My son went to health class, and this is what he learned

Yes, it's true. My son went to health class. Remember health class? All I remember is an embarrassing conversation about menstruation, which came in handy when I 'became a woman,' according to my mother, a few months later. Thankfully, health class provided me with sanitary napkins the size of bricks as I was initiated into 'womanhood.'

However, health class in 2012 is a bit different. After my son's first day, during dinner, he broached the subject of heath class, explaining to us that the teacher showed numerous pictures of flowers and mammals. He remembered that everything reproduces, and I'm thinking, "Awesome! This makes sense to him!" He then told us that an egg is the size of a period (dot). Inwardly I snickered because period-egg, simply too funny for words. I told him that women have about a million of those eggs for their lifetime. My son, the grating debator, informed me that I was "wrong!" Men and women, he continued, have eggs. For a moment, I tried to convince him that he was wrong, but then I concluded that Wednesday's class was going to be eye-opening for him. Never one to back down from an opportunity to make a smart-aleck response, he said, "I have a feeling after Wednesday's class, I'm going to really regret you signing me up for this class." Naturally, he used his snottiest tone for that comment.

He also reminded us that on Wednesday, the fourth graders were going to be divided into boys and girls, and then separated from one another. In fact, he added, they were going to learn about 'reprocessing.' He had to say that just as I was drinking some water, which I promptly choked on. I corrected him, telling him it was reproduction, but then he was curious about the definition of reprocessing.

His dad, the man raised with brothers in a Catholic household, assured our son that he could ask any questions of his father and they would be answered. I snickered at that too. This is the man who was embarrassed to show our little guy how to pee standing up; I had to argue with him to do so since I don't have the appropriate peeing-while-standing-up equipment. The guy who, on our first camping trip together, dug a 'pee pit' for us to use, which was really sweet except there were rocks on both sides. He didn't realize I didn't 'go' quite the same way. I can't imagine he will answer our son's questions in a matter of fact way.

Wednesday's class was even more enlightening than Monday's. Without looking at me, my son told me they saw pictures of naked women and their body parts. When I asked which body parts, he cried, "ALL of THEM, Mom, all of them..." He even saw the body parts where the eggs are stored. Finally, in an anguished tone, he told me that he will soon have sperm. I wanted to talk about the subject more, but he was still astounded about the sperm revelation. That night, while cooking corn, one of the ears wasn't fully developed. Noticing this, our son informed us that, "Sperm mustn't have done its job on the corn." His father mumbled a reply, correcting him, sort of, about that piece of information.

He's also asked for definitions of words he has heard at school but doesn't know what they mean. After the great "shit" fiasco of 2011--he used the word after hearing someone else say it, and he got in trouble at school for saying it--we have an agreement that he can ask me any word he doesn't know before he decides to use it. We talked about 'retard,' 'gay,' and 'sexy.'When he asked his father what 'gay' meant, his father gave a truly biased answer, one I felt was unfair. I tried my best to give an unbiased answer to that question. I want my son to make up his mind on his own. But today's question was the biggest one yet: how does a man's sperm fertilize a woman's egg? We ran out of time to discuss it, but I'm sure it's going to come up soon.

Health class has been eye-opening for my son, fostered great conversation between us, and has been a chance for me to talk with my son, not at him. Well, in all honesty, to laugh a bit as  watch his mind at work, "reprocessing" his new information.

Lizards, snakes, and tornados

Spring break has arrived, and I usually spend the first day or two cleaning up house detritus, tackling the housework I've procrastinated. Not today! Instead, we went to the Natural History Museum to see a new exhibit with lizards and snakes.

Although I'm not a fan of lizards, they don't creep me out as much as snakes. I swear the python was looking at me, wishing I'd creep in his cage. Watching him move gave me the chills. A skink is by far the creepiest looking creature I've ever seen: head of a snake, body of a lizard. And the one I saw today has a blue tongue, which it kept flicking at the teengagers gawking on it. Even now, I have goosebumps thinking about it. There were others as well, but I tried not to linger too much. I'm glad some people have affinity for our creepy-crawly friends; that's not me.

Why go see something I don't particularly like? I knew my son would love it, and he did. He rattled off all sorts of information to his father about what we saw. He added that he was hoping to see sea snakes and was disappointed the exhibit didn't include them. He had a wonderful time, which meant I (mostly) enjoyed myself. Honestly, I was relieved when we werer finished.

The best part of our day, besides the time we spent with one another, was the 3D Imax experience watching a movie about tornados. I've never been involved in a tornado, and I hope I never am involved. I don't think I breathed much during the movie, and a couple of times, I held onto my son because I was so scared. He loved the movie as well, which was good.

Our first day of spring break was fun, and more importantly, it was a time for the two of us to connect. I don't know how much time we have together in terms of hanging out and doing fun things with one another, so I'm trying to relish each adventure.

But I know our time is limited...he gave his phone number to a girl he likes.

Conflicted about growing up

I have to admit, I'm completely conflicted as I watch my son. I grow misty-eyed when I see little boys, especially, toddling around or running with abandon. The powdery smell of a baby makes me want to hold it forever. Many parents told me time goes so quickly, and while on one level, I knew what they meant, on another level, well, it goes quicker than I thought.

Now my son is 10, he's vacillating between cute little boy and smelly boy. We still hug and kiss (in private, of course), but the next day he wants nothing to do with me. Each day he's reminded to use his deodorant, and if he doesn't, well, he smells pretty bad. Tonight, he took all the glow-in-the-dark dolphins off his walls and fan, wanting a room that's darker to sleep in. I know he's growing up, but oh how hard it is!

Less frequently does he want us to tuck him in, and now I miss the nights of songs and stories and reading. A shouted, "good night" is all I get. At least I get that!

His homework load, while not quite rivaling mine, is large, and his backpack is larger. Heavier too. All this he shoulders with a body nearly as tall as mine. He walks like his dad, he sits like his grandfather. His voice changes a bit when he talks, losing its soft notes and gaining some gruffness.

We no longer talk about trains or cars or soft fuzzy animals. Gone are the dreams of being a firefighter-farmer-train conductor-construction worker. Now we share books and computers. He talks about fifth grade, middle school, high school, and college. He solves math problems I don't quite understand.

My son reads voraciously, and I'm glad, long novels, multi-chaptered tomes rather than books of rhyme and pictures, colors so bright. But sometimes, an urge creeps upon me to sneak in his room and read Goodnight Moon or Brown Bear, Brown Bear one more time. To cry at I'll Love you Forever and have him hug me.

My boy is developing, growing into his own person. My job is not done, but its description is changing. There are few directions, and mistakes are easy to make. Handholding is going, but guiding is growing. I miss the child but look forward to the adult.

Anniversaries and birthdays

Once upon a time, in the throes of a difficult pregnancy, I had this brilliant idea that our son should be born the day after our anniversary. At the time, it made sense; I was tired of being pregnant; I had no amniotic fluid so each day I had to consume 96 ounces of water. This meant I made about 96 trips to the bathroom too. I was ready to move into motherhood and leave pregnancy behind. What I didn't know, however, was that sharing our anniversary with our son's birth would end up being difficult and exhausting.

Most years, we seem to cram a birthday party into the same weekend as our anniversary celebration. This year was no different. We had a marathon birthday party on a Saturday: 11-3pm for kids; 4-8 pm for adults. We were all on sensory overload by the end of it. My son was fried on cake and shooting pretend guns at his friends; I was struggling to make conversation by day's end as my brain could no longer hold onto a thought. My husband simply drank beer to make it through the day.

The next day was our anniversary, and spent a significant portion simply laying down and resting. It wasn't an ideal anniversary, but it somehow fit us. Taking a walk, the three of us plus the dog, made for a leisurely togetherness we hadn't experienced the day before. Our celebratory dinner was shared with our son; we figured he wouldn't have a birthday if we hadn't married.

I love our anniversary because my husband actually tries to give me presents I'll enjoy, and this year was no different. As a huge fan of "I Love Lucy," I've been wanting other seasons of the show, and he bought me seasons three and four! He also gave me a season of her later show, "The Lucy Show," which I have rarely seen. I found him a cast-iron dutch oven that he's been wanting. Neither of the gifts was particularly romantic but they fit us beautifully. I don't need jewelry and neither does he. We can't afford an exotic vacation. But he loves outdoor camping and cooking while I love "Lucy."

Our anniversary celebration was reflective of us: enjoyable and family-focused. We wouldn't have it any other way.

Sometimes when my husband is gone...

is relish in the freedom. I know that sounds horrible, especially since my husband is a great guy. Yet, I can do what I want, including reading a book or playing on the computer. With my son in bed, no one needs me right now. I can be quiet. I can think. I can breathe.

Tonight is a good night for my husband to be gone. Beginning at 7:15 this morning, my day filled with children. Questions, questions, questions...I was inundated with questions. Their poor planning causes and emergency on my part. Now I am quiet. The dog snores, the keys make their peculiar rattle as I race my fingers over them.

A good night for my husband to be gone means I can relax. The TV is not on. I can procrastinate the essays I've brought home to grade. Listening to the sounds of the house as it relaxes after a busy day of snow, wind, sleet, and sun gives me pleasure.

My book sits beside me, waiting for me to pick it up. It calls to me, and now I answer.

It is a good night for my husband to be gone.