Walking Tall

by Mom Meets Blog

Something upset my son recently, and it took me rather by surprise. None of the usual suspects were to blame, like me snooping through his iPhone, or subjecting him to my passive-aggressive parenting techniques (yet again!) or me nagging him to put his dirty clothes in the hamper for the bazillionth time.

What propelled him into a moody funk was something quite small, measuring merely one-quarter of an inch.

When the nurse measured his height at his yearly physical the other day, it was confirmed that he is a full 1/4 inch taller than me.

Yep, my baby, my one and only, the love of my life, was officially taller than his mom.

I can attest to the fact that all the clichés are true – kids grow up so fast, don’t blink or you’ll miss it, the days are long but the years are short. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I reveled in his squeals of hysterical delight as I pretended to be the Cookie Monster, munching on all his delicious little cookie toes? Today you couldn’t pay me enough to go near those very non-cookie smelling feet, but I digress.

Actually I’m kind of excited that soon he’ll probably be quite a bit taller than me – any day now I can retire the step stool I use in the kitchen to reach stuff in the high cabinets; I’m always tripping over that damn thing.

But while I was figuring out all the ways I could use his height to my advantage, it turns out that his view on this recent development was less than positive.

When I called him for dinner later that day, I found him in his room going through a pile of Matchbox cars that hadn’t seen the light of day in years – not really playing with them, but just turning them over in his hands – considering them.

“Honey, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just visiting my childhood” he answered.

Ugh. Smelling the angst in the air, I asked him what was up.

“I don’t want to be taller than you” he said quietly.

“That’s what’s bothering you? Not wanting to be taller than me?” I responded.

Shrugging his shoulders, he said “I guess I’m just not ready to grow up.”

Ah, there it was. He wasn’t considering the cars. He was considering what they represented. The journey to grown-up is a bumpy one, and you never know what might trip them up along the way. Just as my heart swells with pride and love and joy for my teenage man-child, right then it ached with the growing pains he was experiencing, perhaps more child than man at that moment.

“It’s okay to feel this way; there’s a lot going on with school and friends and other stuff, and sometimes it’s nice to think back to when times were simpler. We just have to talk about it when you’re feeling this way, okay? “

“Yeah”.

Having witnessed enough push-up and arm-wrestling contests to realize that we’ve arrived at the competing-with-dad portion of the program, I attempted to lighten the mood by asking, “Well, how are you going to feel when you’re taller than dad?”

Brightening at the bait he said, “Oh no, that’s different – I can’t wait to be taller than dad!” Who, by the way, is considerably taller than me – I guess logic doesn’t play well with puberty!

Being one half of a mother/son bond equation himself, I sought my husband’s perspective when I told him about our exchange later that evening. He wasn’t surprised at all by our son’s reaction. Raising his hand up over his head, he explained, “Because in his eyes, you’ll always be up here.“ 🙂

3Apr2012

A Well Visit Wake Up

by Mom Meets Blog

courtesy of Google images

I recently took my 11 year old son for his yearly well visit with the pediatrician. At the end of the appointment, and after being assured all was indeed well, the doctor handed me a nifty little printout detailing the visit. The first page listed current height and weight, any labs and tests ordered, results from vision and hearing screening, and any follow up appointments that needed scheduling. How nice to have all that information neatly summarized on one page for easy reference – thank you, electronic medical records.

Then I turned the page.

The next page was captioned “11-14 Year Old Adolescent Visit”. Adolescent? My visceral reaction to reading this was “Holy sh*tballs! For reals? Where did that come from?” I was just getting used to the term tween. Tween is cute. Last week he was still 10 years old. This week he’s 11 and suddenly the word adolescent is being bandied about? That just has a clinical ring to it I’m not sure I’m ready for.

And “11” is light years away from “14”. In my inner panic all I could picture was a sullen, monosyllabic sleeping and eating machine who is six inches taller than me, at risk for trigger thumb from too much texting and suddenly interested in commercials for Axe deodorant. This is a far cry from my sweet little boy who still reaches for my hand whenever we cross a busy street (if no one’s looking, of course).

I don’t know why I was so floored. From infant to toddler to preschooler to big kid to tween (and technically I think I can still hold on to that one), my son’s new identifier as “11-14 Year Old Adolescent” is just the next step, right? But there it was in black and white, mocking me as if to say “ready or not, here I come!”

The document went on to list information and guidelines about topics such as school performance, immunizations, testing, nutrition and oral health, physical, social and emotional development, and talking to your newly minted adolsecent about “risk behaviors” – you can just imagine what that’s about.

“Doctor,” I said, “Don’t get me wrong, I think this handout is great, but that ‘11-14 Year Old Adolescent’ thing kind of grabbed me by the throat.” This man, who has been my son’s pediatrician for 10 years, laughed and said, “Yes, I know it’s a shock, but it’s here.”

And the hormone talk, like spring, must be in the air. A few days later as I was looking over the curriculum topics to be covered in his class after the spring break, I noticed that “Puberty” was nestled in there between the Latin American Unit, Rocks and Minerals, and Essays and Fiction Writing.

I turned to my son and asked him if he knew what puberty was. “I don’t know”, he shrugged “something about growing up, I guess”.

I have this tucked away. . .

Like the doctor said, it’s here.

It’s really here.

Have you had “the talk” with your kids yet? How did you handle it? What’s in store? I really want to know!

6Feb2012

Oh, the Hairs on my Chinny, Chin Chin!!

by Mom Meets Blog

The other day my 10 year old son asked me what puberty was. Caught a little off guard, I turned it around and asked him what he thought it was. “Well”, he began “Jay says it’s when your penis grows and you get hair down there.” Then he continued “Does everyone go through puberty? Did you go through it? Did Dad? Will I?” Taking a deep mental breath, I answered his questions calmly and simply. “Yes, everyone goes through it, yes, Dad and I went through it and you will too, but not for a couple of years yet.” Satisfied for the moment, he went about his 10 year old business. That little exchange reminded me that I’m wrestling with my own hair issues, and I don’t mean the hair down there. Because while my son, before long, will be sprinting down the road to adolescence, I’m slip-sliding along the perimenopause path, and confronting a rather disturbing side effect.

Currently hurtling through my 40s, I’m told that this grim turn of events is caused by a disruption in the delicate balance of the female sex hormones, sort of a second puberty. This go round on the hormone rollercoaster has resulted in dark, thick, coarse masculine hair sprouting on my chin. Not just one or two, more like 17 at last count, which was this morning. They look like the kind of facial hair I guess my son will be sporting in a few years. Ironic, isn’t it?

But the indignity doesn’t end there. Not only am I now competing with hubby to see who wears their 5 o’clock shadow best, but a couple of these unwanted whiskers have the audacity to grow in WHITE! As if having chin hair wasn’t appalling enough, I am sprouting salt and pepper chin hair. George Clooney might be able to pull off this look, but I feel like Ringling Brothers is going to knock on my door and offer me a sideshow gig any minute now.

While there’s not quite enough hair to coax into a trendy soul patch, there is enough that something has to be done about it. My grooming tool of choice is the tweezers. I’ve tried waxing, but that tends to make me break out (there goes that puberty thing again), and I’m not ready to go all pharmaceutical just yet. So, as each one pops up, I reach for my trusty Tweezerman and pluck it. Quickly. Painfully.

I’m hoping once actual menopause hits and the hormones start leveling off, this issue will resolve itself (are you listening, creeping belly fat??). If only I could transfer those hairs to my eyelash line, which seems to be thinning out as quickly as my hubby’s hairline. That’s what you’ll see if you open the medicine cabinet at my house – an assortment of tweezers and a bottle of Rogaine – midlife, we have arrived.