Bye Bye Nana

Haven't posted in a while. My mother, who has been battling a slowly deteriorating heart/circulation condition for about a year and a half, was critically ill throughout June.
She passed away, at home in her bright, picture-filled bedroom, and reasonably peacefully, on Wednesday, July 1, with my sister Deb and I next to her.
Losing a parent provides enough emotional fodder to fill up the blogosphere.
But this one is really about my kids' reaction to the loss of their beloved Nana.
At my mom's aide's suggestion, we brought all three boys to see her the Saturday before she died. I wanted her to see them, in the hope that it would bring her some joy. And, frankly, though we'd talked about how sick Nana was, I wanted to the boys to get a visual picture.
Nana looked pretty good to me, but she was in a hospital bed, with oxygen tubes in her nose (Yes, I'd explained this all to the boys beforehand). She was alert but clearly weak.
Kyle, my 10-year-old, took matters in hand right away. He walked up to Nana, leaned over the hospital bed to hug her and said, "Hi Nana, It's Kyle." He stroked her arm gently and murmured, "I love you."
Jesse left the room quickly, choosing to sit on Mick's lap in the living room and think things through. I knew we'd hear from him later.
Seth pulled out some Legos and sprawled on the floor of the bedroom, allowing his grandmother to watch him play. She smiled as he created a complex Lego army and flew his Lego planes through the air.
On our way back to Manhattan, Jesse leaned into me and whispered, "Mommy, I have a secret to tell you: Nana looks like she's going to die!"
"I think so too," Seth said, grabbing my hand.
Kyle nodded. "I agree," he said.
I grabbed Jesse and hugged him hard. What a brave little guy, to give voice to those thoughts. With that, Jesse, my little toughie, burst into tears. "But she's our only Nana. I don't want her to die."
Mick scooped him up and carried him, crying and talking, down the steps to the bus stop.
I spent much of the next few days at my mother's apartment, watching over her, trying my best to comfort her (soft music, soft lights, a medication protocol that actually worked, thanks to hospice) and, frankly, waiting for the inevitable. It was a time of intense awe and deep pain.
My sadness was only compounded by the knowledge that my boys would lose so much.
I explained to them ahead of time what would happen at the funeral: Nan would be in her coffin but it would be closed and they would not have to see her. People would tell stories about Nana and why they loved her. Then we would all go to the cemetery, where Nana's coffin would be placed in the ground.
"I want to say something," Kyle said. "She was my Nana."
"Of course you can," I replied, thinking he'd never be able to summon up the courage to speak in front of a large group on such a difficult day.
I was proud of my trio that day, with their black dress shoes and their button-down shirts. They sat and endured as the Nana speeches went on. They were present, they were engaged, they were there for their grandmother.
After I finished speaking (I was last, as the youngest child), Kyle strode up to the podium and took the microphone. I was so stunned that I don't remember exactly what he said in his high, pitchy voice, but it went something like this:
"My Nana was a wonderful person. My brothers, Seth and Jesse, and I loved her very much. And we're very sad that she's gone." With that, I held Kyle in my arms and walked him back to our seat.
Sobs filled the room.
My overwhelming feeling was one of pride. That he'd stepped up for his Nana in such a profound and loving way, one that I'd thought would be way beyond his years and emotional maturity level.
It was at once a loving goodbye and a glimpse at the man he would be, thanks, in part, to the steadfast love of his Nana.
Bye Mom. We'll always miss you. But clearly, you've passed on some of the best of you, by loving my boys and teaching them how to express their love. It is a wonderful gift.

Better Left Misspoken

You know how kids sometimes get phrases wrong? And how cute that is? Here are couple from my seven-year-olds:
*Seth: "Mom, can I have more spaghetti and neatballs?"
*Jesse: "When can we go to Toys Near Us?"
*Jesse: "Is Kyle going to Twai Kon Do (Tai Kwon Do) today?"

Another Ploy Blown to Bits

Walking home tonight, Kyle said to me, "Mom, you don't really have eyes in the back of your head, do you?"
I smiled; telling me kids about my "other" eyes was a remarkably effective ploy for years, but I'd ditched it recently in favor of time-outs and other more punitive strategies (no Game Boy for a week! Or perhaps ever again!).
'What do you think?" I asked, as Kyle leaped and wiggled behind me, doing who knows what.
"Well, you can't see what I'm doing right now," my almost-10-year-old replied. "So I think...no eyes back there."
"When did you figure out that I don't have eyes in the back of my head?" I asked.
Kyle shrugged. "About four years ago," he said.
I explained that people often say Moms have eyes in the back of their heads because they always know what their kids are doing. "Like I always know what you guys are doing," I said.
My fourth-grader flashed me a sly little grin. "But you don't know what we're doing in the cafeteria at lunch," Kyle said. Teaser.
You know, I keep my kids pretty close at hand. Living in New York City, where space is almost unbearably limited, makes it easy to keep tabs on your children.
But I guess the rope is getting stretched now. Because I don't know what they're doing at lunch, what they're talking about in the playground. And the three of them have secrets now, jokes they tell only to each other, games that don't include me or their dad.
But we'll always have time-outs.

Toddler Talk

From time to time, my kids ask for another sibling. With a pack-rat husband (hi honey!) and three boys already inhabiting our too-small New York City apartment already, the likelihood of another child joining the mix is about as great as the chance that Bernie Madoff will be lauded with a parade in Palm Beach.
Lately, they've been asking for a toddler, instead of a baby. I'm not sure why, but perhaps they're thinking that a toddler will be less trouble and more fun.
So, this morning, Seth cuddles up to me and whispers in my ear, "Mommy, I hope you're adopting a toddler soon because it will be so much fun to play with."
For the record, I have no idea where he learned about adoption, or got the idea that we'd be adopting anything other than a fish.
"What's a toddler?" I asked.
"I know," said Kyle, my almost-10-year-old, with great authority. "A three or four year-old."
"No way," said Seth. "Toddlers are three."
"Toddlers are babies, silly," retorted Jesse. Except he used a more objectionable word than "silly."
My hub patiently explained that toddlers are kids who have recently learned to walk and that they need a lot of care and attention.
"He can sleep in our room," Seth said. "You'll have to get a little bed."
"And little pillows and blankets," Jesse said.
"We'll give our toddler all our old clothes," Kyle added.
Before this toddler talk went any further, I felt like I had to put the kibosh on the bigger-family fantasy.
"Umm, yeah, there's not going to be a toddler, guys," I explained. "We just don't have the room. Just not going to happen."
The boys stared at me for a moment, silent. Then Jesse shrugged. "So can we get a pet lizard?" he asked.

The Force is, Apparently, With Me

Mother's Day is pretty great when you have two seven-year-olds and a nine-year-old, uber-annoying daily kid squabbles aside.
Of course, my impulse-driven children can never wait until the actual day of Mother's Day to give me their handmade goodies. So, over the years, during the week before Mother's Day, I've gotten gifts like the giant bead necklace Kyle made in preschool, so heavy that it bent my neck forward; personalized note pads with my name spelled wrong; handmade Popsicle frames and this year, a sweet little bracelet composed of a rather attractive jumble of beads.
And, inexplicably, the letters "I," "M," and "A" in the middle. My name is Diane, so I have no idea where that choice arose, but I love the bracelet anyway.
My very favorite item this year, though, actually arrived on my pillow on Mother's Day itself.
It was a card, bearing the inscription "Mom, The Force is With You." in childish scrawl. Inside, was Seth's drawing of me, holding what I can only determine is a light saber and clearly beating Darth Vader to a pulp.
"Wow, Seth, cool drawing," I say, not sure how else to respond to my child's fantasy of me as a Star Wars character.
Seth beams. "Do you love it?" he asks as I draw him in for a hug and kiss.
"Of course," I answer, cradling his impossibly skinny little-boy body.
"Oh Mom," he sighs. "You ARE the Force."
And what could be better?

Going to Juvie

Just when I'm ready to toss out the board books, Duplos (those big Legos that take up scads of room) and other toys that the boys seem to have grown out of, the inevitable happens. 

Yup, you know it: they develop a new passion for their more babyish toys. 

We've had a pile of Cars (as in the movie The Cars from several years back in time and maturity) in Seth and Jesse's room for months while we ponder who to give them to or where to donate them. The boys haven't looked at this stuff, never mind played with it, in at least a year. 

Star Wars is far more compelling.

So last night, as I'm in the midst of trying to get Kyle to finish his reading homework, pack lunch for the next day and find out who's getting the boot from American Idol (I mean, catch up on CNN), I hear strange noises from the little guys' room. 

They're honking and beeping and chattering away in these oddly mechanical little voices. When I pop open their door, I am dismayed to see Cars toys and buildings strewn all over their briefly-not-a-complete-pigsty room. My annoyance with what looks like a miniature multi-car freeway pileup is all too clear to the pajama-clad munchkins. It's 9:30, on a school night for Pete's sake.

"But Mom, we made a whole town," Jesse tells me. "We had stores and everything." 

"Yeah," Seth piped up. "And Juvie." 

Juvie? 

"You know, where the bad cars go," Jesse explains with exaggerated patience, as if the word "Juvie" was a regular part of our family vocabulary. "They have to stay there for as long as well tell them." 

I have absolutely no idea how to respond to this one. I mean, where the heck did they even hear the term Juvie? 

"Yeah, two of Jesse's cars are in Juvie," Seth adds. 

"Teen Juvie," Jesse says. 

"Mine are in Kid Juvie," Seth says. "That's the best Juvie of all. They get to go skiing." 

It's almost 10 pm at this point, and I'm in no mood to discuss Juvie any further. So I force a lightning round of cleanup on the guys, then hustle them into bed and threaten dire consequences for any further noise. 

We'll discuss this in the morning, I think, as I return to my next-day lunch prep work. 

But I'm bothered. Seth and Jesse seem so matter-of-fact about the notion of imprisoning their wayward vehicles, ski trips notwithstanding. Do my seven-year-olds somehow think they'll be sent to elementary school Juvie for mistakes on math homework or Nerf gun battles? Is there some deep, dark twistiness around their interest in this thing called Juvie? 

At 10, exhausted, I climb into bed. And start giggling as I think about my little guys and their strange game. After all, they built their little world together, in tandem, in harmony. Without adult intervention, supervision, or a tamping down on where their dreams and imaginations take them. 

And that, I think, more than the content of their play, is the essence of what brotherhood at its best can be.

Plus, I can now threaten them with Juvie when they misbehave. 

Score one for mom. 

 

Tony Hawk is the Bestest Skateboarder

We went shopping for spring/summer clothes yesterday. Mostly for my big guy, since the littles, Seth and Jesse, have more hand-me-downs than they can handle.
Somehow, Seth, happened upon a line of clothing from Tony Hawk, skateboarder extraordinaire.
Seth has never talked about skateboarding or been on a skateboard.
Yet he was drawn to the skater-boy styles like moth to the proverbial flame.
"Tony Hawk," he whispered in awe. He picked up a black T-shirt awash with red swirls (20 bucks before the 30 percent off) and hugged it to his chest. "I love, love, love this, Mama," Seth crooned.
My skinny little non-skater was beside himself with joy. He grabbed a pair of brown baggy knee-length shorts, pulled a bright crimson T shirt laden with skateboard graphics off the rack and held tightly them both, along with his original choice."Please, please can I?" he begged.
Given the 30 percent off, I plopped them all in the shopping cart. It was, however, a little mystifying, this sudden turn toward clothing consumerism.
Seth happily modeled his cool new duds for us at home this morning, then informed me of his future shopping plans. "Mom, can we go back to the Tony Hawk store today? I want Tony Hawk hats and shoes, and definitely Tony Hawk underwear (marketers, are you listening?)"
"So Seth," I asked. "Who is Tony Hawk?"
"Oh, Mama," he replied dreamily. "He is the bestest skateboarder ever. I love him."