Sons and Guns

My son loves guns. He always has ever since he was a little bitty guy. His dad, who is an officer in the United States military, and me...not so much. My husband had enough gun time in the army. Me...they just scare the hell out of me. I don't want one, never fired one, never really even held one. Minus a toy rifle I had when I was a kid that shot dirt clods out the end, guns have never held any fascination for me.

But my son...that's another story. Squirt guns, Lego guns, cowboy guns, death ray guns, pretzel guns, peanut butter and jelly sandwich guns...You name it. If it even resembled something with a barrel and a trigger, it had his name all over it.

We tried. My lord, we tried. We removed any realistic guns from the Batman action figure package. Swords? No problem. Ninja stars? Let's get two. Compound bows? You betcha. Guns? No way! Didn't matter. He made them out of whatever he could find. Finally we gave up and let the guns stay in the package thinking they were 1/2 inch big. They'd get lost, get frustrating, get forgotten. Wrong. We should have learned then, but we didn't.

When he was about 4, he developed a love for all things army. I know this will sound ridiculous, but for Christmas that year, we got him his own little camouflage army uniform exactly like his dad's. We even sewed rank on and a name tape and U.S.Army across the pocket. Still didn't get him a gun.

His little buddies in the neighborhood would play soldier and cops and robbers in the back yard, and they all had "cowboy" pistols. My sister had that kind when we were little. You know what I'm talking about: silver with white "ivory" handles, and you could shoot caps off with them. My son's best friend had that kind of gun. He would come down and give Kyle a roll of caps. TJ would shoot the caps with his gun, and Kyle would pop his with a rock. Not quite the same thing, but I tried to talk it up. Then the boys would go into the back yard, Kyle would wear his uniform, and they would play army or something similar. TJ would use the cap gun, and Kyle would find a stick that acceptably resembled a gun, and they'd proceed to shoot each other in an all out war.

It got to be pretty pathetic. My mom gave me a lot of grief about the gun ban in my house, reminding me that I played with guns as a kid and turned out just fine. So I gave in and got Kyle a neon green plastic squirt gun. He was thrilled...until it cracked. I learned to keep a stock pile of squirt guns in the house for emergencies. It worked for awhile.

Then Kyle began to love anything and everything about the American Revolution. He worshiped the movie "The Crossing" about Washington crossing the Delaware. We read every book about George Washington and Sam the Minuteman, and Kyle learned to love history. I was THRILLED because I love history, and I found it charming that he was into the past at his young age. We went to reenactments and learned about the Colonial period and spent time at historic homes and met the soldiers who brought the past to life. I took up sewing so I could make him costumes. We took a trip to Williamsburg early that fall. I had made him brown breeches, a green wesket, a white shirt and found some buckle shoes. He wore them every day. He drilled with the militia every day. They got to know him so well, that when they'd see him coming, they'd say, "Everyone, line up behind Private Kyle. He'll show you what to do." By the end of the week, he'd been promoted to Corporal. It was at Williamsburg that we finally broke down and got Kyle his first gun. He was 4 1/2. He carried it with him for the entire week. I rationalized it by telling myself it was an "historic" gun. Whatever.

I remember one day at an event, we were wandering through an encampment. Kyle was about 5. There were several men in period costume sitting around a fire, and one of them was making musket balls out of lead. Kyle wandered up to them, invited himself into their circle, pulled up a log and sat down. I tried to shew him away, but the men were getting a kick out of him and engaged him in conversation. The bullet maker showed Kyle what he was doing and how the lead melted and called him over to watch it pour into the mold. After they had cooled, he handed one to Kyle to put in his own bullet pouch, which until then held rock bullets, and Kyle was in history heaven. Another guy gave him a carved horn powder measure, and they all filled his head with visions of guns to come.

In second grade, he met a boy who had an imitation long rifle. I had to admit, it was really cool, and it added a huge amount of authenticity to his costume. Breeches, vest, tricorn hat, long rifle...He looked just like a colonial boy. Kyle wanted that gun. He begged for it. I'm sure he prayed for it. I said no way, but in my heart, I thought it would be pretty cool to have to take to reenactments. I got a catalog on reproduction weapons. Kyle found it. Like a dog with a bone, that boy would not let go of the idea of owning his own long rifle. Finally, and I know this will sound sick, I told him that if he could save up enough money, he could buy it for himself. It cost $75. Where, I wondered, would an 8 year old come up with $75? I forgot about First Communion. Yes, after his party, Kyle had finally saved the $75 plus shipping and handling to buy his long rifle. My son used his First Communion money to buy a gun. Sick, I know.

It's been all downhill from there. In the past couple of years, the new thing is "Air Soft" guns. They are heavy plastic guns that shoot plastic b.b.'s. The thing is, they LOOK real. Except for the orange tips on the end of the barrels, you could mistake them for real guns. Of course, Kyle wanted one. Of course, I said, "Are you out of your mind?" Of course, he now has three.

Tonight, he is at an "Air Soft" birthday party in which all the boys bring their guns, ammo, camo, eye protection, you name it, and choose teams and have a war. It will last all night. He had the same kind of party last week for his own birthday. The boys were one motley collection of racquet ball goggles, ski goggles, Air Soft masks, sun glasses, and swimming goggles, with all kinds of guns and outfits too. They set off across my yard for the woods, good buddies all, and started playing. They stayed outside until dark then went to Kirk's work for more indoor fun (Air Soft guns stayed home.)

And I know this will sound sick too, but it was really rather heart-warming to see my son and his friends playing like 12 and 13 year old boys should instead of texting girls and acting cool. There was still some texting going on to be sure, but there was absolutely no cool to be found. Just don't tell them that because in their get-ups, they thought they were da bomb!

I am happy that Kyle wants to P-L-A-Y, even if it is Air Soft war. Who knows how long this phase will last. Probably not long. Life is short, and kids grow up so fast now. If he's holding an Air Soft gun, that means his hands are too busy to be texting girls, and I am just so fine with that!

Letting Go

I'm letting Kyle go skiing today without me or Kirk being there. Scary.

There is an annual, unofficial ski trip to Paoli Peaks today. The kids were supposed to be off but had to go to school until 1 for a make-up day from the ice storm. We went last year on this same trip. Loads of people from school are there, and it is really fun. This year, Kirk couldn't take off, and I didn't want to go with all 3 kids alone. By the time we'd get to Paoli, get skis, and get on the slopes, it would be about 3 o'clock. Then we'd only have a couple of hours of daylight, and I didn't want to be there in the dark with the 3 kids, especially the girls. Last year about 5, the teens and snow boarders began showing up and it started to get icy and fast, and I just couldn't do it, so I initially said no to any of us going.

Then all of Kyle's friends were going, and he really wanted to go, so we found a ride with a friend of mine who is taking 4 other boys. She skis and is staying the whole time. I know he will be fine, but it's scary to let him go into a potentially dangerous situation without a parent nearby. I know it's good to trust him and he needs to know that I have confidence in his decision making, but he's my boy and I'm a worry wort!

He will be 13 tomorrow. I can't believe it. This time 13 years ago, Kirk and I were at the beach. It was windy and chilly, and the sand was stinging my legs because it was blowing so hard. The ocean at Sandy Beach Park was rough that day. Kirk went body-surfing, and I sat watching, getting my toes wet because I was so awkward that I didn't trust myself in the water. Early the next morning, we headed to the hospital (for the second time), and Kyle was born 16 hours later. Seems like yesterday...

So I'm letting him go bit by bit. I began to panic last night thinking that next year he will be 14! Thirteen still seems young by comparison. He has one more year of grade school, then it's off to St. X, and he's not mine anymore after that. I think being a mother is the saddest, most joyful job in the world, often at the same time.

Becoming My Father's Mother

I am becoming my father's mother. I don't like that role.

Yesterday, I went to Dad's house for a visit and to get the ball rolling to get him an appointment with a new doctor at the Movement Disorder Clinic. There are several pieces of information needed, and I wanted to call his current doctor from his house in case they needed to talk to him instead of me.

So I called the current doctor and asked for Dad's records, tests, and the referral to be faxed over to the new doctor. They were very nice and said they'd be happy to send them. He also needed to get copies of his insurance cards, so we headed to the copy store and then out to lunch at Tumbleweed. That's when my parenting odyssey started, and it didn't hit me until today that so much of what I did for Dad yesterday is so much what I did, and still do, for my own kids today.

As we left his house, I held the door for him while he locked the deadbolt. Then I opened the door for him to get in the front seat of the van and closed it for him once he was in. He has trouble getting the seat belt latched, so after I got in, I helped him get his seat belt on.

I went in and got the copies made and then headed to Tumbleweed. I helped him out of the van and walked with him, slowly, to the restaurant. His nose was runny yesterday, and a clear drop of mucous would hang off the end of it. It liked to gross me out, looking at it. Either he didn't know it was there or didn't have a hankie, but I had to offer him a tissue to get him to wipe his nose. Once our meal arrived and he started eating, he got a big string of cheese hanging off his lip. I kept waiting for him to wipe his mouth, but he didn't, so I had to tell him, "Dad, you have a piece of cheese hanging from your lip."

During our meal, he began to sweat, which is one of the issue with Parkinson's. He had sweat rolling off his cheeks and onto the table. His glasses had drops of sweat on them. I offered him a napkin to wipe his face with, and when he did, his razor stubble from not shaving for two or three days, caught the napkin and little balls of tissue clung to his cheeks. I had to mirror him to get him to wipe his face clean.

Finally watching him trying to cut up his burrito was excruciating. It took every ounce in me NOT to offer to cut it up for him.

He was s-l-o-w yesterday. I told Colleen that it was like he was moving underwater. Everything was delayed. He was coherent, but he took a long time answering questions, walking, eating, and moving in general. It was near impossible to have a conversation with him yesterday.

I kept looking for my dad, and he was nowhere to be found.

A "Tall" Small? Give Me a Break!

I wasn't feeling particularly nice this afternoon when I pulled into the drive-thru at the national neighborhood coffee chain. I hadn't had my full second cup of coffee because Kirk drained the pot before he left, so I was a little grumpy.

"May I help you?" came the voice over the speaker.

I replied, "I'd like a small coffee, please. Non-fat milk and one sugar."

"Do you mean a 'Tall'?" said the voice.

"No, I mean a 'small'," I answered back, fully understanding that to this particular chain, "Tall" and 'small' are the same thing.

"Well," said the voice, "a 'Tall' is the same as a 'small.' So would you like a Tall?"

"No," I replied, "Tall and small are not the same things. Tall is TALL, and small is what I want."

"Well, ma'am," said the voice which was now becoming irritated with me, "at our coffee shop, small is 'Tall', medium is 'Grande', and large is Venti.' So what size coffee do you want?"

I sat there in my van, just shaking my head at our culture, where everything has to be bigger, larger, better, and nothing can truly be what it is.

I said, "So you're saying that 'Tall' is your smallest coffee, right?"

"Yes," came the reply.

"Then I'll take your smallest size, please," I grinned. I was determined not to ask for a 'Tall' small.

"That will be $1.80, please," said the voice, clearly irritated with me now. "Please drive through."

Well, okay, I didn't really have this conversation, I'm to nice or too chicken or something. But I wanted to! Maybe someday...

Razors and Shaving Cream

I bought Kyle a razor today and a can of shaving cream. It was a weird experience. My not-so-little boy is shaving now. He has been for a couple of months or so with Kirk's razor. He had this dark fuzz on his upper lip, and it was bothering him, making him feel embarrassed. I swore to myself when I was a kid that if one of my own children ever wanted to shave, I would let them.

I remember being twelve and having legs so hairy that I wore tube socks so people wouldn't see them. Thankfully, tube socks were still in style, and I had some to go with every outfit. One pair had yellow stripes, one had red, one had both blue and red. I was set. But then my friends started wearing crew socks rolled down, and I was in trouble. They saw my legs and laughed. I cried.

I told my mom about it, but she said I was too young to shave. She said I had to be 13. That was a whole summer away. It was early June. Field Day. My birthday wasn't until August, so I kept wearing the tube socks. I was either going to be uncool because of the socks or the hair. I chose the socks.

When I finally did get my hands on a razor, my mom told me I could shave only to my knees. What was that about? My legs were equally hairy all the way up, and I was supposed to stop at my knees? Was she kidding? But I complied and only shaved my calves, at least for awhile. There I was, 13 years old, awkward enough in my braces and glasses, and now I had half-shaved legs on top of that. I was a walking case of nerdness.

I broke down before summer was over and shaved my thighs too. My mom found out. Not sure how, but she did, and she came into my room and confronted me with a disappointed, "You'll regret it" speech and shook her head and sighed. I didn't regret it. Ever.

And I made up my mind then and there that if I ever had kids who wanted to shave, they could. I never wanted them to feel the shame and embarrassment I felt as a kid over something that could have been so easily remedied.

When Kyle came to me complaining about his lip hair, I asked him if he wanted to take it off. He did. So I let him. He used Kirk's razor the first few times, and today he asked for his own. I got him one at Kroger along with a can of Edge. I know he'll never look back.

I am SO my mother's daughter

It's pathetic, really how like her I am. Mom cried at everything...commercials, kids singing in church, Christmas carols, the Crusade for Children, firemen, soldiers, ends, beginnings...We would always know when Mom was going to get teary-eyed over something. When we'd steal a glance at her, she'd hiss at us, "Don't stare at me!" and we'd look away. But out of the corner of our eyes, we could see her dabbing at her tears with a tissue because, if she caught them before they rolled down her cheeks, it wasn't technically "crying" in her book.

I'm pretty much the same way, and lately whenever I've seen all of the power workers in town, I get choked up. Can't explain it at all. I see these guys (mostly) up from Carolina and Tennessee and Georgia out working on our power in this weather for hours on end, and it gets to me. I know they are getting overtime, etc. but there is something about the way they put themselves on the line, literally, to help us out that just moves me.

Every time I see some utility workers, I roll down my window and holler a big, "Thank you!" to them. They all wave and smile and hopefully know some of us appreciate all of their hard work.

Tonight, I was taking Kyle to basketball practice when I saw this long line of utility trucks at an intersection. The yellow lights at the top of their trucks were blinking on and off while they waited for the stoplight to turn green. As I drove past them, I flashed my brights off and on, hoping that they would see my little shout out. Some of them flashed back at me, and I smiled to myself, a lump in my throat.

I mumbled to Kyle, "I am so my mother's daughter!" and he asked what I meant. I couldn't answer. My throat had closed, and I needed to catch the tears before they rolled down my cheeks.

Confused

Dad called me this afternoon. We had talked last night about the hole in his roof, and he told me that there was a tarp on it. Then this morning when we talked, he told me there was now a tarp on his roof. I responded that I was glad to know that and reminded him that we had talked last night about it. I thought maybe he had been drinking last night or maybe he had told so many people and didn't remember telling me. Whatever.

So when he called this afternoon, he said, "You know that hole you saw in the roof? It isn't a hole."

I said, "What?"

He replied, "That hole you saw yesterday with the water dripping down the wall. It isn't a hole."

I said, "Yeah, Dad, there's a hole there. I saw the sky from your living room."

He said, "No, it's not a hole. Its got that, what do you call it, that blue thing. It's not a hole."

Finally getting what he was trying to say, but shaken up by his inability to say it, I said, "Do you mean a tarp is on it?"

"Yeah," he answered. "The roof man came yesterday and put a tarp on it. It's not a hole anymore."

I said, "Dad, you've told me this twice already. Remember, we talked last night about it and again this morning. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

We talked for a minute more and then hung up.

After yesterday, and all that I did and all that is left (see "And So It Goes...), I am just really overwhelmed with my dad's needs.

I don't know what to do. I guess we are both confused...