose, that she would come home and all three would be happy, healthy, and in one piece.

She shouldn't assume.

I did all the things I knew would be expected; I made dinner for the kids, helped them with the dishes and then homework, fed the cats and the dog and watched out the back door as Kevin played with Tank, and vaguely heard Rachel wander past, complaining that she wasn't feeling very well. Alex asked her what was wrong and she blew it off as "just a little crampy."

Alex jabbed back with, "Again? Didn't we just suffer through you doing this like two weeks ago?"

I mostly tuned them out, worrying more that Kevin and Tank were going to wind up in the pool. I didn't even recall that she had said she wasn't feeling well until much later.

After Kevin came back inside and was in the shower, Rachel curled up next to me on the couch and said she was really feeling crappy. She tried to stretch out and lie there with her head in my lap, something she rarely does anymore, but within a couple of minutes she had her knees drawn up and was crying.

Being the genius that I am, I assumed she was just coming down with a stomach virus and that there was a 50-50 chance I'd get barfed on, but I can deal with that. Alex heard her sniffling and came out of his room to see what was wrong, and by the time he was in the living room she was sobbing.

Rachel cries when she's upset; she doesn't cry when she's sick or just feeling a little out of sorts. The sobbing made me sit up a little straighter and start to run through a mental list of what I could do to make her feel better, but when she grabbed at her stomach and was calling me "Daddy" in between breaths, I wanted to panic.

I only get called Daddy when she wants something, or something is very, very wrong. This felt very, very wrong. I picked her up, something else that hasn't happened in a long time, and headed for the door, with Alex a step behind me assuring me he would watch Kevin, call his mother, and call Erin because he was pretty sure we would be out pretty late.

Traffic fell into place; I was well over the speed limit but wasn't hindered by other cars and luckily there were no cops around. We hit the ER fifteen minutes after I left the house and she was being seen 5 minutes after that. And she was in a hell of a lot of pain, the sobbing turning from "Daddy" to "I want Mom."

I understand that there has to be some immunity to other peoples' pain and parental anxiety on the part of ER personnel. I have no issue with that. Rachel was in no position for the ER doctor to speak with her directly, what I would have normally preferred, but because he was trying to talk to me and she was still crying, I was distracted. I'm sure I looked Iike I was distracted. There wasa flurry of paperwork and my cell phone ringing because Char was trying to find out what the hell was going on, and Rachel was still crying and wanting her mother.

At some point I was signing my name to another form and the kid taking it glanced at Rachel and asked, "Does that bother you, that she wants her mother?"

What?

Why the hell would it bother me? A kid crying for her mother doesn't mean that she wants her father less; it means she wants her mother. You know, the person a kid normally associates with soft touches and warm kisses to the forehead that mean everything will be fine. That pissed me off a little, that in the middle of my kid's pain another, who should be old enough to know better, asked something as stupid as that.

For the record: absolutely not. I was there when Rachel needed me, but she also needed her mother. It's not a competition.

Half an hour later Char was there, falling all over Rachel with apologies for not being home when she needed her, and almost as soon as Char's hand was on her forehead Rachel calmed considerably. We were both there, we were both promising her that she was going to be all right. By that point she wasn't in pain thanks to a plethora of drugs, but she just needed Mom. And Mom was there as fast as she could get there.

The only issue at hand was waiting until it had been long enough from the time she'd had dinner until she could go into surgery.

And I forgot that part; appendicitis.

At one this morning they wheeled her back; she hardly looked like the same kid who was writhing in pain earlier, and she didn't seem all that afraid of what was going to happen.

Now it's nearly 5 in the morning. Char is staying with Rachel and kicked me out so that one of us would be here when Alex and Kevin get up. Rachel is going to be fine and will probably come home late in the afternoon.

But for a little while, from the moment she called me "daddy" again in between sobs, I admit, I was terrified.

She'll be fine, yes, but damn I don't think I ever want to be called that ever again, not unless she's trying to charm me into doing something she wants me to.

9 inches my ass

At four o'clock this morning I woke up and found Ian sitting up in bed, arms folded as he leaned against the headboard, and he was practically gnawing on his bottom lip. I couldn't tell if he was worried or angry and I almost rolled over and ignored him in case he'd found something to be ticked off about in the middle of the night. If I'd done something, we could deal with it in the morning. But then he sighed, so I snuggled in close and asked him what the problem was.

"I think I have to amputate my toe."

All right, from my perspective he was staring at his crotch and not his feet, but I could be wrong. So I asked why.

"It's nine inches long."

Um, yeah sweetheart, if you're really looking where it looks like you're looking, that's wishful thinking.

"I'm never going to find shoes that fit."

I suggested sandals; he balked because "then it would be out there flapping around. And someone would step on it."

I don't know why, but I got up out of bed and went into the bathroom for nail clippers and came back out, offering to take care of the offending toe for him. Just a snip here and there, and it would be fine, I promised. So he agreed; clipping it off would be all right.

I got to the foot of the bed, and lo and behold, hiding behind his mammoth feet was a tiny black cat. Tail sticking straight up. I told Ian to close his eyes so that it wouldn't hurt, tweaked his toes with my fingers a little, picked Weezer up, and then crawled back into bed. When I told him everything was fine now, he opened his eyes and looked at his feet, and marveled at there not being any blood.

I handed Weezer to him and told him she was worried about him. And people, don't ever believe his "I don't like cats" crap, because he kissed her on the top of her little head before settling back onto the bed and putting her on the pillow next to his head.

He sighed happily and mumbled "I love you," but honestly, I don't know if he was saying it to me or the cat.

If that's foreplay, Alex said as he walked into our room last night as I helped Char stretch, I'm pretty sure you're doing it wrong.

To which Char sputtered, You better not know what the hell you're talking about.

Alex shrugged it off. He had things to discuss with us, none of which had anything to do with what he might or might not know about foreplay (which for Char's sake is a good thing, because she cannot handle the concept. She would have bolted from the room.) His first question was innocent: are we planning a family vacation over the summer? Because he needs to know; registration for summer classes begins soon, but if we're planning on going somewhere, he'll skip the summer.

I would like him to skip the summer semester regardless; he doesn't have very many summers left where he can just be a kid. He sees not taking classes as being unproductive, but if we don't want him to, he'll ask Grandpa for an extra work shift or two.

We asked him to skip the summer semester. We don't have plans, but we might want to take the kids somewhere on a whim. Besides, if last summer was any indication, his friends are going to be hanging all over this place and he'll want to hang with them. Also, I bought a new high pressure nozzle for the garden hose, and I'm looking forward to hosing him and Stephanie down.

But, there was more. He looked as if he thought he was treading into none-of-my-business territory, but planned on going ahead anyway.

We know you used to say we had to be sixteen to date and then you lowered it to fourteen for me. Rachel and I were talking, and it won't bother us if you lower it for Kevin.

While that's big of them, I don't think they see the bigger picture (and I don't expect them to.)

Kevin and Elizabeth are twelve years old. Just twelve. They have no business dating in the traditional sense. Cutting them loose in a theater for a movie, to wander around the mall, whatever they think a date consists of, is a bad idea. Not because they're untrustworthy, but because they are both too young to defend against things that other people are far to willing to inflict on them. Kevin can theoretically defend himself, yes; he's strong, fast, knows how to fight, and knows what hurts. But even for a twelve year old, he's small. He's no match for someone my size bent on harm. To have to protect himself and Elizabeth? It's not a practical expectation.

Those two are also on the very beginnings of puberty and all the depths of stupid that brings. No, I don't trust them with their impulses. I don't expect them to have the capability to connect points of logic that take them from this would be fun to this could ruin our lives.

Char reminded Alex, gently, that Kevin's biological mother had him at age thirteen; she got pregnant when she was twelve.

Your little brother is twelve.

No, we won't be making any concessions for him because the girl he loves--and I have no doubt about that--happens to be his best friend.

I see where Alex is coming from. He's thrilled that Kevin is openly affectionate and has proclaimed his devotion to a girl. Somewhere deep inside him is a genuine fear that the little brother he cares so much about is gay, and he's hoping that this is proof that Kevin is straight, even if he is a bit affectatious.

Kevin's overt declarations that Elizabeth is his girlfriend mean, in the long run, very little. While intellectually Alex knows this, he wants an easier path for Kevin to have ahead of him.

So do I.

Wanting that for him, however--the easier life, not hoping that he's straight--is very different than opening him up to things he's not ready for.

We're more than willing to take him and Elizabeth to movies, to bowl, to play miniature golf or whatever else it is they want to do--the same way we did for Alex when he was hanging around with Evan, before girls became It. The same way we did with Rachel and her friends. But we can't encourage anything more because it wouldn't be the best thing for either of them.

I think Alex gets that.

Still, we were touched that he's mature enough to realize that there is no one-size-fits-all parenting and doesn't mind that his little brother might get to do what he did not. We love that he looks out for his brother and sister.

It occurred to him as he sat there and watched Char stretch that while Rachel is technically allowed to date, every single time she's gone out, he's been there. Cheese was not allowed to go out without a chaperon, and New Guy Rob has really only been hanging around the house. He hasn't asked Rachel out on an actual date.

And when he does?

Alex is 90% sure he'll be there. Not because we won't allow her out alone now, but because deep down, Rachel isn't emotionally ready to be alone with a boy and she'll ask Alex to tag along.

And without any fuss, he'll do it.

I think Char was enveloped in the motherly warmth that comes with seeing your son take another step forward, but then Alex stood up and said Just so you know, I always empty my trash can. That shit flushes, you know?

I laughed until I realized she was embarrassed enough that no one was getting lucky last night.

Semantics

Lately, Kevin has been referring to Elizabeth as his girlfriend. We're not surprised, since they've been best friends for as long as we can remember, and before he switched schools he got in trouble several times when he was caught kissing her on the playground (yes, he got in trouble. She did not. Obviously she was at the mercy of his overwhelming charms and inherent evil boyness. And apparently the homophobic teacher he had failed to make note of these transgressions. But, I digress.) That he considers her to be his girlfriend is not an earth shattering revelation.

Last night he asked, in almost an offhand sort of way, if he could take her to a movie today. Within a second, Alex and Rachel were all over that.

Alex: Dude, you're twelve.
Kevin: So?
Rachel: That's a date. You don't get to date until you're fourteen.
Kevin: But I've gone to movies with her lots!
Alex: Sucks, man, but if she's your girlfriend, Dad will make you wait two more years.

Kevin looked deflated. He has gone to movies with Elizabeth dozens of times, and no one thought twice about it, not until he slapped a label on their relationship. He was also not going to challenge me on it; he knows the rules, and he's not about to back down and say she's not his girlfriend.

Char piped up then. "It's not a date if your mom and dad go, too. What movie are we seeing?"

Kevin lit up; inwardly I groaned. The groaning doubled when he informed us that Elizabeth wants to see some movie about African Cats.

(I don't want to go, but I will. I don't pretend that I have a choice.)

Then Alex brightened. Stephanie wants to see that, too. Would it be all right to tag along?

Sure, the more the merrier, I guess.

Then Rachel decided this was a good way to test New Guy Rob. She texted him and asked if he wanted to go with us.

So in half an hour I start picking kids up and we're all heading for documentary hell, all so Kevin can not have a date.

You know I'll wind up paying for all the tickets, popcorn, candy, and soda. And then dinner after, because all those kids are hollow and will still be hungry.

I'm going to lose the battle of the dating age sooner rather than later, aren't I? Because I see Kevin and Elizabeth together at least until high school, and I'm not spending $300 every time they want to see a movie together.

My birthday, so far:

The kids are getting dressed for school; Char comes into the kitchen where I am begging the coffee maker to hurry up already.

Char: I think we need to make Kevin a doctor's appointment.
Me: For?
Char: I think he has allergies.
Me: I haven't heard him sneezing or coughing. He doesn't sound congested or anything.
Char: No, but he's gone through an entire box of Kleenex in the last week.
Me: (blink blink blink)
Char: What?
Me: He doesn't need to see a doctor.
Char: But--
Me: He's fine.
Char: A entire box, Ian.
Me: Only thing wrong with him is that he's twelve.

At this point, the offender wanders into the kitchen. Char looks at him, sighs hard, and rushes out.

Kevin: What? What'd I do?
Me: Empty your trash can more often, kid.

Funny thing is, he knew exactly what I was talking about, and wasn't the least bit flustered by it. He just laughed at his mother, and promised he'd be less conspicuous.

The little kid years are officially over.

50!

Someone is fifty years old today. We celebrated with the kids yesterday, mostly because it was Thad's first birthday and Ian wanted the focus on him, but he couldn't stop very single person who walked through the door from looking at him and saying "FIFTY!" as if it was amazing that anyone could possibly live that long. Even my dad, who is only 9 years older than Ian, had to poke the bear every now and then with a sarcastic "FIFTY!"

Tonight, Ian and I are going to celebrate his half century together, alone, which is the only thing I could get him to admit that he wants. He was pretty insistent that he didn't want any toys (unlike last year, when he turned into an 8 year old) or even anything practical. He just wants to go out and do something, which means dinner at the only restaurant that exists in his little world, and then going to my dad's bar to shoot pool (and drink for free since it is his birthday. Oh yeah, he'll take a gift from my dad.)

I really wanted to have a major blowout since it's a major birthday, but I suppose I'll let him have his way.

He might as well, because his physical is due soon, and you know what medical adventure the doctor is going to want this year :)

Happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you, and I can't wait to see the look on your face the day you find out what the "prep" involves!

And I have to survive this THREE times?

Rachel and Kevin were off for Spring Break this week, and instead of the tropical paradise vacation they hoped for, they got Dad waking them up earlier than they would have liked everyday to help him with things like straightening up the garage, washing and waxing cars, pulling weeds, and powerwashing the outside of the house (Kevin wanted to do the inside; it took him a minute or two to grasp why that was a bad idea.) Ian was nice enough to them to not pile the work on too high; he was getting them up at 9 a.m., and as long as they agreed to help without whining, their workday ended at lunchtime, and we took them out for lunch after picking Alex up.

Now, Alex has gotten used to Dad letting him drive everywhere. Ian lets him drive to school in the morning and they take the long way home after his last class lets out. I have not ridden with Alex, because he is 15 and I've reached my horrible car accident limit. Yes, I am terrified at the idea of riding with my son. But yesterday we picked Alex up, Ian got out from behind the wheel and tossed the keys to him, and looked at me like "Don't you dare tell him you're afraid to be with him." Well, I have told him that, but he thinks I'm kidding.

I'm not.

I kept my mouth shut, though, and for Alex's sake I sucked it up, even though Ian left me in the front seat. Alex wasn't bothered one bit by having us all in the car, it was like this was an everyday thing. And as he made his way through traffic, I started to relax, because he seems to know what he's doing, smooth acceleration and smooth braking. But then Ian told him to take the freeway, and I nearly lost it. I actually blurted out "Oh my God, no!" but instead of being offended, Alex laughed and took it as a challenge.

He got onto the freeway at speed, which I know is how you're supposed to do it but my God, we were going 65 mph with a 15 year old at the wheel! And then he changed lanes repeatedly, keeping up with traffic and overtaking the slowpokes, and I had to hold onto my seatbelt with both hands and just pray I didn't wet myself. I really did not want to upset him, but three or four times I begged him to slow down before he got pulled over or accidentally clipped someone else, but he's such a shit that he just laughed and kept going.

Pretty soon, I realized Kevin and Rachel were both laughing, too.

Fifteen minutes later he took the exit close to the pizza place and slowed down, and I know I was white as a ghost, which is saying something given my complexion. They were all still very amused, but I had to take a moment to tell Alex to NEVER speed like that, especially with his brother and sister in the car. And he chuckled again! Then turned around and went inside with them.

Ian wisely waited for me, but as I snatched my purse up he sighed and told me, "He never went over sixty five. In fact, since traffic was light, he spent a lot of it at under sixty. Trust me, he can go the speed limit and he does it very well."

Oh, I know he was doing at least eighty.

And my heart rate hasn't come down yet.

AND I think I wet myself a little.

But he is a good driver. And I might let him take me to the store tomorrow.

Dear Person Who Wants So Badly To Know Where I Live,

I get why you want to know; you want to know because I won't tell you. It's perplexing; normally you engage someone in conversation online, ask where they live and what they do, and they answer. A simple, common exchange, information filed away for a later date that changes nothing. You spoke to them freely before you asked, so knowing is not the dynamic element in that relationship. If someone lives close to you, you might, after a time, meet in person, have coffee or lunch, and consider developing an IRL friendship. Those with whom you develop an online relationship that live miles away, you keep it online. Perhaps phone calls. But the expectations of meeting face to face are low, because they are unrealistic.

For someone to refuse to share that information smacks of something being not quite right. Why wouldn't someone be willing to say where they live? What they do? Share photos of themselves and their kids and spouse?

I am more of the framework of mind that wonders why people share those things so easily. Many people I know share so freely that even without an exact address, I know so much about them that I could find that address in less than five minutes. Because I've seen pictures of their house/car/spouse/kids, I could theoretically take that information and use it to wreak havoc of levels most people don't want to think about. Because I know their kids' names, birthdays, nicknames, hair color, eye color--everything--were I that sort of person, the heartache I could render would be formidable.

I am not that person. I also choose to not invite that sort of person into my life, online or otherwise.

I don't refuse to share that information because I'm an asshole; I don't refuse to share it because I have something to hide. I refuse to share it because I know how easily it is to be tracked down and hurt, and because I have a wife and kids to whom my first priorities lie, I have to not care if it upsets other people.

Twenty three years ago, before the Internet became this huge thing, before the routine sharing of photos online, before texting and instant messaging and online communities where people could seek out others with similar interests and where hard and fast friendships developed, I walked into my house near Washington D.C.; my then-wife Kathy was seated in a chair in the center of the living room, sobbing wildly, and before I could get three steps into the room to find out what was wrong and console her, I was shot four times.

I still hear every one of those gunshots. The physical scars have faded, and I was fortunate in that the weapon used against me was small caliber, but I sometimes still hear those shots. I know Kathy never got over it, and she spent the rest of our marriage terrified.

It happened because I was a little bit careless on the job one time, allowed just a small tidbit of information about myself to slip loose, and someone with whom I had, to put it nicely, a difficult time with used that information to track me down.

Then it was far less easy to find someone; today it is so easy that what probably took that guy weeks of effort would take a few minutes now.

So no, I won't tell you where I live. For that same reason, I don't plaster pictures of my kids all over the place. For that reason, I went a few degrees of ballistic when Char did. All I want is to protect my family from the choices I made when I was only 22 years old.

That doesn't mean I value less the relationships I've developed online; the fact that anyone can tolerate my paranoia and remain friends with me surprises me, and those are the people I find myself able to engage with. It means a lot to me.

That I don't tell you where I live doesn't mean I don't trust you. It only means that above all, I want to protect my family.

The person online I trust the most--no, she doesn't know exactly where I live. She doesn't have my address. She knows how to get in contact, and she knows the hoops that must be jumped through in order to do something as simple as sending a birthday card, but no, she doesn't have my address.

If someone I have known for over 35 years doesn't have it and is not offended, I would hope that more people get that it's not personal.

If that's not enough, for years my own parents didn't know where I lived; it wasn't until they moved to live with us that they knew.

It's really not personal.

I'm not hiding anything other than the things that would make it easiest to find me.

I am just protective, and to be honest, a little afraid. Because these days, someone hell bent on hurting me would probably not bother trying to hurt me. If you have kids, take a long hard look at them. Wouldn't you do anything and everything to protect them? Even if it made other people point and laugh, and judge your odd paranoiac habits?

I would hope that you would.

How you know you've done something right

Overheard, the oldest boy talking to the youngest, who is being slammed by the beginnings of puberty:

Just treat girls the way you want guys to treat your sister. If you do anything else, you're a dick.

He gets it. Hell yes, I'm proud of him.