Fall Fun

Destination Life

As a 30-something careening through life in suburbia, USA, I have two guilty pleasures: TV shows dealing with bigfoot/UFOs/paranormal and my Kindle e-reader.

So when I read that Josh Gates, host of Destination Truth, had written a book about his own adventures hunting the unexplained around the world, my two guilty pleasures suddenly came crashing together.

Enter a cold, rainy night with the husband hundreds of miles away on a business trip and a little man sound asleep in his room upstairs and I happily had night full of Kindle monster hunting.

But what I found was a simple reminder of the power parents have in shaping the lives of their children.

Backtrack a week or two ago and I was running behind the little man on the sidewalk in front of our house. We had taken the training wheels off of the little man's bike (at his request) and with my hand firmly on the back of his seat, we took off down the sidewalk in a futile attempt at teaching the little man the art of riding sans training wheels.

Like any rite of passage in life - especially in learning to ride a bike - the little man fell. After brushing him off and encouraging him to get back on, the little man had had enough and was done. We packed the bike away for another day.

Another day came and I packed the bike into the back of the car and we drove to the little man's elementary school, which has a large, flat blacktop. Perfect for teaching little ones to ride a bike, so said my neighbor as she undoubtedly laughed at my constant up and down, up and down circuit of the sidewalk in front of our homes as we tried one more ride.

But, no. The little man stood on the blacktop, refusing to get on the bike. I tried every bribe and promise that I could think of to get him back on, but he refused.

We got back in the car and drove home. I supposed he would get over it on his own, in his own time.

Now we're back to the rainy, cold night. I was in the beginning of the book, where Josh (the author) was starting his memoirs at where else - the beginning of how he came to be a modern-day monster hunter.

I was especially taken aback by a passage he wrote about his parents in where he attributed the confidence he has today to them:

"My mother, a vivacious and free-spirited young woman, grew up in tumultuous 1960s England and somehow found my father, a charming American deep-sea diver and self-made man. The two of them were endlessly supportive of my interests and passed on to me their humor and a confidence to follow my own path, as they had done."

And there it was - staring me in the face. A simple reminder that - more than we can ever imagine - the seeds that we plant in our young children today are what shapes the person they will grow to be tomorrow. I realized that I don't want to raise a boy who is afraid of falling. I want to raise a confident, free spirit. I want to raise a boy who not only falls down, but gets back up again and has the confidence to try something else equally terrifying the next day.

I want to raise a boy who lives life.

And I realized that it begins with me ... Just as Josh Gates' parents taught him to live adventurously.

Do I foresee the little man 20 years from now running through a jungle after a mythical reptilian monster?

No.

But I do hope to see him confidently walking his own path in life, without a fear of falling down.

And at just 5 years old, I realized that the present-day drama of learning to ride a bike without training wheels was just as much a lesson for the little man as it is for me.

It's not about learning to ride the bike. It's about learning that life isn't something to be afraid of. It's about being the little man's biggest cheerleader and instilling confidence in him through my actions and support in all that he endeavors ... especially when he falls down trying.

It's about teaching the little man to live life without training wheels.

I wish I could end this blog with a story of me running behind the little man, letting go of his bicycle seat and watching him ride off into the sunset without training wheels the very next day.

But I can't.

It is still very much a work in progress. But the seed has been planted.

"I don't want you to think about the falling," I told the little man. "I want you to think about the ride and how much fun it will be. In everything you will do in life, it's all about the ride."

The little man stared at me with his big blue eyes.

"Mamma?" he finally said. "Can we go inside and have some Hawoweeeen candy now?"

I laughed and opened the door to let him inside.

He may not understand it now, but I hope that in time he does. I hope that someday my little man will acknowledge that I had helped instill in him the same confidence Josh Gates pens in his memoirs. A confidence that begins at home ... with a little boy and his parents.

And if the little man ends up running through a jungle after a mythical reptilian monster 20 years from now, that's just a bonus.

At least in my book.

The Bigger the Boys ...

I always knew the meaning of the old saying "The bigger the boys, the bigger the toys."

I knew it when, as a young girl, my father had a constant array of trucks, big and small.

And tractors.

And skid loaders.

I knew it when my Uncle Denny would tell stories of his motocross racing days and later hear the roar of his Harley.

I knew it when my brother got his first Jeep ... in high school.

I knew it when I went to college and my boyfriend at the time (now my husband) came home with a boat hitched to his truck.

And later a Jeep of his own.

And later another Jeep.

So, on that fateful day, when I welcomed my son into the world, I was under no illusions that my son wouldn't follow in the footsteps of those before him.

I just figured I had a good 16 or 17 years to prepare.

Not so.

Now that the little man is 5, his graduation into Kindergarten has not only meant no more daily naps, more responsibility and bigger jeans, but it also means bigger toys.

And I'm not talking about a bike without training wheels.

Enter Papa and Daddy, who conspired to welcome the little man into the "bigger toys" brotherhood.

Courtesy of a camouflage ATV sized just right for a certain little big boy.

Fortunately, Daddy and Papa prepared for Mama. They promptly explained how you could set it so it only went a certain speed, that it had a kill switch and for added safety, handed me a small keychain with a remote kill switch so that Mama could kill the engine on anything too much fun.

But by that time, the little man was off.

With Papa riding on the back.

And Daddy impatiently waiting for his turn.

The Pick-Up Line

I had done it -I had put on my brave mommy face and taken the little man to his first day of Kindergarten.

I had even managed to hold back the tears until I left the building.

I had faced my fears.

Well ... at least one of them.

I had sent my baby bird off into the big world - but an equally terrifying moment was still approaching.

The after school pick-up line.

August has been a month of change for lots of reasons - not only did the little man start Kindergarten, but mommy also began a new part-time work schedule. I have shared in bits and pieces here and there on this blog about my struggle as a working mom. I love my son and want to be involved in all parts of his life growing up, but I also love what I do for a living. And, at times, those two pieces were very difficult to balance.

My husband and I had thought about it for many, many months. One one hand, if I cut back on hours at work it would give me the ability to pick him up everyday after school (no more daycare) and obviously leave me more time for the little man.

And soccer practice.

And swim lessons.

And everything else.

However, on the other hand, not only would my paycheck suffer significant consequences, so would my career. It would mean not being the project manager of the next big project.

Or not being invited to be a part of the project at all.

But in the end, no one will remember that great marketing piece I wrote. Or the great brochure I designed.

But the little man will remember how his mommy was at every one of his soccer practices.

And swim lessons.

And everything else.

So, I put in my request with the powers that be at my job. And they said yes.

And on August 1st, I officially began my new little man-inspired work schedule, just in time for school to start.

On the little man's first day of school I knew the pick-up line would be formidable. We had been forewarned by the school principal that they were very particular about the process - and needed to be for the safety of the children. They had even supplied written instructions and a traffic flow map of where you were supposed to drive, park, etc.

As little man's first day of school came to an end, my anxiety about the pick-up line began to grow. But, with my new reduced work schedule, I would leave work at 3:00, giving me ample time to pick up the little man, who would get out of class at 3:40.

I was so anxious to see the little man and hear about his day that I decided not to stop at home for a brief moment to change out of my work clothes. I also wanted to be extra early to tackle the infamous pick-up line.

I arrived at 3:17 on the dot - plenty of time, yes?

No.

The line was already out to the street.

As I waited in the line, my anxiety grew even more. How long would this take? Would the little man be scared to not see me there right away? How would he know to come to my car? Did he even know to look for my car?

And the fear began to grow.

Am I even doing this right? Should I just park a block away and walk up to get him?

Then I stopped myself. I had survived corporate America. As a writer and graphic designer, I had faced entire rooms of people who were there for no other reason than to criticize my work and stare me down.

If I could handle corporate America, I could handle a bunch of moms in a pick-up line.

At least that's what I told myself.

As the line inched forward I finally came to park in the infamous "front circle." The little man waved hello to me, but stayed where he was.

So, I broke the rules.

I got out of my car and went to the little man, scooping him up and carrying him to my car. I wasn't supposed to leave my car (for safety and traffic flow reasons) and I was supposed to wait for the little man, or one of the teachers assisting in the pick-up, to come to my car.

But it was the first day - I could get away with it, yes?

No.

Later that night we received an all-school email reminding parents to NOT get out of their cars and reminding us of the rules and procedures of the pick-up line.

I shut the laptop and smiled.

I may not have come out of it unscathed, but I had survived.

And upstairs I had a very sleepy, but happy, Kindergartner.

Happy Kindergarten Day!

On August 17, 1978, my mother welcomed me into the world. In what I know was a day full of emotions and thoughts about the future ahead, I doubt my mother ever envisioned that on that very same day, 33 years from then, that her baby would be sending her baby off to Kindergarten.

But that's how it went - in what seemed like a cruel twist of scheduling, I sent the little man off to Kindergarten on my birthday.

It was day I had known was coming well in advance and we had spent the summer preparing. The school supplies were bought; the little man had carefully selected his new Transformers backpack and Star Wars lunch box; and mommy had been reminding herself that "It's not until the end of summer, that's still a long ways away."

Funny how time creeps up on you.

And summer flies by.

My husband had been preparing the little man for mommy, as well.

"Mommy's probably going to cry," he warned the little man on the eve of his Kindergarten start. "But they are happy tears, because she's so happy and proud of you for starting Kindergarten."

(Or, it's because mommy had visions of kicking her baby bird out of the nest into the great big world.)

So, in the morning, I put on my brave mommy face and started to get ready for the day. The little man popped out of bed and came into my room.

I picked him up and hugged him.

Then made him waffles covered in syrup for breakfast.

Then proceeded in what I'm sure seemed like an endless photo shoot to the little man.

And then the moment came - it was time to load up the car and make the very short drive to the school.

(And another photo shoot in front of the school, of course.)

I took the little man's hand and walked him inside.

My brave mommy face lasted until it was time to tell him good-bye.

The little man smiled and gave me one last hug and walked away.

My baby bird was officially out of the nest and spreading his wings.

And mommy was ever-so-thankful for waterproof mascara.

Pondering a Serious Subject

I had picked the little man up from preschool and we began our usual trek home. The little man was in great spirits and chattering away.

"Momma?" the little man said. "I've been thinking a lot today about what I want to be when I'm growed up."

"Oh, really?" I said. "What are thinking?"

"Well ... I have a lot of things going around in my brains," the little man said. "There's police mans .... and army mans ... and of course the blue police mans at the airport."

"What about fireman?" I asked the little man.

"Oh, I was just about to say that," He responded matter-of-factly. "Firemans ... oh, and paramedics."

"Well, you have a while to think about it and make up your mind buddy," I said, smiling to myself at the such grown-up conversation about growing up.

"Well, maybe when I'm 10 ... that's after 5 ... maybe when I'm 10, just MAYBE, I will have decided," the little man stated. "But I only have SERIOUS professions going around in my brains because I only want a SERIOUS profession when I'm growed up ... like an ambulance man."

The little man sat back in his carseat, deep in thought.

And Momma smiled the whole way home in awe of her SERIOUS little man.

Attack of the Lomster

It was a seemingly normal enough day when I picked the little man up from preschool. On the way home, the little man had a request.

"Momma?" he asked. "I wanna go to Red Lomster some day."

What may have been a seemingly normal enough question on this seemingly normal day definitely piqued my interest.

Mostly because neither my husband or I eat seafood.

(And yes, we have tried it all - the freshest crabcakes, the jumbo-ist of shrimp and even the most succulent lobster. Maybe it's because we grew up in the Midwest. Maybe we're just strange. Seafood just isn't something we find enjoyable. A large, juicy and rare Delmonico - now we're talking.)

"Why do you want to go to Red Lobster?" I asked.

"At Red Lomster they have lomsters ... and you can EAT them," he said, excitedly.

I figured Red Lobster must have been a topic of discussion today amongst him and his friends at preschool, so I let the subject rest with a simple "We'll see ... I'll tell Nana or Grammy Jo you want to go to Red Lobster." (Who both thoroughly enjoy sea-faring fare.)

End of story?

No.

What seemed like an innocent question was really the start of the little man's new obsession - "lomsters."

Ever since that one day there has been much excitement over "lomsters" in our house. Now we have lomster toys, lomster books, lomster shirts and I can't even begin to tell the excitement that resounded when the little man saw real-life lomsters at the Georgia Aquarium on a recent family trip to Atlanta.

Nevermind the ginormous whale sharks, the beluga whales or the million other rare, exotic or just plain cool animals at the aquarium. They all paled in comparison to the lomsters.

So you can imagine my un-surprise the other night as I was watching TV and heard a strange "kish-kish ... kish-kish..." approaching me from the kitchen.

I was then promptly attacked by my very own lomster ... with fierce silicone oven mits for claws and a big smile on his face as he made the kish-kish ... kish-kish ... noise that apparently represented the snapping of the lomster claws.

And, of course, a lomster shirt to boot.