The Proposal

After several months of patience, discipline, plotting and nerve building, Sam decided that it was finally time to propose to the love of his life: our babysitter.

He enlisted his brother and a sweet neighbor from down the street to help strategize. First, they had to make the rings. These were crafted very carefully with Creative Clay, and set out to dry on the window sill, and later in the freezer (to speed things up a little).

Then, they wrote and rehearsed the script, and Sam practiced getting down on one knee.

Finally, it was time for a makeover. Sam knows that girls really like it when boys smell good and are well-groomed, so following a shower he requested a haircut. His father, who is obviously not a barber, gave Sam the high and tight bowl cut. Sam was very pleased with his new look. 

I hated to ruin the surprise, but I decided to text my future daughter-in-law and give her a heads up. Having known my kids for many years, she was not surprised by this news at all - after all, Sam has been referring to her as "his fiancee" for several months.

I checked in with her later in the evening to congratulate her and see how things were going. She said he hadn't popped the question yet, and by the time I got home he was already asleep. Sam had chickened out.

The next morning I asked Sam why he didn't propose. He said he was going to, but the rings weren't dry yet. I know he will make someone very happy one day, but I hope the rings don't dry for at least another 20 years! 

   

"Is Your Grandma in that Box?"

Death is never an easy subject to discuss with a child. Likewise, visitations and funerals are the perfect venue for awkward and inappropriate questions and comments - even from the most well prepared child. Anyone standing within 12 feet of my son witnessed this firsthand a few months ago.

A good friend of mine had recently lost his sweet grandmother, and I planned to go to the visitation to pay my respects to the family. I was hoping to do this alone, but my plans were foiled when my husband had to work late and could not pick up Sam. So, in a pinch, I had to take Sam with me.

In an attempt to prevent awkward and inappropriate questions and comments, I spent several minutes explaining to Sam what we were doing, what he would see, what he should say, what NOT to say, etc. I also promised something fabulous in return for his good behavior. He acted as though he could be trusted.

We walked into the room, I gave him one or two quick reminders, and we headed towards the family. Suddenly Sam became transfixed with the coffin. I became nervous that something was going to be said that was not on the “approved” list, and attempted to navigate him out to the hall for a quick and private meeting. For the second time that afternoon my plan was foiled.

Sam looked at me, and in his sweet little confused voice he said “Is his grandma in that box?” I tried to speak over him and distract the mourners with hugs and well wishes, in hopes that they did not hear or notice my child. But he would not let it go. He looked at my friend’s mom, (the daughter of the deceased), and asked her if her grandma was in that box. Finally, he asked our friend if that was his grandmother in that box. Of course, they graciously acted as though my child was “cute” and brushed it off. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I held (restrained) Sam by the shoulders and gently (forcefully) directed him out of the room. By this time the bizarre questions were flowing like water from a fire hose as Sam started to realize the gravity of what he had just witnessed. Using previously untapped ventriloquist powers, I smiled and nodded at familiar faces and curious elderly people, all the while, and without moving my lips, saying “Sam, quiet. Wait ‘til we get outside. Outside!”

The lobby doors opened and I headed for the minivan with my head held low. I was embarrassed that my son did not have the restraint to stick to our plan, and was hoping the questions did not upset anyone. I thought it was a poor reflection of my parenting. But I also knew that it was a big moment for my super-sensitive and emotional child as dots were connecting faster than his young mind was prepared to handle. We both learned an important lesson that day. Sam learned more about what happens when someone dies, and I learned that next time I go to a visitation, I will get a babysitter.

Sammy's Jammies

In many ways, the first encounter with a promising new babysitter is a lot like a first date: you put your best foot forward, pull out all the stops, and hope this is the beginning of a wonderful partnership. My routine is to make sure the house is clean, the kids have been appropriately threatened/bribed into submission, and the babysitter knows how to use the remote controls. This particular evening was no exception. Because I am a cool mom, I try to accommodate my sons’ preferences for “young and pretty”babysitters as much as possible and within reason, so when my friend recommended a responsible and attractive 14 year-old girl from down the street I knew we were in luck.

Fast forward about 2 or 3 hours and 2 or 3 cocktails- my husband and I were enjoying a wonderful going away party for some good friends who were moving to Florida. We were having a great time when I got a call from our new babysitter. The fact that it was a call and not a text was slightly alarming, and a bit of a buzz-kill in itself. Against my better judgment, I answered the phone. Here’s what happened next:

Me: “Hi Mallory. Is everything ok?”

Mallory’s MOM: “Hi Mrs. Swift, this is Mallory’s mom.”(Insert “Holy Sh!t – why are you at my house?” thoughts here.) “Everything is ok, but Sammy is stuck in his pajamas.”

Me: confused silence

Mallory’s mom: “Apparently, he wanted to look like a peg-legged pirate and put his pj’s on with his legs bent so he could walk around on his knees.”

Me: laughing

Mallory’s mom: “He’s been stuck like this for an hour and a half. I think he’s in a lot of pain. We have offered to cut him out of his pajamas, but he won’t let us, because he is not wearing underwear. I think you should come home.”

Alan and I hugged our friends goodbye and admitted that our new babysitter’s mother was at our house, and asked us to come home because our son was stuck in his pajamas and they couldn’t cut him out. This surprised no one.

Everything turned out ok once Alan was able to free Sam from his super-restrictive, paralysis-inducing pirate costume. Sam was pretty sore, embarrassed, and disappointed that we couldn’t salvage his favorite pair of pajamas. As a precautionary measure, we now let all new babysitters know that our house is bookended by an ER nurse on one side, and a medical resident on the other, in the event of an emergency that requires using a sharp object to free my children from self-inflicted pain.

And we always make sure Sam is wearing underwear.

Adventures in Asperger's

 

With Valentine’s Day fast approaching I am reminded of one of the most difficult homework assignments I have ever had the displeasure of working on with Luke. As I have mentioned before, my beautiful, smart, sweet son has Asperger’s Syndrome. This is an Autism Spectrum Disorder which includes symptoms such as: “significant trouble with social situations, lacking empathy, and very literal in speech and thought.” Loosely translated: “Your child will suck at writing thoughtful, personalized Valentine’s cards for every kid in his class because, among other things, he is incapable of lying.”

At the time of this assignment, Luke was in second grade in a class with 24 children. We were tasked with cutting 24 hearts out of construction paper and writing something nice for each child. We were off to a good start in the beginning as Luke breezed through with adoration for some of his favorite kids in the class. Most of the hearts would say something like: “You’re pretty. Love Luke.” “You’re tall. Love Luke.” “You’re good at the wii. Love Luke.” As we moved down the list and got into neutral territory they became more observational: “Your hair is red. Luke.” “You have glasses.  Luke.” “You’re new. Luke.” The real trouble did not start until the “dirty dozen” at the bottom of Luke’s list.   

Luke does not think it is ok to write something nice to someone who is not nice. In fact, I think he felt like that little red heart was his opportunity to tell everyone exactly what he thought of them – good, bad or indifferent. I offered scores of suitable suggestions but he was not going to budge. I thought about going behind his back, disguising my handwriting to look like his, and replacing the unacceptable ones. I would have done that if I thought I could get away with it. Finally, I considered truancy, or telling Luke he was sick, if it meant he (I) could avoid the Valentine’s Day party.

I don’t remember the exact deal I struck with my child to complete the assignment in a way that would not hurt anyone’s feelings, but it probably involved money. I pulled a few of my favorite hearts from the discard pile and still have them today. Here are a few highlights: “Learn and practice writing.” “You’re crazy a little.” “Stop please.” And my favorite “Get better”. I originally thought that was a sweet get-well note, and asked if she was sick. Luke said “No. She’s bad.”

We haven’t gotten the rules for this year’s Valentine’s party yet, but I am optimistic that the good ol’ mass-produced, perforated-edged, generic but inoffensive cards will do just fine. If not, Luke just might be sick that day.