Growing pains, leaves, and the restoration of Monkey
The title is in homage to this post of the same name from almost exactly five years ago.
When our idea of growing pains was that Trey wouldn't stand on a stage with his class.
Not to belittle that, because it truly was heartwrenching at the time. But little kids, little problems.
We're OK, we really are. But parenting looks nothing now like it did then, and nothing like I ever expected it to. I always wanted to have kids, but it seems all my daydreaming never really made it to the tween stage. Which, as it turns out, is a poorly constructed roller coaster. I'm strapped tight and in it for the ride, but in the back of my mind I'm aware there's a decent chance the car may fall off the tracks.
And of course, this is just the beginning. And in five years the issues we're having now will seem like small potatoes.
But it's now, and an eleven-year-old is stealing my joy.
Out of respect for Trey, I will not divulge too much. It's enough to say that he and I butt heads. Daily. Hourly. Over pretty much everything, because somehow pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth is offensive. And pretty much everything that comes out of his mouth is defensive.
The kicker in all this is that part of the problem is me. Confrontation has always been something I've avoided, and honestly I have no idea how to have an argument, win an argument, assert authority, or comment on anything controversial without a heavy dose of sarcasm. So by the end of our, um, discussions, I've turned into a passive aggressive kid. Bickering with another passive aggressive kid. It's embarrassing and frustrating and oh so sad.
Over the last year or so, my parenting dreams have had to morph. Board games and Legos and exploring and laughing together and Mama/son friendship will be largely outweighed by the task that now lies before me: turning these ruffians with barn manners and silver spoon tastes into gentlemen. All while fighting the dragons of peer pressure and entitlement.
It's a phase. One where they won't like me much and, depending on the day, I might not like them either. But when we emerge from this phase, I expect to be positively adored. Like, a lot.
Anyhoo, sticking to the pattern, now some leaves. Sick of the whining and fighting, I shoved rakes into their hands and pushed them out the door, jelly legs and "I don't want to do work!" and all that. Yeah, they didn't make much difference to the yard, but they sure ended up having fun.
Then there's Monkey, Aden's best mate. He's real, y'all. And it shows. His fuzzy skin is, little by little, losing its fuzz to threadbareness. The stuffing in his belly long disintegrated, with only some matty fluff left in his head, arms, and legs. The washer came off the back of his left eye, so it was hanging on precariously and Aden was being oh-so-careful not to let it fall out.
Monkey has been asking for a long time to be re-stuffed, and it finally happened. Lo and behold, while digging the grody fibers of stuffing from his head, I found the washer for his eye. It was broken, but super glue to the rescue. Followed by new, white pristine fiber fluff in all his parts.
Once I finished the surgery, the friends were reunited.
Monkey: Look Aden! I'm fat!
Aden: Oh my gosh!!
Pure joy. And prayers for longevity, as I have no way of fixing the fur disappearance and there is no replacement for Monkey on the entire interweb. I've checked. Like, a lot.
When our idea of growing pains was that Trey wouldn't stand on a stage with his class.
Not to belittle that, because it truly was heartwrenching at the time. But little kids, little problems.
We're OK, we really are. But parenting looks nothing now like it did then, and nothing like I ever expected it to. I always wanted to have kids, but it seems all my daydreaming never really made it to the tween stage. Which, as it turns out, is a poorly constructed roller coaster. I'm strapped tight and in it for the ride, but in the back of my mind I'm aware there's a decent chance the car may fall off the tracks.
And of course, this is just the beginning. And in five years the issues we're having now will seem like small potatoes.
But it's now, and an eleven-year-old is stealing my joy.
Out of respect for Trey, I will not divulge too much. It's enough to say that he and I butt heads. Daily. Hourly. Over pretty much everything, because somehow pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth is offensive. And pretty much everything that comes out of his mouth is defensive.
The kicker in all this is that part of the problem is me. Confrontation has always been something I've avoided, and honestly I have no idea how to have an argument, win an argument, assert authority, or comment on anything controversial without a heavy dose of sarcasm. So by the end of our, um, discussions, I've turned into a passive aggressive kid. Bickering with another passive aggressive kid. It's embarrassing and frustrating and oh so sad.
Over the last year or so, my parenting dreams have had to morph. Board games and Legos and exploring and laughing together and Mama/son friendship will be largely outweighed by the task that now lies before me: turning these ruffians with barn manners and silver spoon tastes into gentlemen. All while fighting the dragons of peer pressure and entitlement.
It's a phase. One where they won't like me much and, depending on the day, I might not like them either. But when we emerge from this phase, I expect to be positively adored. Like, a lot.
Anyhoo, sticking to the pattern, now some leaves. Sick of the whining and fighting, I shoved rakes into their hands and pushed them out the door, jelly legs and "I don't want to do work!" and all that. Yeah, they didn't make much difference to the yard, but they sure ended up having fun.
Then there's Monkey, Aden's best mate. He's real, y'all. And it shows. His fuzzy skin is, little by little, losing its fuzz to threadbareness. The stuffing in his belly long disintegrated, with only some matty fluff left in his head, arms, and legs. The washer came off the back of his left eye, so it was hanging on precariously and Aden was being oh-so-careful not to let it fall out.
Monkey has been asking for a long time to be re-stuffed, and it finally happened. Lo and behold, while digging the grody fibers of stuffing from his head, I found the washer for his eye. It was broken, but super glue to the rescue. Followed by new, white pristine fiber fluff in all his parts.
Once I finished the surgery, the friends were reunited.
Monkey: Look Aden! I'm fat!
Aden: Oh my gosh!!
Pure joy. And prayers for longevity, as I have no way of fixing the fur disappearance and there is no replacement for Monkey on the entire interweb. I've checked. Like, a lot.
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