Meatloaf and Malyk

Is there a reason my 9 year old doesn't want to eat? Well, no, let me rephrase that. My 9 year old wants to eat, but he only wants to eat a handful of things, like chicken nuggets, pizza, bologna sandwiches, spaghettios (with meatballs of course), peanut butter and jelly and pop tarts. I'm no nutritionist, but I don't think that many nutrients are contained in those foods. It is really driving me nuts that he won't eat what we cook for dinner. Maybe that's the reason he's only in the 30% in height for his age...

So, for example, tonight Adrian made meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, and peas and corn for dinner. I thought it was yummy. Adrian thought it was yummy. Malyk acted as if we were literally asking him to torture himself by eating this. Okay, I understand meatloaf and veggies are not kids favorite food items, but macaroni and cheese?! Come on now, Malyk! Who doesn't like macaroni and cheese!

So...we made him sit at the table for at least a good hour, trying to tell him he couldn't get up until he ate. Eventually we just sent him to shower and get in the bed. So he hasn't ate dinner, which I know he won't die from or anything, but he can't keep this up for too long or he really will be torturing himself.

It's very frustrating. I told him there are kids starving in the world that would love his dinner. He said "Why can't we just ship this to them then?" GRRRR!!!

I'll try again at dinner tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Through a Mother's Eyes

“Through a Mother’s Eyes”

Lawrence, KS

October 16, 2010

As my family winds down singing the traditional “Happy Birthday” song at my three-year old nephew’s party, I lean back in my chair and smile. To think, it was three years ago that he was brought into this crazy world. In a blink of the eye, time has flown by once again. In such a short amount of time he has went from being a crying, helpless 9 pound baby to a talking, running, climbing, tantrum-throwing, thirty-pounder. It’s amazing how quickly kids learn language and skills to talk-back to adults. Today, however, he is all smiles and laughter. Hamburgers and hotdogs off the grill have already been gobbled down, as well as many presents torn through and toys strewn all over the house. Now, the children in the family run around outside, throwing footballs and awaiting the piñata to be strung up to be knocked back down; the treasure within to spill out for all to enjoy. My own son, Malyk, is a bright, energetic child of nine years himself. It seems like yesterday that he was just a small, innocent baby in my arms. I would rock him to sleep and dream of all the wonderful things he would do in his future. Maybe I’m an idealist, with fantasies that will never come true, but I have always told Malyk if he worked hard and claimed himself a good education, he could succeed in anything he chose. Don’t get me wrong; I still believe that. However, time has skewed my views little by little. It’s not Malyk’s fault, but my own. It could be the fact that his father is not in the picture. I should have chosen a better father for him because the one he got is the farthest definition from what a father should be. I wonder if he wishes he could’ve been the one to choose his own father. That would be an interesting way of doing things, though who knows if it would’ve turned out any better than it has.

In my opinion, fathers should be there for their children, whether they live with them or not. Fathers should drop everything if their child needs them. Fathers should want to be there for their child’s special days; birthdays, sports games, school concerts. Fathers should want to give their children everything in the world; make them happy; watch them grow; give them someone to look up to. Fathers should. But Malyk’s father doesn’t.

It’s possible I have created the ideal father image that not many would be able to live up to. Being the first born and the first daughter of my parents, I have always been a daddy’s girl. I believe I always will be. My father has been my role model, my hero, ever since I can remember. He has always wanted the best for me, always been there for me, and always let me know that I should shoot for the stars because I could achieve my wildest dreams. In many ways, I have achieved my dreams. I’m not the richest person in the world nor the smartest. I don’t have power, fame or high-society connections. But I have family; a good, strong family. I have a family I love and love me: my three brothers and two sisters, mom, dad, stepmom, boyfriend, son, two nephews and one niece. Not to mention the furry members of the family, countless dogs and cats, and even a few reptiles. We are very close-knit and that means more to me than a large bank account, fancy cars or my name flashing in shiny lights in Vegas. I owe who I am to my family and largely to my father. He has raised me with values and morals and characteristics of loyalty, honesty, hard work and compassion. He has pushed me to excel in sports growing up, attending as many of my games and events as possible. He helped me with homework, attended parent-teacher conferences, and even bought me the latest Guess jeans in high school, as being popular depended on such things. With all these wonderful ways my father has helped me develop into the person I am today; I wonder how my son has been affected by not having a father.

Fathers are often special to their daughters. I assume that’s where the term “daddy’s little girl” came from, but what about the role fathers play in the lives of their sons. I find myself wondering how my son will know how to go from boy to man without a father to show him. I suppose it could be innate, but many philosophers, John Locke included, would disagree with that theory. Spending time with my brothers and father could instill a portion of these things into my son, but they do not live with us, therefore they can’t be given the responsibility of grooming my son into a man either. My boyfriend is the best bet, in my opinion. He is a hard working, good man. We plan to marry in the next few years and he has been around my son for the past three years. But I sense that Malyk feels it is not the same. That he is somehow lacking the experience of having a father and that this new man is somewhat like an intruder that tries hard to give the illusion of a father but doesn’t quite get it right no matter how much work he puts into it. I pray that my son doesn’t feel it is in any way his fault for not having his father around. I have told him many times that it isn’t. However nine year olds have a way of always finding someone to blame in situations and it is often themselves.

Indeed, time is speeding by me and changing everything. I will be 31 in a few months. The celebrity gossip magazines and health and beauty blogs say that 40 is the new 30 and 30 is the new 20. I don’t know who these 30 year olds they interviewed to get this information are but I would like to trade lives with them for a week because I certainly don’t feel like my carefree, kid-free, party-going 20 year old self anymore! If anything, I’d say 30 is the new 40! They also claim age is but a number and it’s not important how old you are but how old you feel. Well, I beg to differ on that, as well. But I do agree that no matter how old I am, or feel, or act, time keeps flying by me like a fighter jet, without the decency of asking me if I’d like to change flights or take a layover in some relaxing, sleepy town. Time changes the seasons, erodes the landscape, wilts flowers, ages us and causes memories to float out of grandparent’s grasps. The only thing that hasn’t changed in this mother’s life in nine years is worry. It seems I’m always worrying; just ask the premature wrinkles in my forehead. As a mother it starts with worrying about the health of your unborn child, then worrying of feedings, diapers, illness, protection and security. Once they enter school, there are even more worries. At least as a small child they are in your protection every day all day. Once they enter school, teachers and administration are trusted to take care of your child. It is hard to trust anyone in this chaotic world but it must be done and so it is. Your child’s development, homework, making of friends, behavior, relationship with teacher, food intake; the list goes on and on regarding what could be going on during this seven hour block of the day that your child is away from you in the school system. That’s as far as I’ve got with my son, but even though he is only a 4^th grader, I am already worrying about the years to come. His transition to middle school, his crushes on girls, grades on tests and projects, and oh my: just thinking about the teenage years has given me a few gray hairs before they were due. I try not to worry so much but it may be a mandatory quality for mothers that we involuntarily sign up for at the time of our child’s conception. Worrying can sometimes be the only constant in a mother’s life, and in that way it is in a strange way reassuring that not everything is changing at lightning speed.

One thing I have been worrying about for almost a decade is my son’s relationship with his father, or lack of it. I can pretend that I have been a good enough mother AND father for Malyk. We have played catch with the baseball outside more times than I can count. Heck, I even coached his little league team for two years. I take him to KU football games, attempt to play video games with him and even scheduled a family camp out at the lake, though I canceled it the day of because it was raining and this mother doesn’t sleep in the rain. I can imitate being “one of the boys” but I’m not fooling anyone, including my son. I’m not one of the boys and regardless of how hard I try I never will be because simply put: I’m mom. I question whether or not having camping trips with dad or being able to run outside and shoot hoops with dad will affect my son today, tomorrow, or years down the road. Then I think maybe it is affecting me far more than him, because he doesn’t know what he’s missing, but I, having a great dad that did “dad things” with me growing up, realizes now how important that was to me. It saddens me that he won’t have memories like mine to look back on and share with his children when he is a father. I sometimes get angry at his father for robbing him of this father time. I think it’s normal to want for my son what I had and it’s extremely unfair that I’m not able to provide that for him.

The clown piñata that my brother has tied to a tree branch in the backyard has seen better days. The children have taken turns whacking it as hard as possible until it busts open. After the children scoop up the candy from the ground that has spilled from inside, they request cake and ice cream, which a birthday party is not complete until has been dripped down chins onto the floor and licked up by the furry family members. As I head inside, I pat my son on the head and give him a small smile. He looks up and flashes me the brightest small, though he is missing two teeth that the tooth fairy has already compensated him for. His eyes twinkle as he gives me a big bear hug and says “I love birthday parties mom, especially in our family.” In those flickering moments I think, with or without his father around, aside from all my motherly worrying, whether he ever goes camping again, maybe everything in Malyk’s world is just how it ought to be.

P.S. Oct 20, 2010: It has been 6 days since I wrote this essay. Malyk is still 9 and I am 30. His father has been consistent by not stepping up to the plate and being a good father. My feelings have not changed since this was written, however I have added three dozen more worrisome things to the list above. My son still loves family birthday parties and my boyfriend is still trying his best to fill the role of father figure in Malyk’s life. After picking my son up from school yesterday, we pulled into the driveway and walked inside. I asked my son numerous times if he had homework and he replied he didn’t. I opened his school planner and was shocked to see items listed under the “homework” tab. I immediately walked upstairs and turned off my son’s XBOX 360 and asked him yet again if he had homework to do. He looked up at me with puppy dog eyes and fibbed once again. I pulled the planner out from behind my back and he instantly saw the look of utter disappointment and rage on my face and he took off running down the stairs and out the backdoor. I chased after him and was able to keep up for about seven minutes while he darted between lawn furniture, a pool and swing set until I finally caught his arm and marched him inside to complete his work. At this moment, I felt that the health and beauty magazines may not be crazy after all. Since I didn’t collapse from shortness of breath and still managed to walk upright after this mini-marathon, I am pleased to inform that being 30 may be the new 29. However, I am a woman and more importantly, a mother, so it’s quite possible my mind will change again regarding those numbers at any moment without warning.