Unexpected milestones

This post is inspired by Shot@Life, an initiative of the United Nations Foundation. Please leave a comment below. Every comment provides a vaccine for a child.

My son was five months old when he said his first word. This is the stuff of family legends that gets bent and bowed and tucked away and brought out again in a far-different shape that it was first created. One day that five-month milestone will be whittled down to three months or earlier, maybe shrink back to the womb. But five months is the true timeline.

I know because I was there to hear the "HI!" emerge from the babbling.

By the time he was a year old, I had a well-filled notebook lined with careful columns of the 120 words he could say. I tracked it all, just pages away from spiral-bound lists of when I breastfed him, how long his naps were, what he weighed at each well-check doctor appointment. I read like crazy and stacks of child-development books, affirmations for new parents, guides to schedules and sleeping and crying it out and attachment parenting piled up on the table next to the glider where I nursed my babbling baby boy from infancy into toddlerhood.<

I charted this new territory of motherhood quietly and calmly. E rattled off the barnyard animals but he wasn't walking, or even attempting to cruise around from coffee table to sofa to ottoman to wobbly fall on the floor. 

It will come, I assured myself and my then-mother-in-law, who fretted that her babies walked early and mine did not.

 

All of his energy is going to conversation, I said, repeating the mama-wisdom I'd heard my mother say and her mother say. I believed it. Still, I'd carry that notebook with me to see the pediatrician, who I knew was relaxed about children's individual growth and development, just in case she asked where his energy was going if it wasn't pushing him up on his feet and propelling him around our tiny apartment. 

She never asked, at least in a worried way. And he did walk, at 15 months. Then he ran and climbed and gazed lovingly at Gloria Estefan and shook his tiny, diapered booty. He was potty-trained and sent off to preschool. He eventually skipped with proficiency and can wheel a scooter with the best of 'em at the park. And he did all of that, talking the entire time, providing his own color commentary to each milestone he passed. 

 

As I ticked off the milestones in my head, notebook and then reassuring discussions with E's grandmothers, I felt the slide into a different parenting space. One where the worries shifted from "will he ever really learn to tie a shoe without my assistance?" and "please, God, let him master the art of peeing standing up" to bigger childhood concerns we all cringe to see coming. Bullying. Broken hearts. Driving. Drugs. Prom date disappointment. Moving away. That first god-awful apartment with seven other laundry protesters. The first job interview. Love. They'd come. But not yet. They were off somewhere in tweendom or teendom or beyond.

Once he was safely in big-boy undies, I thought the milestones had subsided and The Big Stuff was enough off in the distance that I could breathe easy. What I didn't know was that the milestones would keep coming, and bring a gasp of surprise and wonder and bittersweet delight.

I got that the moment I heard E read aloud for the first time. Sure, I knew it was going to happen soon. For a year or two, he'd been sounding out words and memorizing books we'd lovingly brutalized reading over and over again. He built a solid list of sight-words, much like that first list of vocabulary, and soon, he was stringing together sentences. I urged him on, we practiced, he learned to write as he read and the two skills skipped along happily with my talker of a boy.

 

Then the words came tumbling out of his mouth for pages at a time. And the tears fell down my smiling cheeks while more words came. I'd try to capture it all on video, and only end up with bits and pieces. Or I'd mean to press record but would find my fingers unable to move away from holding the book and my boy as he read to me. As he read to me.

 

Here he is at seven, reading pages from a favorite, funny book. A first-grader, his amazing teacher pushed him to think and research and ask questions and told him it was time to read more. She gave him his first chapter book to read on his own. It was from the Cam Jansen series. He didn't love it. He liked it (he's diplomatic that way) just enough to open his hands when I handed him another chapter book and another and another to read on his own.

That milestone of reading at six became the even more astounding milestone of whizzing through chapter books at seven. Today, nearing the end of age eight, this kid hates to go anywhere without a book. He's devoured the three series by Rick Riordan in a matter of months and he cannot wait for the next 500+-page book to come out this fall. He prefers to lay side by side before bedtime, reading independently for a bit rather than letting me read aloud to him. 

 

I miss that sometimes. I think I cherished Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White even more than the words he wrote deserved (and they deserved a lot of love) because it was the last chapter book I read aloud to my son this year. I won't hold that sadness, though, because it is so fun to see E buried inside a story, bursting to talk about the characters and begging to stop off at a bookstore. 

At seven, with a biography of Jackie Robinson in his backpack and Diary of a Wimpy Kid on his nightstand and 39 Clues at his dad's house, all simultaneously half-read, he still hadn't figured out how to breathe underwater during swimming lessons and was in a full-on boycott of even TRYING to ride his bike. (The swimming came the next spring but he's still a bicycle rebel. And so I buy another book, and exhale.)

 

This kid is who he is, and I get the joy of discovering him every day. That's not overly sentimental. Sometimes it is exhausting and hard and full of fret. But most moments, it is me with my notebook or laptop  or video recorder or chapter book, meticulously marking the path he sets out on. One word, one step, one sentence, one chapter, one series, one mother's spiral notebook, one milestone at a time. 

The rest will come. Today, all of his energy is going to reading. 

This post is inspired by Shot@Life, an initiative of the United Nations Foundation that educates, connects and empowers the championing of vaccines as one of the most cost effective ways to save the lives of children in the world’s hardest to reach places.

During Shot@Life’s Blogust, 31 bloggers, one each day in August, are writing about moments that matter. For every comment on this post and the 30 other posts, Walgreens will donate a vaccine (up to 50,000 vaccines). A child dies every 20 seconds from a vaccine-preventable disease. We can change this reality and help save kids’ lives! 

Sign up here for a daily email so you can quickly and easily comment and share every day during Blogust! Stay connected with Shot@Life at www.shotatlife.org, join the campaign on Facebook and follow them on Twitter.

Please leave a comment below. Every comment provides a vaccine for a child. 

10 family birthday rules for the rule-breaking Not Boyfriend

He's finally the same age as I am. And if he reaaaallly loved me, he'd use his military logistics training to navigate his birthday before mine so he can turn the ages before I do. He already has the old-guy soul, and a basket full of black socks and fedoras to prove it. 

The Not Boyfriend doesn't simmer with anxiousness when his birthday arrives. He doesn't flinch at all when the timeline ticks one year older. While I fretted over 39, then 40, then 41, he shrugged and gave me a contented half-smile. His "it just is" Buddhi-tude does not sync with my birthday behavior, and so I exhale when August 3rd arrives and we are once again the same age. 

What does make him squirm a bit is celebrating the day, at least in the way he's still learning that my family does. We make a deal out of it - not a huge deal, but a deal nonetheless. And there are guidelines that I explain as we near the time and the questions from my mother begin.

The first rule should be that I need to always be younger than he is. But I guess I'll settle with prettier. OK, smarter. Alas, if some great cosmic force pressed a finger down upon the earth to pause the relatively tiny (OK, miniscule) difference in our ages, that might have set us off course for the long stretch of time between our first meeting and our second. So we will live with it. And also these polite suggestions for better birthdays in this family. 

1. You can pick a restaurant - any restaurant but preferably a restaurant that doesn't make my parents wiggy because the food is too shi-shi or spendy or trendy - and my parents will treat you to a birthday meal. If it's my dad's birthday, there will be absolutely no singing or special desserts delivered during dinner and, for God's sake, do not bring the gifts to the restaurant and make a big spectacle. If it is anyone else's celebration, of course, you can do those things, but it will still make my dad uncomfortable. He will deny it, but it will. 

2. You should have cake back at the house, where you will open gifts in a pretty dramatic and spectacular fashion that should clearly never be observed publicly. There will be trick candles or sparkler candles atop a cake from Dinkel's. If it is at my parents' house, my mother will dig out ice cream from the freezer she bought at some point in flavors to make my dad and the birthday celebrant most happy. You will use the plastic Dinkel's cake thingy from 1987. 

3. There will be at least one card that sings and dances. There will be another one you have to read. But not too much, because all of us know that all of us will simply skim it. And then will come the family story about how my brother threw a card to the side once as a child, proclaiming, "TOO MUCH READING." We will make up the time saved reading sentiments in the tender cards by pressing the button on the singing and dancing card ten or twenty times in a row. And once as you say goodnight and walk out the door. Possibly another time left as a voicemail on your cell phone when you don't expect it.

4. Someone may fashion a custom box for your gift out of one of those cardboard trays from Costco. 

 5. You will get stuck. E will decorate your gift with a hundred stickers that he thoughtfully placed just for you. You will want to keep this wrapping paper or recycled gift bag with the sticker art because DO NOT THROW IT AWAY AND MAKE THE KID FEEL LIKE A BRUISED-HEARTED ARTIST. This leads to Rule #6.

6. Whatever you get, you will keep. Trust me. Someone will ask you how it is working out for you/fits/looks hanging in your kitchen/has helped you find your way home from filling more cardboard trays at Costco. If it is the wrong size/color/style/formation/make/model, feel free to request the gift receipt knowing that you will probably just get a do-over gift at Christmas. This is related to Rule #7.

7. Price paid? No mystery. The tag is still stuck to the bottom. This is an accident, no matter how many birthdays you celebrate with us. Unless the item was purchased on clearance, and then the tag was left on purpose so you'd see what damn good deal it was. And also so you know for sure it can't be returned.

8. You will be given at least one practical gift. That might be a sturdy Lodge chef-approved skillet wrapped in a cardboard produce tray from Costco (see? it's a real thing). It could be cutest little teensy tiny spatula you've ever seen at TJ Maxx. It may be straight cash, could be an emergency road repair kit, has been books on both personal finances and fix-it-yourself stuffs. It is possible a pickle grabber. Do with that (and the bitty kitchen gadgets) what you will. 

9. You will do it differently one year. Maybe you will choose to really scare my parents by choosing a sushi restaurant. Or you will go big and order a bottle of bubbly for the table. You might skip dessert or insist on ONLY getting Pick 5 tickets on your special day. But the next year, I promise, you will fall back in line with the Way Birthdays Work Around Here.

10. You will feel loved. The words written, stickers chosen, ballpoint drawings added and gifts presented will all be placed in your hands with great love. And possibly a request to finish the fried calamari, if you're not going to. Maybe also Justin Bieber or Jesus wrapping paper. NOTHING SAYS LOVE LIKE JUSTIN BIEBER PAPER. Or Jesus, printed Warhol style.

The thing is, the Not Boyfriend is kind of a rule-breaker. And this is one of the reasons I love him. He coaxes me out of my good-girl guilt and with the raise of an eyebrow, convinces me to taste something that is totally not on my list of foods to eat. He goes into adventures with no nervousness whatsoever and reminds me that the things that scare me are pretty much all survivable. So I guess if he insists we skip the Dinkel's cake one year or, even ballsier, returns a clearance-item tiny pickle grabber, or even keeps on being just enough younger than I...well, hell. I will still love him bigger (and hopefully) better the older we (I mean, he) get. 

Soothing some big single parent fears, one step at a time

This post is sponsored by AARP's Decide. Create. Share. initiative, a no-cost program to help women take steps to secure their futures. As a part of the initiative's Kitchen Cabinet, I've been invited to take part in the 40-Day Pledge to get my financial, health care and legal business in order. 

Nobody really wants to be contacted by AARP. That little card in the mail means you are nearing 50. It also means you are of the age when your magazine cover models are proudly sporting white streaks in their hair and discussing grandparenting issues. 

God bless them, my parents ranty-joked for years about being far too young to be a member of AARP (or AARPssss, as my mom calls it) but now in their mid-60s, they will whip out that card faster than you can say "10% discount" at the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru. It makes me happy that they save $1.46 but I am not ready for AARP. I AM WAY TOO YOUNG FOR AARP.

Right? I just started my 40s. Wrong. I mean, right about the age but wrong about needing AARP. Right now, at this very moment, in this decade, AARP reached out to me to help me get my business in order so that I can get to that little-card time fully prepared, secure and on-track.

It all sounds very responsible, doesn't it? Here's the deal: All of us who dread getting the AARP card probably also dread talking about super-adult-sounding things like advance directives and retirement savings and cholesterol screenings. And nearly all of us would probably raise our hand if someone asked if we are far too young/busy/overwhelmed/emotional/unprepared to take a first, small step toward handling that business.

I am one of those people. I have had a few big-business items on my to-do list for many years. One of them is create a will. The other is to file all of my important paperwork into a binder that is accessible to my loved ones. A final item is to plan my own funeral.

I first envisioned this to-do list when my brother was in the ICU after a life-threatening accident. When a family is gathered around an unconscious loved one's hospital bed for weeks and weeks, a lot of otherwise undiscussed topics are put on the table, right next to the mustard-colored plastic pitcher of water, a frightening medical chart and too many prescription bottles. 

My parents and I began an ongoing conversation that has now lasted more than a decade. Who should make health decisions if you are unable to make them yourself? Where do you want to be buried? What hymns would you like to be sung at your funeral? What kind of health insurance do you have?

It may sound morbid, but in fact, it was life-giving. I felt relieved to hear my family's wishes for their end-of-life and I felt soothed to trust them with my own details. A few times a year, the conversation is opened up again. And every time, we promise each other -- PROMISE -- that we will make it all legal and official. But we never have.

In the years since those first discussions, I've gotten married, become a mother, been divorced and found love again. All of those transitions have produced mountains of paperwork. There are legal agreements that my state requires of me as a divorced co-parent that mean I have a healthy life insurance policy and a parenting plan in place should I die before my son is 18. 

I'm grateful the state made me get those affairs in order because my biggest fear as a single parent is that I will die long before the AARP card arrives in my mail box and my son will be left without -- a mother, my guidance, college funds, a trust for everyday expenses. 

But I know there is much more to do. I still fret over this fear every time I get a mammogram or I'm anywhere close to a car accident near-miss. It would be horrible if the worst happened, and it would be awful if my parents, my brother, the Not Boyfriend or anyone else had to deal with more paperwork mountains, legalities, confusion and guessing if I was unable to make decisions or find the right documents myself. 

There are a lot of uncertainties, a lot I can't manage, but I can take charge of these affairs. I can organize my paperwork, finally make an appointment with a lawyer to outline a will, and put it all in a place for my loved ones so that it can be passed off easily in a crisis. It's a little nerve-wracking, of course, but it also comes with comfort. In a crisis, there is enough emotion and too many decisions. I want to do what I can so my family, should they have to, can deal with that stuff rather than this stuff.

Here's where AARP is helping me. Their Decide. Create. Share. program enables women to take seven simple steps to put personalized affairs in order. You can take a 40-Day Pledge for free that will walk you through home safety, long-term savings and other areas that we've gotten really good at pushing aside. One of my favorite parts of the pledge is a Valuable Documents list, a worksheet where you can list all your vital information, doctor contacts and where you are housing your own mountain of paperwork. It's a simply formatted list that I have filled out and placed in a red emergency folder where my family knows to retrieve it. I've also made copies for them to fill out. 

Even if you don't know or have all the information, this handy worksheet can serve as a guide for what you'd like to pull together over the next month, year or longer.

I've taken the 40-Day Pledge, and in a short while, I am already almost 3/4 of my way through it. Awesome, right? Sort of. I have some big phone calls to make, I have some deep breathing to do. But most importantly, I feel like I have a structure and a timeline for getting this business out of the clutter of my desk and mind and schedule and finally taking care of it.

I also am in great company. If we share what we are working on (that final, fabulous step in the initiative) online or in conversation, we will be supporting each other in managing the affairs that we've set aside. I feel like there is some big power and worry-soothing by checking this stuff of our lists, no matter whether we are single mamas, partnered parents, AARP members or far from holding on to that little card at Dunkin' Donuts. 

I feel better already. Won't you join me in getting to that good, prepared place? Click here for more information on Decide. Create. Share. and to get started today.