The Male Mind Verses The Female Mind

 

The boys found this book in a gas station on a road trip.... their faces speak volumes:) St. George, UT 2014

“So let me get this straight…” Logan begins from the back seat of the car, “She just left the root beer sitting there? She didn’t even drink it?” “Yep!” Spencer confirmed. “But she said she wanted it!!” Logan continued, baffled. “Logan, its time you understood something. Women are incomprehensible!” “In-com-pre-what?” Logan interrupts “Just look at mom!” Spencer continues,  gesturing wildly towards me,  “Sometimes girls say they want something and they don’t want it, or they actually do want it but they think they shouldn’t or what they really want they don’t think they should say that they want and while they're trying to decide what to do, the soda goes flat while all the dudes die of thirst,” Spencer explained, spreading his arms wide as he talked. "Like how mom never orders ice-cream at McDonalds because she doesn't 'want one' but downs my cone before I can even get a lick in?” Logan asks, “Now you're catching on!” Spencer confirms. "Why do women act this way? Are they some type of She-devils? I'm not gonna lie! Trying to figure this out is giving me a headache!” “Join the club brother.” Spencer says while patting him on the back. “Join the club.”

They are right... usually I don't order my own and just eat theirs :) - that 's Logan's cone :) Texas 2015

 

For my sons, (when you are older) an attempt at explaining the unexplainable: The male mind verses the female mind.

The best example I can come up with when thinking about the way a mind works, is to imagine the brain as a post office system; ideas/tasks/emotions/life experiences – the lot of it- are dropped off in a giant humanity mail box, from there they are picked up, sorted, filed and slid into individual PO boxes.  From that “metal brain,” individuals access their “mail” to get the information they are craving.  But, in my experience when ingressing thoughts, emotions or to do lists…our brains react very differently depending on whose picking up the letters.


One of these things is not like the other...sorta the way my whole life has gone...
 (I don't know why when we were making cookies we only made one armless ghost) Texas 2014

Having spent my whole life surrounded by men (luck-eeeeee) I've learned -for the most part- men are very straight forward. These observations are backed by hard scientific facts. Men utilize nearly seven times more gray matter than women. Gray matter areas are localized pockets of information and action processing; which translates into men functioning in a type of tunnel vision when they are doing a task. For example, when they wake up in the morning they mentally search through their inbox until they find the envelope entitled “Wake up.” They slide it from its spot, slip it open, read through, and check off the instructions:



Logan's to do list..."Skip school, check, play video games, check,
be a good boy and do homework seem to have been prematurely
crossed off the list. Texas 2014

Morning Routine

1)      Hit snooze

2)      Do a cautionary check to see if you might get lucky.

3)      Oh well. Get out of bed.

4)      Scratch nether regions.

5)      Stretch, yawn, moan, and make Chewbacca noises.

6)       Shower. Dry off. Get dressed.

7)       Find black socks.

8)      Put toilet paper on razor cut.

9)      Wipe toothpaste off chin.

10)   Flip on TV and check the news.   

11)    Eat cereal.

12)    Grab briefcase.

13)   Climb in car.

14)     Drive to work.

 Morning routine. Check! (There are other subcategory envelopes entitled, “Weekend Morning” or “It isn’t your birthday but you’re getting Lucky this morning, possibly because you did the dishes last night! Don’t blow it!” that have different applicable checklists).  Throughout the day, envelopes are opened in a straight forward manner, information accessed, check lists checked and the envelope is closed and returned to its dedicated slot. It’s neat. It’s efficient. It’s uncomplicated.



Late night hanging with some of my favorite brains (my oldest and youngest brothers) Utah 2014

Now it’s not to say the male mind doesn’t think deeply or delve into complicated matters, but overall, men would like to keep it simple (chillax) which means they’d 10,000,000 times rather pull out the envelope entitled “Buying Video Games” than the envelope titled, “Let’s talk about our relationship.” For him, it’s simple math, “Time for a sandwich” Or “Getting lucky at Bedtime” is so much more appealing than “Analyzing what you meant when you said a gym membership would probably be  a good idea for your spouse” and also the “So…you’re sleeping on the couch now” envelope.

There are all sorts of envelopes in the male PO Box, including a letter with a bold toxic biohazard skull emblazoned across the front entitled, “Dealing with PMS.” But the check list is blank on this paper, and in its place is a rudely sketched escape route to the underground bomb shelter built in secret (naturally it's done in invisible ink and you have to brush it with lemon juice to reveal the map). The male mind thinks the envelope system is lovely; and in truth I ENVY the straight forward nature of the male mind. You got a problem? Here’s a solution! Because when I pick up the mail, my experience is entirely different.

The male mind: You want a donut, you eat a donut. Simple Simon! Texas 2014

My mind (me being the female in this scenario) - my envelope system- does not work this way. Because while my brain is still a post office, I still have envelopes, I just have 872,766,999 envelopes, (all opened at the same time) and they aren’t made up of simple check lists, but rather paragraph upon paragraph of instruction tied to emotion and the motivation behind actions and a chunk of them are unreadable because tears have made the ink run.  They are paragraphs upon paragraphs upon paragraphs long. And they start with phrases like, “What I’ve realized is…” or “Note to self...” There is no systematic checking off of lists in this post office mind of mine… because each word in each list is highlighted in blue and a link, click on that word and it sparks a connection to another word in another list on another letter. This process of hyper linking from topic to topic like Frogger when he's crossing  traffic continues until my post office looks like the room from “It’s a Beautiful Mind” with red ribbons leading to haphazardly ripped photos and torn pages of instruction stapled to a bulletin board with wide, bold marker scribbles listing further instructions. My mind looks like something exploded in the post office…because everything is connected to everything… one thought leads to another thought then another and another. You open up one letter and immediately it’s like you fell down the rabbit hole. And see, it’s not just me! Scientist explain the female mind utilizes up to 10 times more white matter then men. White matter is the networking grid that connects the brains and other processing centers with one another; which translated means girls tend to be in a perpetual state of multi-tasking.

Ummmm.... Housekeeping?

For example, last week when I was at the grocery store, I happened to think, “What should I make for dinner?” (I know this might seem like a misplaced idea being in the grocery store and all but go with me on this). So, like a man, I opened the letter entitled “Dinner time” but upon reading the first word, “Decide what to make for dinner,” the word “dinner” reminded me that I’d both invited the missionaries over for dinner, (open the “trying to get into heaven” envelop) and I’d volunteered to take dinner to a friend who just had a baby (slide out that “friendship envelope”). So then because I invited the missionaries over, I opened the “Clean the house envelope” and the “Dinner other than ramen noodles” envelope and as a sub-list from the clean the house envelope I opened the “Clean the bathroom” envelope, which made me think about how BADLY my oldest son’s aim is … so then I started thinking about his gross motor skills and how I should probably check into OT again,  so I opened the “OT envelope” and then the word OT sparked a memory that I was suppose to get Spencer’s eye hand coordination tested again because of the missing vision in his right eye. Then the missing vision made me yank out the “guilt envelope” (which is always in a highly accessible spot and never grows dusty from being ignored too long) because I bought the stupid bungee cords that caused the missing vision in the first place. (The guilt envelope is actually the size of a dissertation, which is why I may have looked stoned on the cereal aisle, as my brain downloaded the guilt upgrades). So then I spent a few moments in the fetal position, blocking traffic by the milk (The fetal position envelope is well worn with photos and step by step instructions of how to rock back and forth properly). But then the fetal position reminded me that I was taking dinner to the woman who is struggling with post-partum depression so I’d better pull out the “Chocolate envelope” from its slot. (Sigh. That’s a good envelope) and then while I was drooling over the chocolate envelope, I remembered I needed to make cupcakes for the PTA bake sale tomorrow, (cue  the “PTA envelope” which try as I might, I can’t EVER misplace :) and while debating if I should make chocolate frosting because it’s so messy, the word messy linked me to the “laundry envelope” as I remembered I forgot to put Logan’s football pants in the dryer (slide out the “drop things off at school” envelope). And so, within the course of 1 minute, I have scattered all over my post office brain 13 opened envelope, one dissertation on guilt, and one how to rock in the fetal position diagram. And it’s only 9 am. My brain constantly looks like the floor of the New York stock exchange. And that tornado of information was spurred by the simple question, “What should I make for dinner?”

I LOVE Logan's sense of humor.... "Attempting to care -loading- please wait." I think this was after I asked him to work on his homework... Love this boy! Texas 2014

And that’s just for nominal tasks! Don't even get me started on my analyzing skills! Another skull and cross envelope is a worm hole, a black hole envelope, titled, "Interpreting what he thinks.” This envelope is a disaster because it’s written in Latin, (and I don’t speak Latin) and never goes well, partly because women process more of the bonding chemical oxytocin, so we have more emotional connectivity than men. Additionally, females have verbal centers on both hemispheres of the brain, where as men only have one on the left hemisphere. Meaning, girls tend to use more words when discussing incidences, and attach emotion to almost all interactions. Men, not only have fewer verbal centers but have less connectivity between their word centers and their memories, meaning girls LOVE to discuss feelings and emotions and senses tied to their experiences, whereas men, often... do not (AND, when it comes to analyzing what he thinks, it’s helpful if you both spoke the same language. Rosetta Stone this may be an untapped market).

Hanging with my sister-in-laws, finally my brothers got something right :) St.George UT 2014

Because of the way my mind works, I sometimes run into trouble when trying to dissect a situation. For example, right after we got married, we were driving home from a night out and Russ was unusually quiet. I asked a few probing questions, but he seemed listless, and brushed them off. Well, my multi-tasking, emotion fueled mind assigned eight hundred potential possibilities for his behavior, and by the time we'd reached home, I’d surmised our marriage was over because of X Y and Z.  Meanwhile, Russ was utterly DUMBFOUNDED when I exploded in the driveway about "how can you just let our marriage fall apart and not even say anything?" As it turned out, he'd just been mourning the fact that I ate all of his chocolate cake at dinner (when I specifically said I was full and DIDN’T want to order any desert!).

Train 'em up young...shopping in Paris 2015

In conclusion, I think the best part about the male brain is that men have an envelope that is titled, “NOTHING.” And when they open it, it’s just a blank page. This is their favorite envelope. And they really can just shut down, think about nothing, zone out, take a load off, relax, unwind, chill. And that’s not meant as a SLAM….I long for that envelope! (I have sixteen varieties of "EVERYTHING" one in chineese just in case). Because my mind is endlessly making lists…I wake up at three am and I’ve already got a dictionary going for what I need to do for tomorrow: check, check, check, check (tick tick tick tick) (facial tick or time clock you decide).

Then, as a side note, please examine exhibit A, the autistic male mind…. (Or at least the autistic minds that I deal with). Which magnifies this letter rule honor system to a laser focused power of 3000…. and then maybe you will understand why it was a cruel twist of fate to give my children me for a mother because I am utterly baffling to them. “I thought you said we were having pork chops for dinner and this is soup….?” (“Because –duh-  I forgot to buy the pork chops because I was too busy buying army soldiers to make a land form project, and am using the cookie sheets for salt dough so I couldn’t make fish sticks and besides reading appendix A of the guilt dissertation takes a chunk of time! So eat your Campbells and simmer down!”). Such a wonderful magical thing… the male mind. It’s not caked with dried flecks of fruity pebbles, or salt dough. It doesn't have red ribbon leading from one synapsis to the next. And it says, “Turn off mind” when sleep is next on the list of what to do.


Mmmmmmm estrogen! Celebrating turning forty with my girls!
(And celebrating people who think like me )
Jackson, WY 2015

 “So why do we put up with it? Logan asked baffled

“I don’t know. Why do you let mom lick your ice cream cone when you want it all for yourself?” Spencer probed.

“Because I love her and I don’t want to make her feel bad if I initiated a smack down situation.”

“See? That’s why, because we love them.” Spencer agreed.

“So what you’re saying is, don’t expect a second glass of root beer, and not to freak out when she doesn’t drink hers?” Logan confirmed.

“No, I’m saying not to freak-out when she throws it in your face.” Spencer answered matter-of-factly.

Why would she throw it in my face? Logan wondered.

“You can’t ever be sure.” Spencer said.

“So you’re saying I should just buy my own root beer and hide it under my bed?” Logan asked.

“No.” Spencer said, patting him on the back.  “What I’m saying is … RUN!
 

Love these beautiful minds! Texas coast 2015

 

 

Touch Has A Memory



This cub. An early morning selfie after Logan had joined me in bed (*sigh*)  July, 2014. Texas

When Logan was born, all the nurses were utterly enchanted with him. With a halo of blond hair, ENORMOUS blue eyes framed with a thick fringe of black lashes, and the most flawless kissable lips, he was the perfect, cherubic Victorian angel. One nurse said, “People always say there are no ugly babies, but I’m here to tell you, people lie. But THIS baby is adorable.” The nurse, obviously drugged on the heady power of Logan’s charm, proved at least partially prophetic; Logan WAS adorable, but as time marched on, it would seem he was not so much an adorable human baby, but rather an adorable alien baby. The child, I was certain, was something straight out of The Poltergeist because of his ability to projectile vomit any nourishment across the room...an 80 acre farm, three lanes of traffic, and the entire length of the football stadium at Notre Dame.  Between an ulcer, REALLY BAD REFLUX, and perhaps as some type of penance for when I didn’t stick up for Robin (a beautiful and chubby sixth grader who kids teased by calling her “Robin Red Breast”) during recess, meant that I became a mother to an alien… circle of life and all that (Sorry Robin). The child DID NOT SLEEP unless he was tucked in my arms. He wanted to nurse leisurely about every hour for five minutes. Like a spoiled kitten, he’d lap at the milk then satisfied, shoot it across the room to eat away the paint on the wall like a demon from Ghost Busters.

So Logan (my third son in as many years) slept in my bed, in my arms by my breast so he could snack and throw up on me and I could smell like fermented milk all the days of my life. (I think it did something for my skin though).

Family Movie Night, Logan and Spencer hanging together, Utah, October 2014

 

 BUT, I think because of this early and intense bonding, I became the human my little E.T. sought out for connection. Logan loves routine, and topping the list of the morning routine was to wake up and cuddle with me. Substituting Russ didn’t work (but it was fun to see Russ’ eye twitch in full swing when he tried). A stuffed animal (are you an idiot) didn’t work. Duh! He wanted ME. If I happened to be running an errand or taking the boys to school, there was hell to pay. When I came home, Logan would drag me back to my bed (still holding the sacks of groceries in each hand) so I could climb BACK under the covers and snuggle him in his favorite spot; one cheek resting against my collar bone, his forehead at the perfect kissable angle, his arm draped over my side. We would lay quietly, while I praised him like the proud (alien) cat he was, (He would signal me with his royal nod: You may commence praising now mother). “Oh, how much do I love this boy?” KISS KISS KISS. “Who does mommy love? My Loggy cub!” KISS KISS KISS! And if I was quiet too long Logan would say, “You forgot the one about God.” “In heaven,” I’d begin, “Everybody fought over who would get Logan, but as it turns out I was God’s favorite, because He gave you to me.”

Oh those beautiful mornings when Loggy, still weak with sleep, would rest against me, and in those reverent moments of connection I would find strength to face another day with a STRONG willed toddler who didn’t say “No” if he didn’t want something but “NEVER!!!!!” i.e. "Go put your cup in the sink my love.” “NEEEEVVVVEEERRRR!!!!"

Loggy and Russ flopped on the bed, September 2014, Texas.

 Some rituals are hard wired into the brain, and while logistics have changed, Logan still prefers if I wake him in the morning by climbing into his bed and cuddling him for a few minutes. Now that he’s as tall as me, he has to do some scooting to get into the proper position. He shimmies down the bed a bit so he can rest his head against my heart, I know to turn slightly towards him as he turns slightly towards me so he can fit his limbs against mine like a puzzle piece sliding into place, so we are intertwined. Mostly we lay there silently, me kissing his oh so kissable forehead, but sometimes he’ll say between yawns, “Tell me again," And I will say, “I am God’s favorite daughter, and everyone is jealous because God gave me you.” And he’ll snuggle closer, and I’ll snuggle closer and tell my time ticking, alarming mind screaming at me about all the morning tasks that still need to be checked off before school starts, to shut up. THIS is important.

John Keats the poet wrote that “Touch has a memory.” And I knew exactly what memory I wanted Logan to take with him as he raced out the door for school. 

Yes. I am Logan’s human and as a rule he has always been much easier with touch than Alex, and therefore, easier to reconnect with on a guttural level. Logan will lean into Spencer while they watch a movie on the couch and lay on top of Russ when he flops on the bed, but Alex. Oh! He is rigid. Autism, like formaldehyde seems to have seeped through his foamy bones, leaving him living in a state of functioning rigor mortis. He’s unable to relax the way others relax, to lean against someone and mold yourself to them seeking heat. And while he longs for touch and the comfort of human contact, knowing how to access it is puzzling, then knowing what to do with it once he’s gotten it, disarming. Alex was never a cuddler, from the moment he could hold his head up, he was pushing away from me.

Brother's sleeping under the Christmas tree at Grandma's house: Pure magic. Utah, December 2014

In keeping with tradition, the other night was a particularly hard night that had flowed seamlessly from a particularly hard day with Alex. After the door slamming, sprint up the one-upping ladder of threats we'd raced together, I’d climbed into bed exhausted.  While lying in dark, the palm of my hand pressed against my forehead, I heard Alex turn on the shower, and the sound sparked a memory, and just like that I was transported back to a night several years earlier, eerily similar to the one I had just experienced. The boys had disagreed on what to watch on TV.  The arguing escalated until Alex had grabbed the remote and hurled it into the air, the device exploding against the wall, batteries raining down like bombs while Spencer and Logan dived and rolled for cover like well-trained Army Commandos. At this point in the evening, I was in a word, DONE. Exhaustion had rendered me catatonic. Alex had waited for my reaction, and receiving none, yelled, “Fine! I’m going to bed!” And stormed off, the stairs quaking under the weight of his rage.

Spencer and Logan had come out cautiously, pausing like deer in the headlights, they waited ears perked to see whether he would reappear. It was only when they heard the water running in the tub upstairs that Spencer bent to pick up the remote and Logan climbed back on the couch to finish his show.

Spencer getting in on the cuddling action...I know it doesn't look like it,
but I was actually quite comfortable! December 2014, Texas

I’d put the boys to bed early, they’d read the weariness around my eyes, absorbed  my heavy gait and didn’t argue. Upstairs I’d crawled into bed without brushing my teeth. Russ was off at a meeting, so I 'd laid in the center of the mattress bracing myself for when the solitude splintered, but instead silence settled in the room as heavy as unshed tears. Then, just as I was drifting off, I heard Alex’s tenuous approach. He paused by the side of the bed, hesitant, then climbed in next to me, lowered himself laboriously and sunk into the mattress sighing heavily -like he’d never really rested before. In the dark he pressed his still damp head against mine “I’m sorry” he’d said into my shoulder” “I know.” I whispered back. In the dark he groped for the remote, turned the TV on and flipped between channels, settling on Animal Planet. He cast me a furtive glance, then pulled the striped blanket around us both. I was surprised, our legs touched, until he started to seal himself off from me, tucked himself into a blanket tomb and encased like a mummy he sighed contentedly.  I knew he’d come with the brittle hope of reconciliation and I softened, relented. For a time I just listened to his even breathing, then cautiously I raised a hand to his cheek, and when he didn’t recoil, the contact revived a limp memory, the nights we used to spend reading together when he was a baby. He’d climb into bed each night and settle against me, his little blond head angled towards mine. I remembered breathing in the heady scent of baby shampoo and how one tiny fleeced foot tapped the mattress methodically like a metronome. We’d lie together reading book after book, Alex pointing at the pictures and while biting the nipple of his bottle between his teeth he’d say, “Race car” or “triangle” then turn to look at me, react to my praise, “Yes Alex! That’s right! Such a smart boy! Triangle!” Then he would smile, milk pooling in the pocket of his lips. On this particular night, I remember he’d laid his head against my chest, his eyes widening in surprised when he’d detected the steady beating of my heart. He fell asleep with his head still cradled against me, and even though it was late I never moved him away, I kept him un-deposited, pulled close his comforting frame, kissed his dimpled hands, his downy head.



Alex, ten months old, playing the piano at Grandma's house. Love this kid! Utah 1998

While Animal Planet droned on about dung beetles, I watched as Alex’s unbreakable frame relaxed moment by exhausting moment. He curled toward me, almost in the fetal position and I ran my hands through his damp, unruly hair. And when he finally succumbed to sleep, he was at once emancipated. Uninhibited, he kicked off the binding covers and wrapped his arms around me like one of those monkeys with the Velcro hands, his limbs tangled with mine, limp and supple, his head against my chest in no time, as if the steady beating of my heart was the rhythm he needed to dream. Asleep, he was easy with affection, face to face I searched again for signs he was the same boy I’d read to all those years back, the same one I’d held in the hospital, overcome with the intensity of gratitude I’d felt while I cradled him still attached to me, the nurse hastily wiping his rounded back. In the dark with Alex curved towards me, arms and legs around me, I’d indulged in reprieve as we both got again what we craved; connection, contact, warmth, touch.

 

Alex indulging me in a rare photo with him. September 2014, Texas

And this is what I was remembering as I laid in bed a few nights ago, I’d thought back to that night six years earlier and remembered how when Russ got home I’d had him move Alex back to his bed. I’d thought our moment of connection was enough, I thought I needed space, a break, solitude. I didn’t comprehend then the umbilical need for reciprocal connection in our relationship as mother and son.  But I’ve since learned connection, however sporadic, must be cherished, curled around, protected with bubble wrap. I cannot risk a chink in the armor of hope I wear for my son. I need those soothing moments of touch, of callow communication, to help me remember who he is at his core; the boy I once held in the rawest of forms. Unlike his brothers who demand and accept love unabashedly, Alex struggles parched, he holds back panting. He needs love too, he needs to remember the way it feels (like sugar on the tongue) without all the chaos of misfiring synapses or illogical perseveration to atrophy the tenuous hold we have on each other.

The last stanza of John Keats’s poem "TO-" reads,

“O for some sunny spell/ to dissipate the shadows of this hell!

O let me once more rest/ my soul upon that dazzling breast!

Let once again these empty arms be placed/ the tender gaolers of thy waist.

And let me feel that warm breath here and there/ to spread a rapture in my very hair

Oh the sweetness of pain!

Enough! Enough! It is enough for me to dream of thee.”

  

Christmas Morning... a little less painful than other mornings. December 2014, Texas

So now I know to climb down the rungs of angst I race up (on difficult nights that have flowed seamlessly from difficult days), pride jumping in my veins while I climb. I know to be humble enough to find him. To pull him close; to stop waiting for him to come to me, and instead to go to where he is. So on this night, I got out of my bed, and padded down the hall to find him swaddled like an infant. I climbed into his bed and pulled him close. “I’m sorry,” he said into my shoulder. “I know.” I said into his chest. And Alex fell asleep while I combed my fingers through his still damp hair.

And I confess, in those rare quiet moments holding onto my boy, I hate the dark night for giving in to the sun.



I love this picture, not just because of the pretty sunset,
 but because I remember coming out of the grocery store with Alex and stumbling onto it,
and we just stood there together and took it all in.
October 2014, Texas

 

Hostage Nativity Scenes

Flying over Jackson Lake at Sunrise, December 2014: The sunrise reminded me of the words from O Holy Night, "A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious dawn."

The Setting: A dark and stormy night; December 15, 2011:

“Don’t we have some kind of phrase we can chant like ‘Bless me Father for I have sinned?’ that can undo all of the naughtiness my brothers have done tonight thereby recklessly placing us on the naughty list?!!!” Logan roared as I opened the front door. “I don’t see a black plague mark on our door just yet Logan,” I soothed. “It will be ok. What happened?”

I had only briefly started experimenting with leaving my boys home alone for short stints, and so far it had gone off without a hitch. But the day had been a long day; I’d dragged the boys to doctor visits, scouts and “Ornament making for dummies” at the library; consequently, they were beat. So when I announced I had a PTA meeting to run to and to go grab their coats; the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth began in earnest. The boys were watching Christmas specials on TV and didn’t want to tag along to ONE MORE THING. So I said, “Ok. You can stay.” I made them some grilled cheese sandwiches, patted their heads like the Grinch pats Cindy Lou Who (who was no more than two) and promised to be back in 66 minutes. Apparently that was 16 minutes too long; because while I was gone Alex and Spencer had gotten into a fight over what to watch on TV. Predictably as the crisis escalated, Alex had thrown the remote at Spencer and kept turning the TV off during Spencer’s show. Well Spencer, normally as patient and gentle as a lamb, chose that moment to channel his inner lion (and DANG can that boy ROAR!). He SNAPPED and apparently jumped on Alex’s back and smacked him in the head with the remote, or so Logan summarized as I stood in the doorway, fresh snow flakes melting into drops on my jacket to run in rivulets to the floor.

O Captain My Captain! Loggy Bear December 2014,, Texas

 I could hear muffled sobs coming from the back bedrooms. I took a deep breath, and let my coat slide from my shoulders to pool on the ground as I stepped away. I decided to approach Spencer first. I found him curled into a fetal ball on the top bunk, “Come on Lizard….” I said, pulling him towards me. “Let’s figure this out.”  He followed me to the living room where he climbed into my lap as we fell into the leather lazy boy, the chair hissing as our weight settled against the frame.

“What happened?” I wondered. “Alex was relentless! He wouldn’t stop! I walked away again and again and he just followed me, taunting me… and I lost it. Mom. I lost it.” He confessed in a small, sad voice. “So you….?” I prompted. “I saw red and I jumped on his back and hit him on the head with the remote.” “You hit him on the head with the remote?” I confirmed.  Spencer always one for honestly answered on a sob, “Yes.” And then burying his head into the crook of my neck confessed, “Repeatedly!” Then he lifted his head to face me, his eyes swimming with fresh tears and whispered, “Now I’ll never get off the naughty list!”

 

Temporarily leaving Spencer covered in his self-imposed chains like Bob Marley, I moved on to Alex’s room. I found him crying on the bed. Alex does not deal well with pain, because of his Sensory Integration Disorder he feels everything more intensely; and additionally I figured how much damage could one 70 lb. boy cause?  I was skeptical about his injuries as I sat down next to him. “I heard you got wacked on your head?” I began. “Yes,” he said, “It really hurts.” I gingerly felt the back of his head for damage and was shocked to find a golf ball size goose ache pulsating beneath his hair line. “He was like a wild untamed raptor.” Alex continued sitting up. “And now he’s ruined Christmas for everyone.”

"What do you mean you just used the last green gumdrop Spencer?" Ginger bread making 2014

Well, honestly I don’t remember how we resolved it…I remember a lot of talking. I remember trying to help Alex see the cause and effect of his actions (which is like trying to contain water in a sieve) and I remember crawling into bed feeling utterly exhausted and texting Russ who was out of town, “YOUR boys are missing THEIR father. Your MIA status has earned you a CONFIRMED spot on the naughty list. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!” Needless to say, Santa still visited. (I mean he only brought coal but that was no change from years past).  It may have helped that I changed the black plague dot that WAS apparently glued to our front door (I don’t know how I missed it?) to be the center of a Christmas picture (Rudolph’s nose) so we were golden.

I may have cemented my wedding band to one of the houses....mmmmm gluey. December 2014

But the thing I remember most about this evening (besides the lemon tart they served at the PTA meeting) was a phrase Logan said as he walked past his brothers who were cowering in the living room, “Well you’ve blown it for all of us! BRAVO! Well played gentlemen!” and as a punctuation to his remarks he added some short staccato claps, as he shook his head sadly, pausing dramatically to finger a favorite ornament on the tree. But Logan did get me to thinking about how I had contributed to the evening’s fireworks, and how sometimes I am responsible for blowing it for everyone. How I sometimes don’t put the kids to bed soon enough, add one too many things to our to do list, ignore the signs of impending doom and thus end up dealing with meltdowns on aisle five; as a pre-pubescent boy lays catatonic on the ground blocking the fruit loops when perhaps if I’d chosen a wiser route he could have been laying catatonic on the couch EATING fruit loops.

I was talking to my friend the other day who was saying her daughter’s escalating behavior at night had led to a massive tantrum and that because she was worn out with Christmas parties and remodeling and kid’s plays she had been short on patience in dealing with her…. Well one thing led to another until the threat of being permanently on the naughty list reared its ugly head and everybody was crying. Later, when my friend had time to think things through, she realized she hadn’t been putting her daughter to bed early enough, and that she’d possibly only eaten sugar cookies for dinner and this was probably the greatest contributing factors to her naughty behavior.

I come from a long line of overachieving women; our battle cries (over-achievers would NEVER have just one solo battle CRY for heaven sakes!) Include, “Let’s cram one more thing onto our schedule (REPEATEDLY). “How many dozen do you need?” “Hand hem 18 gingerbread boy costumes by tomorrow morning? Love too!” “Babysit your five kids while you take a trip to the Caribbean? I thought you’d never ask!”  (My boys- including my husband- are morally opposed to this toxic behavior of mineJ). So, recently, I’ve been taking a meaningful look at how MY behavior contributes to their behavior, and I’ve discovered some frightening patterns (it was like finding a hidden phalanx on the Disney Little Mermaid Video Case) and have concluded that if I want to see a behavior changed, then I first must recognize my contribution to the dysfunction and be willing to change my behavior too (BLAST!! Wretched personal accountability!).

Spencer and Logan help make fudge, and by help I mean eat...December 2=14

I’ve gotten better; truly I have. I’ve let things go. We’ve left events early and sometimes haven’t gone at all. I’ve structured schedules better. I’ve lowered my expectations. I even said no to someone just yesterday!  I’ve changed… but, the temptation to cause chaos – Repeatedly – does still throb in my pulse points.

If I was in a 12 Step program for “Moms Who Occasionally Blow It For Everyone” (MOBIFE) my boys would need an apology for the time I made them go to the live nativity after a day of Christmas photos, Christmas shopping, and Christmas parties.

I locked the car keys in the car and almost missed Spencer's play.... Chaos magnified! December 2013

The scene: Some random front church lawn; dusk, December 22, 2006.

“Are you MAD?” Russ wanted to know when I told him I just wanted to swing by the live nativity with the boys really fast. “They are thrashed” he argued. “I’m thrashed” he continued. “It’s the last night they are doing it!” I snapped. “We couldn’t make it any other time and I don’t want the boys to miss this.” Russ sighed heavily in the front seat, resigned to his tortured fate, he snapped his seat belt.

The problem was I had actually just pulled into the driveway when I remembered it was the last night of the live nativity. AND (admittedly exhausted and low on patience) I may have actually yelled when the boys started trying to get out of the van, “We are going to see the baby Jesus and FEEL PEACE! SO BUCKLE UP!!”

“I just want to stay home!” Alex whined.

“Is this a hostage nativity situation?” Logan wondered

Yes! I growled “Hands up!”

“I’m glad ONE of us cares about traditions in this family!” I bellowed at Russ while I backed haphazardly out of the driveway.

At the church I dragged my freshly spit washed -refusing to wear coats- boys from the car to stand shivering in front of a crude stable scene. The crease between my eyes had cemented into a perma scowl, my need for Botox topping my Christmas list. Alex had been bugging Logan the whole way over, and well, why stop a good thing? So Russ, in turn threatened Alex.  Spencer tried to climb on one of the sheep as it passed by. Alex, frustrated and hungry, and in a word: DONE!!!  Threw a snow ball at Logan, but fine and/or large motor skills are not his forte, so Alex, predictably, hit Mary instead and she dropped the baby Jesus (a doll) and Logan yelled while starring at the lifeless form in the snow,  “Great Alex! Now you killed baby Jesus! Are you happy now!!!!!?” (Alex, to his belligerent credit answered snidely, “NO!”)

Hanging with the Tidwell cousins: Put 'em up! November 2014

The shreds of one’s pride are sometimes hard to reattach, they slough off like dead skin... (I’m remembering a lovely story Alex and I read about how people have died in Yellowstone (the perfect bed time tale) and one story was about a guy who had jumped in a hot pot after his dog fell in and the book revealed that his skin just melted off his body… fairly grotesque image, especially at Christmas but this is the image I remember thinking most suited how I felt at that moment.)

What else was there to do but: 1) stop Russ from killing our son (no small task given the bulk of his college linebacker form and his death grip vise on the back of Alex’s neck). 2) Yank Spencer down from the top of the stable where he’d climbed during the whole explaining-to-Logan-baby-Jesus-wasn’t-dead-apologizing-to-Mary-the-pasture-community-and-God-portion of the evening. 3) Go. Home.

So what have I learned since that fateful day? (Not a whole lot obviously since I was just perusing live Nativities in our areaJ) I’ve learned Christmas will come whether the boys are wearing their new scratchy pajamas (that are SO CUTE) or their nasty old comfortable ones. It will come whether we see Santa land in a helicopter or not. It will come whether sugar plums or Minecraft figurines dance over their heads. It will come even if I haven’t made a treat for every one of their seven hundred and twenty two teachers (wretched secondary education!) or hand carve the words “Merry Christmas” out of butter to put on their pancakes. It will come, and I want to be there holding my breath next to them in aching anticipation as it does. I don’t want my (impatience, frustration, exhaustion) behavior to inadvertently push them onto the naughty list, when in truth their little boy hearts are sweeter than sugar and belong on the nice list.
In all caps.

I have learned I don’t have to do one more thing.

Except maybe re-wash that load of laundry I forgot to put in the dryer….

Repeatedly.

My favorite part of any day... kicking back, forgetting to change the laundry.