Tonight, I close the book on a decade of parenting. Baba’s missing a few teeth, quite a bit of hair—do red heads shed extra or something—and an appendix. She can read and is potty trained, so I’m considering the last ten years an acceptable success.

About four years ago, Baba decided that she was done with soccer. I, attempting to be a responsible parent, told her that she needed to finish out the season, and then she could be done. By the end of the season, she was back loving soccer. As a result, she spent her tenth birthday at a five hour soccer camp put on by the local professional soccer team. She also requested soccer ball birthday cake. I spent the day regretting my attempt to be a responsible parent.

I don’t really mind the soccer camp. Except that it’s three days, and it’s far enough from the house that I don’t want to spend the gas driving back and forth. And I will be carting Mac and X-Man around for five hours, including to the doctor’s office, where they’re watching me for high blood pressure—it’s like they don’t even pay attention to my life or something—so it’s not like I’m even getting a break. Although, I shouldn’t complain today, the boys were with the father figure. X-Man discovered how to make it out the front door, and that includes flipping the deadbolt, and Mac summersaulted into the printer and broke it. So maybe hauling them about the county isn’t such a bad idea.

Then there’s the soccer ball cake. I had an image in my mind. And I pointedly avoided Pintrest. Pintrest makes me want to kill myself. Well actually, Pintrest makes me want to cook a week’s worth of healthy crockpot meals for my family, then kill myself.  There’s only so much leeway you have when the request is a vanilla cake with key lime frosting. And I couldn’t really remember the pattern on a soccer ball. Fortunately, I can still impress a ten year old. I’m going to be so lost when they actually expect things from me. And Oreos make an acceptable soccer ball.

She’s now ten, which means I have to do the things I’ve been putting off.  Apparently, as my mother in law informed me recently, Italians tend to mature faster than say….Irish folk. So there are issues that need to be addressed, lessons that need to be taught. And I’m back to cooking crockpot meals and hoping to sleep through the next decade. While discussing these issues with the father figure, who was desperately trying to fall asleep or pass away himself rather than face the reality, the issue of makeup came up. Or rather, I, attempting to be a good mother, asked the father figure for his thoughts on makeup. The conversation went something like this:

“When do you think they should start wearing makeup?”

“They don’t need make up!!!”

“Yes, they don’t need it right now, but they’ll want to wear it someday.”

“They wear nail polish, what else do they want? Baba can’t put anything on her skin, it’s too perfect.”

“True, but they’ll probably want cover up at some point.”

“I never broke out as a teenager.”

“Oh really, that’s what you’re going with. I didn’t need make up so no make up for you!”

“Why do they want anything other than nail polish.”

“I didn’t say they did, I’m saying that they will someday. I’m thinking fourteen, high school.”

“That sounds good. But only for special occasions and they can’t wear it outside of the house.”

“Yeah, I don’t think telling your home schooled daughters that they only get to wear makeup on special occasions at school is going to be what they’re looking for.”

“I don’t want them wearing it around boys. Ever.”

I think this upcoming decade is going to be way more rugged. Probably more grey hairs involved. I’m kinda looking forward to watching father figure hoe this row. But I’m mean like that.

Weddings have been in the forefront of our minds recently.  There are cousins and aunts and such getting engaged and frolicking in such romantic frivolity.

We first started analyzing weddings back before X-Man was born. Another aunt was planning a wedding which caused Mac to ask “why is Auntie marrying Bob?” Baba responded with a rather irritated “Because they’re in love.” How was this even up for debate? But Baby had other ideas “No, because he is her boyfriend!!!” Clearly she was aware of how the whole thing worked.

Thinking about love and boyfriends got me thinking. It’s years away, but I still think about whomever it is that they each choose to bring home. Such different personalities. Baba’s love language is words of affirmation. Baby’s love language is touch. Mac’s is punching. It’s going to be interesting.

As weddings come and go, there are conversations about the kiddos’ hopes and dreams. It certainly is something they do think about. Baba wants to marry a man with a good job. Baby wants to marry a man with an elephant.  The Pachadrmy quality of a man is essential. I have a feeling there are a few issues that I should address with Baby, such as the proper care and feeding  of elephants.  Seeing that she has announced "when I grow up I'm going to have a baby, be a bride and be a doctor." The proper order of such blessed events should also be addressed.

 In the same conversation Baba "I'm going to be a teacher."  Very nice.  Mac chimed in “I’m going to be a Transformer and my name will be Bonkhead." Alarmingly prescient. 

Certainly conversations that involve marriage and the future address my grandchildren.

Baby’s plans include “when I grow up, I'm going to watch my kids and make sure that they are always safe and no bad guys get them." Mac “I’m just going to be Iron Man." Works for me.

I wonder what  X-Man’s hopes and dreams include. I hope they’re as wild and crazy as his siblings.

A group of my friends were talking about “the birds and the bees.” Where did that come from? Maybe if it was the “bunny rabbits” that would make sense, but birds are so discrete and the bees pawn it off on the queen. Anyway. Many of us have daughters reaching the age where they are going to have to recognize that life indeed will suck when they grow up.

I remember learning about what was coming down the pipe. And thinking “really, really?” I completely believe in intelligent design, but is this really the best method out there? And if this is the best, then what the heck was rejected??? I’m not really sold on the process so of course, I don’t know how to sell it to my daughters. But it’s a conversation that has to happen. Sooner rather than later. I remember being nine years old and thinking that I was going to die of breast cancer, since I felt a lump there. Sigh.

Of course, any talk of birds and the bees does involve talking about babies, and how they get here. This is an area that doesn’t bother me. I call it like I see it. The father figure is the one who gets frazzled in this department.

It all started when I discovered that I could get about 20 minutes all to myself in the morning if little toddler Baba would take a shower with her father in the morning. She was just over a year, so he was willing. I got breakfast cleaned up, could start dinner and was all ready to face life with a toddler, while gestating. And so it work out until Baba pointed and yelled “nose” at something that wasn’t a nose. And expelled from the shower she was.

And so things rolled, and then Mac joined the family. The girls were admiring their new found servant and offering all sorts of helpful advice to the nurse who was tending to him. Suddenly Baba loudly asked “what’s that? Is it a finger?” I was only half listening at the time, but caught the nurse’s stricken look and so the biology lessons began.  Which were apparently very necessary because….well Mac is a boy and therefore has a pathological resistance to clothes.

The phone was Mac's Pavlov's Dog. One ring and off came the clothes.....

One of the biggest shocks that came with having boy was adjusting to the whole naked aspect. Why do little boys love to be naked? Is it because it makes the poop more accessible? That’s a whole other can of worms, but the need to strip off his clothes was absurd. I get that the family jewels are something that never get old.  I know a little boy who was so disturbed by his mother’s lack of a penis that he offered to pray to Jesus that she get one. Not sure how that turned out. My nephew, at around 18 months, loved to take off during diaper changes, run to a corner and observe himself jiggle while he danced. Meanwhile my girls lay docilely during their diaper changes, pooping once a day, after their afternoon naps.  And nudity was never their preferred method of existence.

“Mac, why are you taking off your clothes? “

“Because it’s a good idea!”

Oh, of course. Never mind that we are in the middle of Target.From what I’ve heard, boys and their mothers never agree on what constitutes a good idea. Ever.  And rumor has it; it gets worse when they are teenagers.

When I envisioned parenthood, I didn't imagine myself having to yell “Don't take your shirt off” in the halls of Sunday school.

Nor did I imagine the challenges that procuring superhero underpants would present. Like the overwhelming desire to show them to everyone along with the inability to pull down your pants without pulling down your awesome underpants as well.

“Mommy, does this shirt make me strong?” “Not really honey, clothes don’t make you strong.” Along struts a naked Mac, “I don’t like things that don’t make me strong.”

Mac’s had an affinity to things that made him strong. It’s excellent motivation to eat whatever is served him. 

But after nearly four years together, I should have seen this result.

So, courtesy of Mac, the girls learned the differences between girls and boys. Girls wear clothes. I’m thinking this lesson will pay dividends in the future.

Back when Mac was in utero, Baba asked me how he got there. Her father got up and walked out of the room. He said it was so that he could double check how that convent he’s having built in the backyard was coming along. I went with the whole keep it simple, and told her that mommy and daddy put him in there. To which she replied “oh yeah, and I helped!” Sigh. I still thank God that she didn’t bother repeating THAT to anyone else.

T

hen Mac came along, with all his Mac-ness and nudity. He was three when X-Man announced his presence. Mac was super excited and had all sorts of pressing questions.

“When are you going to open up your tummy and take out the baby and will it be a robot?” He might need some more work on the whole birds and bees concept.

After my ultrasound, which we took everyone to, his questions became much more personal. “Can I open up your tummy and touch the baby? Because I think he's crying.”

Things continued, and then one night, Mac asked the question  "Mom, how'd the baby get in your tummy?" But unlike previous times, he had sisters to answer him.

Baba "mom and dad put him there."

Baby "NO. FIRST, God put the house in mommy's tummy, THEN mom and dad put him there.”

And I sat back and considered my job done. They’re figuring out the whole circle of life. Until Mac announced……..“Mommy, you're a girl, just like Daddy."

 I don't know which one of us was more insulted.