Last week, after I posted the behavior contract, a very keen reader noticed and pointed out that the words I penned back in 2007 suspiciously skirted the topics of sex and dating.  While that may seem like a heinous oversight, rest assured that it wasn’t.  While I omitted that stuff from the ink, I certainly didn’t omit it from the discussion.  I will gladly tell you my reasoning, but first I have to give you a hint of background about the day that set this whole thing in motion.

Without going into detail, let me just say that on that day, I found something that shot like an arrow through my heart.  I read words that instantly grieved me because how could so treasured a child see herself without value?  {I apologize for the vagueness.  It’s necessary.}

And so, with the precipice of high school looming, I set out to drive home a message so important that missing it could make all the difference in the world.

Don’t mistake me for a moron; I knew full well that the existence of such a contract would not really bind anybody to anything.  What is was to do, though, was explain–in no uncertain terms–my expectations.  Too many times in this parenthood I’ve been handed the excuse of not knowing.  With my expectations listed and signed off on, the not knowing becomes a much tougher sell.

Still, in spite of having voiced squirm-worthy sex’ish words all the days leading up to this one, putting them on paper was a step I wasn’t willing to take.  Partly because I felt that by writing them down and making them off-limits, I was somehow posing a dare.  And that was the last thing I wanted to do.

When we sat across the table from one another, reading over this contract, there was much discussion.  Unlike the heart-to-hearts we’d had before, this one was far more formal.  Quite purposefully.  I’d meant for it to feel very business-like.  If the truths of my heart poured out in the past had fallen on forgetful ears, perhaps this signing on the dotted line would stick.

I wanted the words–the expectations on that paper–to convey a message.  That is: you matter.  The choices you make today will shape tomorrow.  Your choices matter.  You will have a curfew; you will contribute; you will be respectful.  You matter.  If the going gets tough I will not look the other way; I will press harder.  You matter.  I will not give up on you because you matter.  I expect a lot from you and I know you can rise to the occasion.  You matter more than you’ll ever know.

I hoped that that truth would permeate and that, in turn, she would value herself enough to make responsible choices with boys based on self-worth rather than a directive on some piece of paper her mom made her sign.  We talked then–and talk still-about what I expect of her in the dating department, but it’s easily one of the slipperiest slopes I’ve ever had to parent down.  On one hand I want her to know that sex isn’t okay right now, but on the other hand I need her to know that if she chooses otherwise, she can come to me, without repercussion.  How can you convey both without sending a mixed message?

I don’t know the answer to that.  All I know is that I’m doing my best.

Parenting has been hard since that very first contraction.  Seasons of hard.  The physical exhaustion slowly gives way to a weary one, and second-guessing comes battering like a downed tree at the heavy door of perseverance.  All I know for sure is that while I could be better, I’m doing my best.

I’ve got an eighth grader waiting in the wings; the behavior contract is about to make a second appearance.  With revisions, of course.  Because when you know better, you do better.

I can only hope–and pray without end–that my best is good enough.

Quite some time ago I wrote and ran a teen pregnancy series that touched on various aspects on topic, all written from my first-hand experience.  Within the Lives Less Broken post (the second in the series), I mentioned the behavior contract I created when my oldest child was starting high school.  I had a number of requests to write a separate post on that behavior contract and I fully intended to do so in a timely manner.  Oh, but the best laid plans…

Here we are, five months later and I am, finally, bringing that post to fruition.  So, without further ado, here is a scan of the original contract I wrote in 2007.

I fully intend to implement this same procedure when my next one starts high school this coming July.  There will be some revisions, of course.  For instance, not ALL social media sites are against the rules.  Also, I’ve done away with the poker chip reward.  It was too tedious a system to maintain.  In its place, I take the older girls to movies, lunch, or out shopping every so often, just the three of us.  In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t included that portion in the contract.  Not because I want to skimp on rewards, but because the behavior contract was meant to be a reference, not a dangling carrot.  It was meant to clearly and concisely state my expectations.  Any subsequent rewards are to be icing on the cake, not expected compensation.

I showed you mine; now tell me yours.  What bullet points would be added or omitted from your versions?

I remember when first she went to preschool.  She gripped my leg and clung to my hand and wrapped her body tight around mine.

But they told me it was in her best interest and I believed them and so three mornings a week we went through the unraveling until she did it willingly.  Ish.

I remember when she first went to kinder.  She didn’t cry that time.  Whether or not I did is a different story.

She sat in a classroom with typical peers and colored pictures and read books and learned her ABC’s.

And then came all the grades between now and then.  Each year she grew a little more stubborn.  A little more independent.  A little more of herself.

It’s been nearly two weeks now since they played the pomp and the circumstance and she walked in with her head held high–Miss Amy right behind her.

It’s been nearly two weeks since her 5th grade teacher teared up as she introduced Cass, telling an auditorium full of people how many smiles Cass brought over the year and how very much she is loved.

Loved indeed.

We’ll start all over again next month when I drop her off at a new {middle} school with a new set of teachers and aides and therapists and specialists.

I’ll hold my breath for the better part of that first day–butterflies batting their nervous wings against my stomach as I wait to hear how it goes.  Will they get her?  Will they accept her?  Will they love her?

But that’s the then.

One day at a time.

She’s come such a long way.

Taking us right along with her for the ride of our lives.

Remember how back in August I wrote about my little man going off to school for the first time?  And how I’d lamented the decision because I feared he’d get “meaned up”?  Well, the year is coming to a close and I’m happy to report that the worst didn’t happen.  Not entirely, at least.

He still allows me the rocking, but only if I bribe him.

He did grow out of the articulation issues.  He can now pronounce both his “g” and “k” sounds with the best of ‘em.

He might be a little grittier around the edges.  But.

But he still tells me I’m a beautiful princess.  Although he did clarify that I’m beautiful in my daytime clothes but not so much in my jammies.

He made friends.  He made strides.  He made countless art projects with countless tons of glitter.

I’m glad I let him go.  It was the right thing.  For us.

He graduated this week.  In a couple of months I have to hand him over to a kindergarten teacher.

So what if he goes off to school with fingernail marks on his arms from me holding on for dear life.

Letting go is hard.  Even a little at a time.

PS.  Four (yes, four!) chapters to go.

Among the gifts in our life?  Team Cass.

Team Cass is comprised of Miss Amy (her parapro), Miss Garrison (her teacher), and Mrs. Rudd (the Incusion Specialist).

I love them each.  Every single one.

Tonight we had Team Cass over for a bbq.  We sat around the table and talked (too much, in my opinion) about eating obscure meats like deer and rattlesnake (blech!) and about what happens when you cut off a chicken’s head.  We joked about Cassidy’s flatulence at school (you all remember the burping, farting girl, right?).  We shot chocolate cake shots (well, not all of us).  We swapped stories and talked pregnancy (Mrs. Rudd is expecting her first baby in August) and weddings (Miss Amy is getting married in September).

But mostly we just hung out.  And laughed.  A lot.

Miss Amy has three children.  All of whom treat Cass like any other friend–any other Joe Blow off the street.  More so than I’ve ever seen of any other children, anywhere.  EVER.  They played in the grass, tossing the football and chasing the dog.  Miss Amy’s three children take Cassidy’s hugs in stride; they turn the other way when she makes odd noises.  They accept her for her.  As is.  And they love her.

I have reason to love Cass.  Lots and lots of reasons.

Team Cass loves her, too.  Even though they don’t have to.  They just do.  They love her and truly, madly, deeply, they care for her.

Their love for her–their dedication to her success–brings me to tears.  I would give each of them a winning lottery ticket, if I could.  They deserve it.

We don’t want to stay here in Arizona forever.  But–secretly–we wish we could take Team Cass with us.  Wherever we go.

In the most infantile stages of my motherhood I dove headfirst into a pool already crowded by the other moms and the other babies.  All the other mothers had to react to the rippling of the water, the waves brought on by our arrival.  They scooted and they scrunched.  They pulled their babies in closer to make room for us: the newcomers.  Eventually they straightened and fluffed, righting rogue hairs and patting dry the water beads brought on by the splash.

They knew more than me.  They’d been in the pool longer.

I used to believe that all of it–every milestone missed or achieved–was a reflection of me.  Of my mothering.  Or worse, a lack thereof.

Only sixteen myself, I was a baby.  Which, of course, left me all the more defensive.

I needn’t have been though.  My baby sat at six months, walked at nine months and talked up a storm shortly thereafter.

Beautiful.  Brilliant.  Extraordinary in every way.

All that worry for nothing.

And then one day comes a report card or a letter from the principal or a warning call from another parent.

Rattled.  Shaken.  Spit out the other side.

Easy fix though: just rearrange the shelf.  Hide it behind the blue ribbons won and the certificates earned and the trophies displayed.  You fool yourself.

Good as new.

It nags you.  Throbs like a stubbed toe for days afterwords.

Festering.  Days into weeks into months into a year.  Maybe more.

What did I do?  Which turn was the wrong one?  I thought we were good.

My baby is sixteen herself now.  My toes are practically prunes.

This is what you learn when you’ve spent so long in the pool:

You learn that no more can you take credit for their accomplishments than can you accept blame for their mistakes.  You learn that the view from the poolside bleachers is ohsoverymuchdifferent than the view from the deep end.  You learn that the signs pointing you to the right way are almost always hidden. You learn to make it up as you go.

You learn that barely staying afloat is better than the alternative.

You care less about what it looks like from the outside.

You care most about just teaching them to swim.  In spite of the sunburn.  And the splashing.  The wailing.

But mostly you pray.  You pray because you know that the lifeguard has the whistle in hand, ready to blow.  Your time is almost up.  Oh Lord, please.  Please let her swim.

And then you draw in your breath.  You close your eyes.  You pray some more.

And you wait.

Because that’s all there is.

I was on time.  Early even.

Found time to play.

I held my tongue.

But didn’t hold back.

I bandaged a toe that didn’t really need bandaging.  Because it hurts so, so bad.

Warned against the dangers of going barefoot in the desert.

I Packed lunches with love.

They loved what I packed.

I Checked the mail.

Checked a block.

Sent a text.

Kickboxed.

Finally got some sleep.

I wrote.

Surpassed a goal.

Hugged my husband.

And squealed with delight.

{Not necessarily in that order}.

I plucked a stray hair.

Pondered.

Puzzled, quite literally.

I lit a match.

Waved hello.

Kissed goodnight.

I savored a moment.

Wished for one back.

I read a good quote.

Stopped to think.

Came up short.

I planned for tomorrow.

Hoped for the best.

Said a prayer.

And then…

I sighed.

A happy

Content

Little sigh.

At the prospect of

Starting over again.

Tomorrow.

The {little} man in my house is embarking on a very big transition this week: preschool.

Honestly, I didn’t have preschool in mind for him.  He’s my baby, after all.  I feared preschool would–and I know this might sound silly–but I feared preschool would “mean him up.”

I don’t want him meaned up.  I like him as is.

He comes to me in his t-shirt and spidey undies every morning–sleep still heavy on his breath–and asks me to rock him.  Only he can’t make the “k” sound so it goes more like will you rott me?

And then I hold out my hand and wait for him to grab tight.  Together we walk to the four-year-old brown velour rocker in the corner of his bedroom.

He excitedly curls up into the same position on my lap every single time, knowing precisely how to bend and tuck so as to fit just right.  We rock.  Sometimes we read books.  Mostly, though, we talk.

He tells me that my earrings are beautiful, and that they make me look like a beautiful princess (his daddy taught him the fine art of flattery).  He gives me smoochie boochies and asks if they are the best four-year-old smoochie boochies ever.  We talk about when he “popped out of my tummy” and how even if I could have picked any baby in all the world I still would have chosen him.

I’m afraid that if he goes off to preschool, he’ll come home each day with his edges just a touch grittier than they were when he left.

And also?  The very reason he’s going to school is so as to correct an articulation delay.

An articulation delay that, for the time being, I happen to find irresistible.

Come fourth grade, it might not be as cute.

So I’m letting go.

But only a little.

And only because I have to.

Wish us luck.

A certain someone in my house is of the belief that “fun” escapes me.

A certain someone is of this belief because I’ve always told this certain someone to “work first, play later.”

A certain someone seems to have misunderstood that to mean work when you’re young, play when you’re old.

When in reality, what I meant is work {every day} until work is through and play with the time you’ve got left over {most likely dusk to sundown.  Ish}.

Work every day.  Play every day.

Whether that is a popular belief or not, I can’t say.  But it works for me.

A certain someone witnesses my days at home–witnesses the suds and the soiled behinds and the lunch-making–and that certain someone sees boredom.  Redundancy.  Hopelessness.

Whereas I?  I look at the splay of domesticity and I see the stuff that dreams are made of.

It’s not that I don’t tire of the soiled behinds and the call from the bathroom: “Mom, I’m dooooooooooone.”  I actually tire of that part rather quickly thankyouverymuch.

But whereas a certain someone dreams of coming and going at will and spending every. single. night. out on the town?  I don’t share that definition of fun.  At least not anymore.  Not in my old age.

Truth be told, I’m quite the homebody.  Nights on the town are overrated, if you ask me.

My idea of fun is a Friday night, spent making dinner in the kitchen while Disney tunes roll out, one after another, from my annoyingly cheerful playlist.  Pollyanna.

The pull of the people here at home isn’t a burden, but a blessing–they root me.

I love being needed.  And I need to be loved.

My certain someone has yet to become a parent.

I wonder if my certain someone ever will.  And if so, how that perspective might change.

Months ago, I read a blog post in which the author said something to the effect of, “it’s so refreshing to see young parents who didn’t let the birth of their child change their lives.”

A photo accompanied the post, and in it, this young couple was pictured with their brand new baby.  The backdrop?  A neon beer sign, typical of those found in bars across America.  Their newborn baby sat between them, in a car-seat carrier.  In a bar.

In a bar!

Refreshing to see young parents who don’t let the birth of their child change their lives?  Refreshing to see young parents who don’t let the birth of their child impose on their fun?

Eh.  I’m not so sure about that.

I’m not nearly as “fun” as I once was.

And I hope that one day, in the not-too-distant future, a certain someone will appreciate my idea of fun as much as I understand hers.

We are a household that tries to limit technology.

That’s not to say that we don’t own video gaming systems, cell phones, or laptops.  We have our fair share of those things.  But there are time limitations on the TV watching and the playing of aforementioned video games.  Even the educational ones.

Jayce is allowed to watch one show each day.  And he uses the computer to explore Playhouse Disney dot com every couple of days or so, for about twenty minutes at a time.

But he doesn’t own a DS.  Or any other handheld gaming system.  He’s only three, after all, and we figure the longer we can hold out, the better.

Older sister–on the other hand–does have a gaming system.  Albeit a Leapster.  We encourage her to play it because it’s sort of a sneaky way to get in more reading and arithmetic practice.

Does anybody even say arithmetic anymore?

Back to my point though.

So Jayce, apparently, is sort of envious of big sissy’s Leapster.

He sees her playing her princess game.  And Ratatouille.  And Diego.

He wants a piece of the action sometimes.

Instead of boring old alphabet floor puzzles.

But the game is off limits.

This he knows.

Which, I’m guessing, is precisely why I found him like this, this morning:

In case you can’t make it out, he’s in a bathroom cabinet.  With the game.

This bathroom is positioned in between the playroom and Cassidy’s bedroom.

I heard the game, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out where the noise was coming from.  I must have walked past it a half dozen times, the most confounded look on my face all the while.

I looked at the cabinet and thought nah, no way.

Then I opened it.

And sure enough.

It was so stinkin’ cute I didn’t even make him turn off the game.

I just let him be.

“Shut the door please”, he asked.

And then, his voice muffled by the cabinet door, “and turn out the light.”

Yes sir.

Will do.