My kids are the biggest losers.

By that, I mean THEY LOSE EVERYTHING. If something isn’t Washi-taped to their foreheads or (better yet) the forehead of the person standing across from them, it’s gone. Into the abyss with all the other lost things, papers, PTA forms, reading logs, ephemera, whatnot, what have you.

That’s why it wasn’t such a giant surprise that when my 7th grader received his cross-country uniform, it was promptly “stolen.”

Thievery was clearly the only explanation for how the uniform that had been lying atop his backpack one minute could have vanished –Poof! Just like that!– the next.

I had a few other explanations. Like, DUH, HE LOST IT. Or shoved it someplace weird. Or forgotten he’d left it in his locker like a normal person.

But whatever the case, his first meet was fast approaching, and he didn’t have anything close to the proper threads.

The situation called for intense glowering paired with unwavering insistence that he could not–under any circumstances–be seen in some plain jane, non-team-issued burgundy shirt and black shorts.

This would never do.

I offered the obligatory stern talking-to’s about teamwork and not being a weenie and really good parenting stuff like that. But I could not make the uniform magically appear.

That’s when my dialing finger started getting itchy.

That’s when I could feel the helicopter wings starting to sprout from my back, gearing up for swooping and solving and calling the coach and smoothing things over and coming up with Plan B.

It took all the super-human strength I could muster to keep my X-Mom Mutant Wings all tamped down.

But I am happy to report to you people that I DID IT. I held back every motherly impulse in me that cried out to fix it. To make it better. To make my boy happy, whatever the cost to his future self-sufficiency.

Here’s what worked for me (and you can feel free to use this). Every time I thought of jotting off an email to the coach about that uniform, I would visualize Will off at college, texting me in desperation because he couldn’t figure out where the quarters go in the laundry machine.

For his future manhood, I decided to make him figure this one out on his own.

He would have to ask the right questions. He would have to suffer the natural consequences. He would have to start figuring his way out of life’s paper bag.

And do you know what? I showed up to the meet, and he was wearing that flipping uniform.

He found it.

All by himself.

His buddy had picked it up by mistake.

Problem SOLVED.

And I didn’t have to do a thing.

Parents, listen to me. I never thought I’d say this, but it can be done. We can actually let our kids fix stuff on their own. They are capable. And if they’re not, they’ll get that way — if we let them.

Tamp those X-Mom wings down, mamas, and let those kids FLY.

Or let them flop, then fly.

But it’ll happen…eventually…I’m pretty sure.

Either way, at least your kid will be the one who can figure out where the quarters go. Which means he’ll be the one who does his own laundry.

And that’s what I call WINNING.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello. It’s me.

It’s DeeDee, reporting live from the cave I’ve been living in the past three months.

Anyway, three months. That’s how long it’s been since I blogged last. And for those of you who even noticed, I figured I owed you a pulse check. (Sure, my pulse tends to be a bit elevated due to extreme inactivity, but I do have one.)

I’ve been a cave dweller lately for several reasons.

Reason #1: Three months ago or so, I started working every day. Like real-life normal people.

You’ll be happy to know I’m off that daily stuff now…it was just a temporary thing. But what a wake-up call. Were you aware there’s an expectation of ironed pants and thoughtful accessorization every day in the workplace?  I’m sorry, but that’s a bit much. I’ll stick with Tuesdays and Thursdays, if it’s all the same to you.

Reason #2 for the cave-dwelling: My kids are aging out of this over-sharing thing.

My daughter, who’s 10 and who has unwittingly had her life documented since she was in diapers, told me, “Guess what, Mommy? Emily reads your blog. She says it’s funny.”

Ohhh, so it’s out there now for real.

It’s different than before, back when it was all just greasy kids’ stuff and funny stories about poop. Now I have to guard my children’s tender tweenage hearts.

After years of running off at the mouth and processing my parenting life on paper, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not sure what to do…how to safely toe that line between privacy and transparency. It’s got me kind of stuck. From here on out, I have to figure out a way to still write what I love–but from a safer distance somehow.

So I’m noodling over how I grow into a different phase that is still funny and honest but doesn’t make me feel like a narc from 21 Jump Street, telling stories on my kids out of school. I’ll get there. But I am a bit frozen in the not-knowing.

Reason #3 for the cave-dwelling: There’s the whole BOOK thing.

Nutshell version for those who don’t know…I have a book of my essays coming out this November.

We’re talking, THIS NOVEMBER. Which is in, like, THREE MONTHS. Oh crap, I have to put my head between my knees now.

After what has literally been years in the making, this thing is really happening. And all of the sudden, there are book covers to review (and soundly reject), bio’s to write, endorsements to beg for, potential events to plan, and nail-bitten hands to wring.  It’s all very exciting and tumultuous and consuming.

But here’s the thing: I need people to actually know this book exists so they might consider the random possibility of buying it and helping me in my mission to not completely embarrass myself.

So it’s time to put the big-girl pants on (you know, the ones made of wooly mammoth pelt) and emerge from the cave I’ve been living in.

It’s time to get brave and get out there…even if it takes my husband dragging me out bodily by the hair.

This is DeeDee, reporting live from the cave.

I’ll see you out there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There has been some serious radio silence from my corner of the world lately.

I’m probably the only one who noticed or cared, but I haven’t posted anything since November. And that was a re-run.

Sorry, but I’ve been in Book Mode (which doesn’t sound nearly as fierce and athletic as Beast Mode, but it’s the best I’ve got.)

Most of you know I’ve been working on a book (it’ll be a selection of my columns and blog posts, due out Fall 2016 from Skyhorse Publishing) since what seems The Beginning of Time. My manuscript deadline was yesterday, which means I’ve spent the last month or so chained to the desk (where unfortunately there has also been easy access to online shopping).

But after relentless editing and rearranging and hand-wringing (and more editing) for what seems like half my life, I finally, with great trepidation and jubilation, hit “send.”

Did you feel the Earth move yesterday morning? Because I DID.

I don’t have a clue what to expect from the editing/shameless self-promotion process yet to come; my gut feeling is I’m going to much prefer the writing-anoymously-in-my-pajama-pants part of the process.

But this hurdle crossed just felt like something big I should tell you — especially since you’re the ones who’ve been kind enough to read my drivel all these years. I appreciate it more than you know.

So now I’m taking the day off. I may just watch Sense and Sensibility and eat bon bons and wallow around in these pajama pants before the big-girl pants have to go on. This day feels like a long time coming.

Holla. And hallelujah.