Career Planning

For many years now, Secret Service has said he wants to be a pilot when he grows up.  He has always loved everything about flying, airplanes, even airports.  He spends many, MANY hours on a simulator, flying as a virtual pilot on Southwest, United and American airlines.  When Secret isn't flying (or sometimes when he is multi-tasking), he is watching TV or playing video games.  Recently, Secret discovered the TV series, Grey's Anatomy, and has been working his way through it episode by episode.

I have come to believe that Secret thinks by watching these shows, he's taking an on-line class that is preparing him to become a doctor.  Since starting this course of instruction, if someone complains of an ache or pain, Secrets' head pops up.  He listens intently and then wonders aloud if they've got a cardiac problem or a brain tumor.

Science Girl and I have been attempting to encourage Secret to put as much effort in at school as he does pursuing his hobbies.  We have said that if he wants to be a pilot, he'll need to earn excellent grades to demonstrate that he's got what it takes to be responsible for an expensive airplane and the lives of numerous passengers.  When we spoke not long ago, Secret smiled.  "Don't worry, he said, "if I can't be a pilot, I have a back up plan."  This was news to us. We looked at him expectantly.  "I can be a neurosurgeon," he said, confidently.  Science Girl and I exchanged glances.

School isn't all that relevant for Secret.  He thinks he can successfully fly a plane and operate on a brain.   What else is there to learn?

Thanksgiving Gratitude

Sitting at the kitchen table in my pajamas, drinking coffee, thinking about gratitude on this Thanksgiving morning.  While Science Girl makes breakfast, the boys are watching the Macy's parade.  The dog wanders around looking for scraps, the cat positions himself on the top of the couch, a sunbeam warming him.

In the spirit of the day, the mood is bright.  Science Girl summons us to the table for bagels, eggs and a large platter of fruit.  The boys are cheerful, happy, healthy.  They are talking about the new video game Sport purchased yesterday, wondering if the neighbors will be available to toss the football.  Later, they will throw each other down on the floor in some type of non-sanctioned wrestling moves which will end in angry words and tears.  But for  now, we are all engaged in pleasant mealtime conversation.

I look around the table, aware that this isn't the life I had pictured for myself.  I didn't have any conscious thought of being attracted to women until I was in my twenties, so as a teenager when I imagined my future, it would not have included Science Girl, now seated to my right.  And while I always knew that someday I wanted to be a mother, I didn't imagine I'd be the adoptive mother of two Latin American boys.  I smile looking at my sons - both smart, funny and handsome.

In my gratitude, there is a sense of wonder.  I'm grateful that even though as a teen I lacked the foresight to know what would make me feel happy and fulfilled, life gave it to me anyway.  Today, I take a moment to be thankful for surprises.

Showers

We have lived in our house for almost five years and although the boys have their own bathroom, they have preferred to shower in ours.  This summer, Science Girl decided this practice had gone on long enough, she didn't want to share the bathroom with them anymore and insisted that they do their ablutions in their own bathroom.  This decree was met with shock, resistance and the five stages of grief.  First, the boys were in complete denial.  "Us?"  "Not us!"  Then they were angry.  "Why do we have to leave the Master bathroom?"  "Why is it that the parents automatically get it?"  They bellowed that it wasn't fair.  Science Girl stayed firm.

They calmed down and attempted to negotiate.  Secret Service graciously agreed to shower in his own bathroom if we installed a special shower head and replaced the (like new) shower curtain with a glass door.   Sport amiably agreed to stay out of our bathroom as long as we accepted swimming as a substitute for showering and didn't make him shower until Autumn.  When these efforts weren't successful, the boys fell into a depression, both too sad and dejected to shower.  Science Girl and I had to cajole and threaten to get them into the shower.  Several times during this phase, Secret pretended to shower.  Luckily, he always had a "tell," typically emerging from a shampoo with his hair dry.  Sport actually entered the shower and stood under the running water.  The problem was that it was to about the count of 10 - Mississippi.  Sport developed a speedy shower routine that we believe consists of one hand rubbing a minuscule drop of shampoo through his hair while the other hand simultaneously swipes a bar of soap over his genitals while simultaneously rinsing and climbing out.

Tonight, brought me hope that we are moving into the acceptance phase.  After being told fifteen times to get into the shower, Secret did and his hair was damp upon completion.   And, Sport stayed in the water to the count of 25 - Mississippi.

Summer Guests

As summer wraps up, I'm already feeling nostalgic for what was.  We were fortunate to host a lot of out-of-town guests, the first of which was one of my sisters, called "Aunt Skinnybones" and her husband, who I refer to as "Uncle Scout."

As her name implies, Aunt Skinnybones is slim and trim, in part from walking each day as she commutes via public transportation from Brooklyn to her job in Manhattan.  In addition, Aunt Skinnybones exercises by biking through the park, and doing goodness-knows-what with a trainer.  Aunt Skinnybones is also organized and efficient.  Nothing makes her happier than to stand in my closet and encourage and supervise me in discarding torn, stained, outgrown, unfashionable clothes for donation to charity or the garbage.

Uncle Scout earned his Eagle Scout as a teenager, and seems most likely to survive any calamity armed only with a roll of duct tape, a pocket knife and a safety pin. Uncle Scout could probably survive in a forest by eating wood chips, leaves and berries.  However, at our house, he wants to eat fruit.  In anticipation of one of his visits, I lay in a large supply of oranges, apples, bananas, grapes and strawberries.  For whatever reason, many times I buy a pineapple.  The first year, Uncle Scout carefully examined the pineapple and announced it wasn't ready to be consumed.  Their visit ended and he and my sister left, the pineapple still intact.  About three days later, I came home to find a message on the machine.  There was no greeting, but I recognized Uncle Scout's voice.  He simply said, "Cut the pineapple."  We did and it was delicious.  Since he was over 1,000 miles away, we don't know how he knew it was ripe.

We also had a visit from my aunt, "Aunt Sushi" who came to take care of us when Science Girl was away on a prolonged business trip.  Aunt Sushi, a Japanese food lover, helped me by keeping Sport occupied while I drove Secret Service to play baseball and spending time with Secret while Sport was in camp.  Aunt Sushi cooked for us, took us out to dinner one night and maintained good humor as the boys chased, wrestled, and shot each other with Nerf weaponry.  She displayed coordination by dodging balls that barely missed her head and remained calm when the boys responded to any request by first saying no.

We also had an annual visit from Science Girl's brother, "Uncle Sweet Tooth" and his 6 year old son, "the German boy" who traveled from their home in Germany to see us.  When they arrived "the German boy" was well-behaved and well-adjusted, playing quietly with puzzles, drawing pictures, reading books.  However, after 10 days with Secret and Sport, while his dad ate Oreo's and M & M's, he had developed a glazed look like my boys and was drinking soda like it was the elixir of the gods, humming the Sponge bob song (learned from hours of TV viewing), and repeatedly playing a ridiculous electronic game called, "kick the boss."  He's been back  home for a while now, I hope he's back to normal - not everyone can adjust to our lifestyle.

While You Were Sleeping

In our community, it is commonplace for children to invite each other to sleepover.  When I grew up, we called these "slumber parties" and I didn't go to many, my father thinking it wasn't a good idea.  My dad never felt the need to give me an explanation for his veto, but as a parent myself, I understand there are potential pitfalls when you let your child sleep at someone else's home.

When my boys were younger, I was very concerned about their safety.  I am still concerned, but now I am also increasingly exhausted.  (Almost 15 years on the job does that to you.)  Over the years, at times, the boys have been invited to sleepover at a child's house whose family we don't know.  In those cases, I call the family to find out about them.  These are awkward conversations.  Without offending the parents, I am attempting to discover if they have loaded guns sitting around, if they are drunks or drug addicts or have poor sexual boundaries.  I have found that coming right out and asking those questions puts people off and even if you ask directly, you are not guaranteed that they will answer truthfully.
 
When Secret Service was in 4th grade, a boy whose family we did not know invited him to a birthday sleepover.  We took him over and spoke to the parents to assure that they'd take good care of our darling.  I gave Secret the same words of advice I always give when dropping my kids off at someones house - remember to say thank you and flush the toilet.  Then, we went on our way.  The next day, we returned to pick up our boy.  He was in a cheerful, effervescent mood.  As soon as we got into the car, he excitedly told us he'd discovered a wonderful show, Family Guy, and had stayed up all night watching episodes.  As we turned the corner, we told him that we were headed to Lowe's to buy a new refrigerator, and he suddenly became irritable.  Secret grumbled that he was tired and wanted to go home to sleep.  When we arrived at the store, he snarled at us and crumbled into a heap, saying he was unable to walk.  Science Girl and I loaded him into a shopping cart and wheeled him around the store, looking at appliances.  Every now and again, he'd lift his head and mumble something but mostly, he was out of it, not waking to start his day until 5 PM.

A couple of weeks later, the new refrigerator was delivered.  As they wheeled it in, Secret looked surprised and confused.  "When did we buy that?" he said.  "While you were sleeping," we responded.

Sleeping Through the Night

My friend is a new mom and one of her goals for her tiny son is that he sleep through the night.  I am fortunate in that regard.  At our house, we are at the perfect intersection of children sleeping through the night and not yet having to wait up for teenagers to come home.


Secret Service has always been a good sleeper.  (So important in a baby.)  Sport, easy-going in most regards, has more often struggled in this department.  It sometimes still happens that we put Sport to bed and a couple of hours later, he pops up and announces he can't sleep. 


Getting children to sleep is an art.  When they were younger, Science Girl and I spent countless hours rocking them, singing to them, reading bedtime stories.  And at the end of a long day, it was always good fun to get to search the house to find the stuffed animal that they wanted to sleep with that night.


One of our go-to-sleep strategies was to make their bedrooms a place they'd want to be.  A couple of years ago, we went to buy a bed for our guest room and while at the store, both boys became enamored with the temperpedic foam beds.  Having no money of their own, the boys were not hindered by budgets, so they didn't see a problem with requesting that we buy them each a bed that cost over $1,000.  At one point in the negotiation, Sport collapsed on the floor model temperpedic mattress and declared that he would not spend another night in his current bed.  Sport proclaimed that now that he had experienced the comfort of a temperpedic, he realized that sleeping on his old bed was like sleeping on rocks.  Luckily, at that same store, there were inexpensive, non-name brand versions and the boys emerged victorious, with  mattresses that Sport said was like "sleeping on a cloud."


Anyway, periodically, one of the boys have asked Science Girl or me to lie down with them while they start to fall asleep.  I remember the last time Secret asked me to lay down with him.  I had several valid reasons why I didn't want to - tired, busy, etc.  But, I thought to myself, he's growing up, how many more times is he going to ask me to do this?  Mostly, he says good night and puts himself to bed. 


The other night, I was comfortable in my own non-temperpedic bed, remote in hand, pajamas on, when Sport called out, "Will you lay down with me?"  I didn't want to get up, but then I wondered, how many more times will he ask.  Secret hasn't asked me to lay down with him for two years.  I put down the remote and went.

The Hungry Caterpillar

Here, in Denver, school is almost out for the year.  The end of each school year always causes me to reflect and feel nostalgic about the boys growing up.  This year is especially poignant because Sport is completing elementary school.   He's fine about it, of course, my kids adjust better to these developmental changes than I do.  They embrace the changes while I experience some loss with every change they make.  I didn't know this before I became a parent, didn't know that there would be a trace of sadness with every developmental gain.  I was thrilled when they learned to walk and to talk.  So, I was surprised that after they learned to walk, they used those chubby little toddler legs to walk away from me and when they talked, they disagreed with me, saying "no" at every opportunity.  I had always thought that children becoming independent was a good thing, a desirable outcome.  It was only when I was the parent did I realize that it didn't always feel 100 percent good to have them becoming independent from me.

We've had another developmental milestone here.  Secret Service, the boy who grew so slowly that  he was able to wear the same jacket throughout elementary school, has had a growth spurt in this past year.  A couple of months ago, when we measured him, he announced that as soon as he was taller than me, he'd be in charge.  Although I assured him this wasn't the way it worked, I'm not sure I convinced him.  Even without the hope of running the family, Secret seemed determined to grow.  He kept insisting that he was taller than me and I put up a good fight, even styling my hair to be puffier on top and finding tennis shoes with a platform bottom which gave me some additional height.  However, within the last few weeks, I have come to accept that he is now taller than I am.  On one hand, I know this is good.  On the other hand  . . .

Remember the children's book The Hungry Caterpillar?  When the boys were little, I read it to them countless times.  Only recently, I have decided that it is a metaphor about teenagers.  Currently, my boys eat like that caterpillar - one steak, one bushel of strawberries, one family size bag of pretzels, one entire pizza, one gallon of milk.  And soon, just like the caterpillar in the story, the boys will undergo a metamorphosis and emerge . . .  grown up . . . and then fly away, like that caterpillar turned butterfly did.  And, when that happens, I'll be proud and I'll celebrate, with just a twinge of sadness and tears streaming down my face.

The Babysitters Club

Recently, Science Girl and I were stumped about what to do when invited to a friends birthday party on a Saturday night without our boys. Secret Service is fourteen and Sport is ten. I feel comfortable letting either one of them stay home alone but don't feel comfortable about them staying home alone together. I imagine that when together, if not supervised, they might microwave aluminum foil, break out all the lights by playing ball in the house, have an indoor water fight with garden hoses. I imagine that despite many years of almost daily warnings, they will decide to light matches with lighter fluid and aerosol cans or open the front door and usher strangers in off the street. But, it's hard to find a babysitter for someone who is the age of many of the babysitters. I made an effort to get one of Science Girl's nineteen year old nieces to watch the boys or a grown woman who is our former nanny, but alas, they were busy. This led Science Girl to hire Secret to babysit Sport. I was half satisfied with the notion that Secret would have his eyes on Sport. But, who would watch Secret? The evening of the party, we returned to a house that was neither burned or flooded, two boys watching a movie, pizza remnants on the counter. We shepherded them to bed and took stock. Science Girl complained that her wallet was empty - $20 for pizza, $20 for Secret to babysit Sport. I smiled. "I got a good deal," I said. "I only paid Sport $10 to babysit Secret."

The Bank

There is an amazing children's bank, in Denver, Young Americans Bank, the only FDIC-insured bank in the world specifically designed for young people. Everything is child-size, plus there are jars stuffed with candy on the counters and on Saturdays, serving trays filled with small donuts.

We helped Secret Service and Sport open savings accounts there, several years ago. Periodically, when Secret had a windfall in terms of birthday money, we've wrested some of it away from him and coerced him into depositing it into his account.

Sport, on the other hand, has been a more willing bank participant, saving money at home and then cheerfully depositing any surplus. Because of that, Sport takes great pride in knowing that he maintains a higher account balance than his older brother.

Since Sport was more invested (so to speak) in saving, I took the liberty to sign him up for two 1 hour classes there - a banking scavenger hunt and a millionaire game. The bank gives participants $5 to deposit in their accounts for each class they attend and I thought Sport would appreciate that.

He mildly protested when I took him to the first class a couple of weeks ago but yesterday, on the way to the second class, he really balked. Sport said he hadn't been consulted and had never agreed to attend. Upon arriving, he refused to get out of the car. A lengthy negotiation ensued before we struck a deal and he willingly walked into the bank.

After the class, Sport deposited the $5 into his account. The teller asked him what he had learned and Sport said a person would be more likely to make a million dollars if they attended college. On the way home, we talked about when you do well in school you are better prepared to do well in life.

A decent conversation and it only cost me a few hours of my time, some aggravation, and a trip to Target so that Sport could use all the money he'd saved up at home to buy the latest nerf gun.

Spring Break

Both children knew we were going skiing over Spring Break. On that Saturday, we packed the car, then took inventory. Ski gloves, check, goggles, check, ski pants, check, ski jacket, what? Secret Service looked up, all wide eyed innocence.

"Where is your ski jacket?" I asked.
He looked at me blankly.
"The jacket I bought you at the end of last winter?"
Still blank.
"The jacket you begged for because it wasn't bulky."
Blank.
"The jacket that cost more than $100?"

Science Girl, Sport and I fanned out and looked in every closet. When none of us had success, we reconvened in the kitchen. I considered increasing the questioning techniques, where was a flashlight to shine in Secret's sleepy eyes? (I found a flashlight but of course it had no batteries in it.)

Secret Service, calm as a well-trained spy in enemy territory, said, "It might be at school." The rest of us turned to look at him. "In my locker." Then, he added, "I'm not sure." Even the dog peered at him as if to say,"What?"

Science Girl ushered everyone into the car, saying we'd stop at the school before driving to the mountains. On the way over, Secret assured us the school would be locked up tight on the weekend. As we drove, I used the time to issue warnings and ultimatums to Secret, lecturing about taking care of possessions and the value of a dollar. Secret maintained that this was all my fault as I had insisted he wear a coat when the weather was 10 degrees. He patiently explained that if not for my insistence, he wouldn't have even taken it to school and it wouldn't be there now.

When we arrived as the school, it seemed obvious that the building was open and there was some sort of event being hosted. When out in the world, Secret is a strict follower of rules so he promptly announced he would not enter the building as he wasn't part of the event. I climbed out of the car to accompany him. Murmering threats of revoking numerous privileges, I persuaded him to walk into the school. We entered the school and in the main hallway, there was an iron gate to the left of the main staircase. Secret turned to me, "We can't get through that way," he said, referring to the gate, "it's all locked up." I looked over. The gate was not fastened. I asked, "Is your locker that way?" Secret said, "no." I tried not to display my impatience. Secret reluctantly indicated his locker was upstairs. He walked gingerly, as if an alarm would sound if he wasn't cautious.

I stayed on the second floor as he went to the third. A few minutes later, Secret re-appeared, the red ski coat scrunched up in his arms. He handed it to me and we raced to the car. Getting in to the front seat, I turned to the family. "What smells?" I asked.

"It's the coat," Secret said, matter of factly, from the backseat. Tentatively, I sniffed the jacket. It was vile. I could not imagine what could have caused an odor like that. I issued inappropriate expletives and demanded an explanation.

He shrugged, clearly unconcerned, offered a brief explanation of a shared locker and something that his locker mate had placed in their shared space. I held the coat out the window and then we stopped the car so I could put it in the trunk.

As I re-fastened my seat belt, Secret looked at me. "What's wrong? We got the coat, everything worked out," he said. Another happy ending.

Jobs

I started babysitting when I was 13 years old. I was thrilled that someone would pay me for playing with children, better yet, for sitting in a quiet house watching TV while children slept. I liked having money. I didn't see a downside to it. So, as Secret has gotten older, I've encouraged him to do some part-time work.

Like almost everything I've tried to persuade him to do, Secret wasn't readily on board. Secret appreciates the finer things in life but was convinced that his parents should provide those things for him. Secret, perhaps operating from the premise that he is the son of an oil sheik, routinely requests things that seem outrageous to us, middle class working stiffs that we are. If Secret sees a commercial for a cruise ship, he begins a campaign that we go on a cruise. If Secret sees an ad for a new route that an airline is establishing (I think the most recent one was Denver to Iceland), he begins a relentless pursuit of a trip there.

Science Girl and I have tried to motivate him by explaining that since we can't (and won't) buy him everything he wants, he should earn his own money and buy it for himself. Last year, a neighbor was looking for a helper for one hour a week, a teen who could play with and occupy her children while she did household chores. Secret was upset that I recommended him for the job. He believed that his hour could be better spent at home playing video games. Math whiz that he is, he also noted that earning an extra $5 a week wouldn't buy him that trip to Iceland. Every week, Secret would return from this one hour of strenuous work, toss the cash on the counter and exclaim that he wouldn't go back the next week. At some point, his child care services were no longer needed and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Months later, the same neighbor was seeking someone to take care of their dog while they were out of town. To his great dismay, once again I volunteered Secrets' help. Secret complained about this assignment until Sport said he'd take it over and then he became protective of the work. Meanwhile, Sport wasn't as resistant to work and snagged himself a short gig as a "cat lover" for another neighbor. While that neighbor was out of town, Sports' job was to visit said cat at least twice a day, just to pet him.

In an unusual twist of events, Secret has now heeded my advice to work, becoming an ice hockey referee. Before he could work, we had to buy him a uniform ($100 + $7 for a whistle), skates ($250), a required course ($75) and registration as a referee ($45). This Saturday, in a odd burst of willingness, Secret accepted three assignments of games to officiate. I have to work on Saturday so that leaves Science Girl to spend her entire Saturday driving him in circles around town (starting at 7:00AM and wrapping up at 9:00 PM) to three different rinks. Meanwhile, Sport is planning a career as a cat lover.

I mean well, but somehow, my efforts never turn out the way I envision.

Our Dog - Part 2

Science Girl and I realized we'd made a mistake taking our boys to "look" at puppies with no plan to actually bring one home. Once sold on the idea of having a dog, the boys saw no need to shop around.

The puppy rescue people posted pictures of puppies on their web site on Fridays. That day, our family gathered around the computer, hoping that the selection would be good. We were in luck. There was a litter of puppies, supposedly the offspring of a Boxer mother and unknown father. Science Girl and I quickly conferred. A Boxer mix seemed like a good size dog and judging by the pictures, the unknown part of the lineage didn't seem to include Poodle or German Shepherd.

One of the puppies was the color of caramel, another was white with black spots, and the third was a mix of black and white. The boys started referring to the dogs as Caramel, Spot, and Oreo. I reminded them that if we got one of them, we'd call him something else. I was thinking up names that would fit well with Leo, our cat, and was contemplating Gus, Fletcher and Linus.

Science Girl had also learned that to get your pick, you needed to show up early and get your name on a list. People would get to choose based on when they arrived.

On the designated Saturday, we showed up before the event started and were happy to discover that we were number 4 on the list. The first set of people looked at Caramel and took him. The second set of people, a large family in overalls, looked at Oreo. Simultaneously, the third family looked at Spot. Sport started to whimper, there were other dogs but we'd agreed that these three were our top choices. Science Girl and I looked at each other, anxiety building.

Suddenly, the overall clad family put Oreo back and asked to look at another dog. We were given an opportunity to visit with this black and white dog. We petted him, he seemed friendly and sweet. Our family all agreed that this was our dog. We picked him up and walked over to fill out papers. I asked the kids, "What do you think? Linus?" They scowled. "His name is Oreo," they said. I argued. They remained steadfast. We approached the registration desk. "Oreo Blizzard," they said. I winced.

Anyway, Oreo Blizzard has turned out to be a fine dog - funny looking with a long back and short legs, a loyal watchdog, affectionate, playful. And, whenever the boys or Science Girl declare their love for him, I remind them, it was my idea to get a dog.

Our Dog - Part 1

When I knew everything about being a parent, before I actually became a parent, I knew I wanted our family to have a dog because I thought all children should grow up with a dog. I envisioned a dignified animal who was loyal, loving and protective of our children, sleeping in their rooms, playing ball with them in the yard. A couple of years ago, I suddenly realized that the boys were already 12 and 8 years old and we had never had a dog. When I addressed this fact and my idea to remedy the issue, I thought everyone in the family would be enthused. They were not. In fact, Science Girl, Secret Service and Sport were united in their lack of desire for a dog. We had a handsome (but poorly behaved) grey and while cat named Leo and they all agreed that he was sufficient in the role of family pet.

I couldn't help but believe that they were wrong (like I often do when they disagree with me). The boys' focus was elsewhere. If I remember correctly, I think Secret was lobbying for us to purchase an ice rink for the backyard that he'd seen in a Sky Mall magazine and Sport was designing a tree house that he wanted built in our backyard (even though our trees were less than 5 feet tall at the time). I persisted and gradually managed to engage Science Girl in a series of discussions - adult dog vs. puppy, large dog vs. small, purebred vs. mixed breed. Science Girl did some research and found a puppy rescue group that gathered mixed breed puppies from several states and brought them to a Denver pet store each Saturday to facilitate adoptions.

Trooping over there on a Saturday morning in September 2009, we explained to the boys that we were just going to look, we weren't ready to buy. The boys didn't seem particularly interested in the whole venture, only reluctantly climbing into the car. On the way over, we talked about what type of dog we were seeking. Science Girl wanted a medium size dog who wasn't a Poodle. I wanted a medium size dog who wasn't a German Shepherd. (Please don't chastise me if you are a Poodle or Shepherd fan, I'm sure they are wonderful dogs but Science Girl takes offense at the poodles puffy coat and I feel like Shepherds would rather bite me than cuddle.)

In the pet store, Science Girl and I learned the routine, Secret (as usual) said little, keeping his thoughts to himself. Sport saw a puppy who intrigued him, a brindle colored German Shepherd looking little guy. Making yet another one in a long series of parenting errors, I let Sport play with this puppy. We had finished looking around and were ready to go. Sport looked shocked, weren't we getting this dog? We reminded him we weren't ready to buy.

Sports' face crumbled, big tears rolled down his unblemished cheeks. He had fallen in love. The whole family turned to me. Sport loved this dog, could we get him? Weakly, I said, "It looks like a German Shepherd." Secret started to argue with me about my discomfort with the breed. I was not persuaded to change my mind. When we got out of the store, Sport, (sans puppy) tears still trickling down his face, said, "You broke my heart." Secret glared at me. Science Girl looked exhausted by the ordeal. So far, this (like many other realities of being a parent) wasn't going the way I had imagined it would.

To Be Continued . . .

Mini Me

Perhaps as part of his self taught CIA/FBI training, my son, Secret Service, has developed a clever method of eavesdropping. Like many of us, at the end of a conversation, he leaves the room where we've been talking. Unlike many of us, he turns a corner so that he's out of sight and then waits. Secret believes that sometimes we will say something interesting after he leaves the room and he wants to know what that is.

I don't know what juicy tidbits of family gossip Secret has scored in this manner. His surveillance techniques are based on the assumptions that we don't tell him directly what we think and feel about him and that we know things that we aren't sharing.

This whole situation seems ironic because Science Girl and I feel like when we talk to Secret, face to face, he isn't listening. We have to get him to pull ear buds out of his ears, we have to repeat ourselves, we have to insist that he make eye contact. Yet, secretly, this child is so intrigued by what we've got to say that he's hiding and trying to hear us.

The other day, we were all in the kitchen and Science Girl and I were instructing Secret to take out the garbage. This, like all other household tasks assigned to Secret, was not to his liking. I believe it wasn't convenient for him to do the chore at that time, there was a short burst of disagreement, which resulted in Secret stomping out of the room holding the trash bag. Science Girl and I remained in the kitchen, heard Secret walk through the mudroom, heard the door to the garage open and close. I smiled at her. "He sounds just like me when he argues," I said proudly. "He uses a lot of the same exact expressions I do."

Just then, we heard something in the mudroom. I peaked around the corner. Secret, still holding the garbage, stood there scowling. I smiled pleasantly at him. "Here," I said, "let me help you with the door."

When he was really gone, Science Girl and I chuckled. "I don't think that was what he was hoping to hear," she said.

I think we should try to remember that Secret may be lurking around any corner of our house and remember to say warm and loving things when he leaves the room. As a parent, it is gratifying to see yourself reflected in your child, even if it is the negative. I especially will try to note when Secrets' behavior reminds me of me. If that doesn't stop the eavesdropping, I don't know what will.