“Mom” he says to me through the door that divides us, his voice sounding weak and muffled by the distance. “Can I come in?” he asks as politely as he can muster.I wipe my tear stained face, news coming across in emails that morning that had turned the weekend into a quivering lump of worthlessness. He and his brother had only been home for a few hours due to some wicked car trouble at dad’s house. He had heard me, even though I had tried to stifle the quiet tears by sobbing into my pillow. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door of my bedroom and tip toed over to my bed, resting his hand on my shoulder. He looked so much older this week, the color in his eyes slightly drained from the weeks worth of drama detail. He has had a difficult life in these short 7 years and I could see it on his face. I smiled at him the best I could and pulled him into bed with me. Im a firm believer in being honest with my children and talking with them about their lives, instead of ignoring the facts and pretending to be perfect. “Were you crying, mom?” He matter-of-facts me like a sucker punch to the nose. “I was” I tell him, putting my strong mommy hat back on and sucking back the inevitable sobs, choking that sound that seeps from my chest whenever I am deeply saddened by something. “I am very sad today, and Im sorry that I am sad while you are here.” I tell him, trying to be reassuring. “I promise it has nothing to do with you, mommy is just sad about work.” It was the truth, nothing anyone had done had made me sad, it was just a disappointing and confusing set of circumstances. I weighed the pro’s and con’s of explaining it all to him, he has been through so much that I dare not burden him with problems during his visits. I breath in sharply, waiting for the hammer to drop and the questions to resume. “Do you want to pray?” He asks me, shocking my system better than any defibrillator could ever do. We have folded our hands as a family on many occasions, but a lazy sunday morning generally wasn’t the time nor the place. We have always been a logical group, prayer was reserved to blessing our food (may it  bless and nourish our bodies) and for saying goodnight. Praying wasn’t something we turned to in a problem situation, we always hunkered down together to weather the storms,  but he seemed sure and solid in his path. He folded his hands in front of his face and tilted his head to the floor. He squeaked out a quick prayer while I sat wide-eyed staring at him. He showed such reverence, such solace. When he was finished, he peeked out of one eye at me, smiling ear to ear. “Feel better?” he asks as I nod in utter amazement. I did feel better, I dont know why, but I did. He hops off the bed, and turns only once he reached the doorway. “Now get up, we have work to do.” he says with a tone of confidence, I wonder if he had gotten that tone from television’s version of the strict authoritative parent. I listen, pulling my body from the covers, feeling like molasses under the weight of that morning. “What work do we have to do?” I ask him, pulling my hair back into a pony tail and pushing a pair of sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. “We have snowflakes to make” he giggles, and bounds down the stairs with me right behind. We did have snowflakes to make, purple and orange ones from construction paper half a decade old, still wrapped tightly in its package. We made tiny one’s and gigantic ones. We pasted them merrily to the fridge, and by the time all was said and done, I had forgetten all about being sad. Perhaps prayer isnt so bad after all.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

I lay the contract out on the table, with three of us clutching as many pens and all waiting to hear what the other had to say. I ask if they think it is fair, I ask them to ask questions if they have any and I add notes to the bottom of our document. The three of us sit together around our cereal bowls and make an agreement, a binding contract. Granted this is a contract with a 6 and 7 year old and may not hold up in court, but in the confines of this house, that contract has become the golden standard. Children have a way of over stepping their boundaries and being that my children are no different from most (except that they are more handsome, creative, beautiful and talented than any kid ever on the face of the planet) I found myself taking the drama out of expectations. When my children are home, there are rules. Unspoken rules of dont bite, dont backtalk, dont bullshit…… but also many rules that need to be laid out in a plain and simple language. Our contract did just that, explaining out my list of “demands” for them to see every morning as they read the back of their cereal boxes. 1. Before 10 am, you can eat only cereal. A rule bred from necessity. I try to cook at least one thing with each of the older boys when they are here, so when they are poking around the kitchen in the early morning, they also know how to use the micorwave and toaster without me having to worry. I still worry, as is my nature, so the rules are staying. Before ten am (when I get up and make breakfast) no electrical appliances are used in the kitchen. Plain and simple, if you dont play with fire, you dont get burned.
2. Pick up your room before you can do anything else. 3 boys, do you get the scope of this? 3 boys, 4 if you include baby daddy. Keeping this house clean is a full time job in itself and Im not picking up any more dirty underware off of the floor. If any of these boys wants to go outside of the house in any given day, believe you me, they will be cleaning up first. This rule is especially effective because my kids know that they are a trilliondy times more likely to get to do what they are begging to do, IF they have their stuff done. 3. Respect your family, respect your belongings, respect yourself. While this “rule” is more common sense, I felt it needed a place on the list. Below it are a few cartoons of what they all mean, so as not to confuse the little one. We take care of each other, which means we dont let other people decide what is best for our family. I saw this very rule in action yesterday as my oldest son came back from the next door neighbors house and told me that there was cursing on their tv, so they wanted to come home. I beemed with pride and we marched over to the neighbors together. The cursing was an HBO chris rock special left idly on the tv, we flipped it to spongebob and I sat drinking coffee with friends as our kids played quietly together. No judgement, just a simple appraisal of comfort levels and everyone is back to playing nice. 4. DO Ask Questions, DO NOT Whine. The mega rule, the rule to replace all rules, the bible of parenting. I posted this rule on a big white sheet of paper, I drew the words in boxy letters that reminded me of my art classes in high school. My middle son dutifully colored them in as he repeated the words under his breath. Now, whenever I hear the high pitched squeak of a whine escaping carelessly from the lips of someone intent on watching their movie, or doing their activity or wanting their favorite food… I simply point to the sign. I explain to them that asking questions is always okay, even if it is asking difficult questions from adults. My oldest will come to me (an agnostic athiest) and will frequently ask me questions about my beliefs in god. He challenges my answers and will often shake his head and walk away as if he knows something I do not. My middle son never ceases to stop asking questions, a trait that is adorabley infuriating, since I know it is my fault. He questions everything and for that I am eternally grateful, if not eternally exhausted. Questions are always okay, but whining is never cool. This all got me thinking, how do other parents deal with the constraints of expectations? If you accurately lay out what you expect from your kids, do they follow closely or do their attitudes reflect a constant need to rebel? My little anklebiters love the responsibility of expectations, they revel in the fact that they know that following these simple rules will make their life (and mine!!) so much easier and run so much more smoothly. With Rules finely laid out, they are free to be themselves and act out in ways that won’t violate my sense of peace and serenity. They really love it, and never hesitate to tell me so. For that reason alone, you can find my list of expectations taped to the fridge, and on the door to their bedroom.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.