Yup. That’s about right.

But he asked politely, as usual. And first he hauled out bags of trash, asked what else he could do to help, and gave me a hug. Smart kid.

And I was struck again by how handsome he is. As it hit me last night. He’s shaved off the little wisps of below-the-lip hair. He’s taller, and at 18, he’s filling out. He seems relaxed and happy. Europe always does him good. He loves it there.

“I think I want to live in Europe,” he said to me this summer. And again yesterday, on the phone, while sitting in a Midwestern city on a long layover.

And I get it.

Of course, he woke me this morning, unintentionally; I’m unused to noise in the house. I wandered out to the kitchen, and though I know the kid is on European time, I was astonished that he looked so refreshed. His connecting flight was delayed. It had taken nearly 24 hours of travel to get home.

But when he walked through the door just before one in the morning, I saw the young man he is becoming. Comfortable in his skin. At ease anywhere. He smiled and hugged me. I said hello to the friend who picked him up at the airport. I pointed to chocolate cake in the fridge, then I went to bed. And slept for eight hours – for the first time in many months.

There’s something to be said for knowing where your children are.

There’s also relief – and amusement – when it comes to his younger brother. The phone rang last night, and out tumbled the story of the cell phone loss, almost entertaining enough to undo my annoyance over the situation.

Note, I said almost. Still – he recounted a tale of birds that attacked while he was eating lunch on the green – so Hitchcock – and he took off to get away from the marauding creatures. He lost his phone in the process.

“So how is it going?” I ask.

“It’s hard as fuck,” he replies.

I chuckle. It’s college after all, freshman architecture jammed into a six-week program. He’s being pushed to perform, exactly as I expected.

“Are you enjoying it?” I ask.

“It’s cool stuff,” he says. “But I’m in studio from 9:30 a.m. until 10 at night three days a week. In fact, I can only talk for a few minutes. I have a ton to prepare for Monday. We have to present and defend our designs.”

“You’re having some fun, right?”

“Sure,” he says. “And I like being able to manage my own time. I like the flexibility. And it’s beautiful here.”

I realize we’re having a conversation. A give-and-take that is flowing. This is the head-in-the-clouds art kid. My mystery. The one who doesn’t talk, at least, not with me.

We say our goodbyes. It may be Saturday night, but he has work to do and he’s on it.

I wonder if he senses how much he is changing. Lost phone aside, this experience is ideal for him in so many ways. He’s being asked to do more than create; he’s required to articulate the purpose and function of a design, to defend his ideas in front of other students and working architects. He’s acquiring communication skills that are critical for success in any field, and in life.

This morning, my elder son breezes out, then in again, then asks for the car for the rest of the day. He wants to meet friends and go swimming. I laugh and say yes, kiss him on both cheeks, and find myself alone in the house with boxes still to organize, coffee to sip, memories to sift through. Those car keys are going to be gone a great deal in the coming weeks.

But I’m smiling. The kids are alright. They’re better than alright.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

If there’s an effective panacea for parenting, I’ve yet to discover it – even after 18 years on the job. The mother job that is. And I’ve been hitting the Excedrin Migraine pretty hard these past hours. Good thing there’s plenty in the medicine cabinet, along with half a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

Yes, it’s one of those days. Just the usual stuff of parental worry, as Teen Number One is flying over the ocean following two months of summer internship – as a factory worker in Europe, and then in an office.

In order to utilize frequent flyer miles, his travel route is convoluted; he’ll be sitting in a US airport on layover for almost as long as it takes to cross the ocean. How to turn a long trip into a horribly long trip – but save more than a few bucks!

At 18, my elder son is resourceful and responsible. (This is why I didn’t worry when he was semi-out-of-touch, wandering France, Belgium, and the Netherlands these past two weeks.) Still, I’ll be on edge until he texts me when he lands, and again, until he arrives home quite late tonight.

Teen Traveler Number Two

As for Teen Number Two, he couldn’t be more different than his brother. At 17, he’s also away, in an academic program. However, it appears that the silence of the past 10 days have something to do with a pertinent fact. He lost his cell phone, which I found out yesterday afternoon, indirectly.

Did I say I was popping Excedrin Migraine?

Right. I’m trying to reach him through alternate means in order to make sure he has cash for the next two weeks, not to mention can print his airline ticket, has money to pay the baggage charges, money to ship home art and architectural models, and money in case of contingency. (Contingencies like losing a cell phone?)

Then there’s figuring out how we’ll communicate over the next weeks, unless he somehow gets another phone.

• Absent-minded artist? Yes, he fits the bill.
• A struggle to teach him common sense? Yes, that, too.
• Do some kids learn the hard way? Yup.
• Concerned? Naturally.

I know my son. If losing a cell phone is the only thing that goes wrong with his summer, I’ll call it a win. Until then, I’ll wish I’d had the foresight to understand the real nature of parenting. I would’ve invested in Novartis, McNeil Labs, Bayer, and Procter & Gamble.

Meanwhile, please pass the Excedrin. It’s going to be a long day, and night.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Burnt popcorn. And I wanted that popcorn for breakfast! Of course, it was nearly six in the evening when I tossed the package carelessly into the microwave. Yes, I’m running a little late today. Ten hours late to be exact.

It’s been a day of paperwork and priorities. Parenting paperwork, though not the sort you typically think of. Insurance, finances, research. The machinery that keeps a household going. The stuff of adulthood that our kids never see.

This morning, I needed to flip the switch and lock into auto-pilot. To get things done. Big things. Necessary things.

Responsibility, thy name is single motherhood

So I begin my daily writing later than usual, and sluggishly, after another day dedicated to the ongoing Whole House Organization project, that seemingly endless purgatory of emptying boxes, sorting files, revisiting legal papers, scanning financial documents. Discovering report cards in envelopes, and baby teeth wrapped in tissue.

None of this is for the sake of “cleaning.” It’s for my younger son. It’s what I owe him as a parent. As a mother. My best possible preparation so he may have his best possible shot at the future. So if I’m not feeling up to par? If the car needs to go in the shop? If the air conditioning craps out? Irrelevant. These activities of sorting and organizing are now top priority. And there’s a deadline, approaching fast.

Today, I reached a major milestone. A first leg in a long race.

Revisiting your life

Plowing through two decades of my life has been an odd journey. I’ve waded through boxes and stacks, wandered through my marriage, the births of my sons, the end of one career and the beginning of another, monumental celebrations, the devastation of divorce, debt, death, and other kinds of loss that shook my world, and continue to disrupt it on occasion. Yet here I am – still standing. Still parenting.

There’s nothing unusual in persisting through life’s challenges to raise children. We all sacrifice for our sons and daughters. We don’t think twice, often parenting on auto-pilot for years.

Single parenting?

Then there’s rarely a break in stress or pace. Parenting is the quintessential iceberg, after all. What anyone sees is the third that rises above the surface. The other two thirds? Sleeplessness. Details. Facilitating. And everything else.

Life skills, burnt out

My organizing tasks are far from done, but I think I’m through the worst of it, grateful for life skills that help: persistence, the ability to visualize the goal, an eye for detail, understanding dependencies, effective use of checklists.

As for the physical toll, I’m feeling bleary-eyed and burnt out, but motivated to continue. I’ll have to push hard to finish on time. But there’s light at the end of this particular tunnel.

Now if only I had more popcorn. It’s dinner time, and I’m hungry.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

“Brussels, Paris, then Rennes and maybe Brest,” he says. 

It’s my 18-year old on the phone from Europe. My son the factory worker, my son the office worker, my son the engineer-in-training, with a touch of mad scientist thrown in. Curious about everything. Vibrant and adventurous. My son, calling last evening, to give me a weekend update. Just to talk.

“They were happy with you?”

“I think so,” he says. “And I’ve worked the money so I can travel through France, then to Amsterdam, then Belgium after that, for the music festival.”

I sit down.

“Wow,” I say.

His internship is done and it went well. I’m thrilled for him. And impressed that he’s managed his money sufficiently to do this. I’m also a little envious, sitting in my steamy house, leaning against a heating pad. Eighteen is a lovely age. Everything is possible. The body works like the proverbial well-oiled machine. Adventure is everywhere. A dollar (or in this case, a Euro) can be stretched with remarkable elasticity.

“Remind me when you’re flying home?”

He gives me the date. I calculate the number of weeks until he returns, thinking about the air conditioning on the fritz, with temperatures consistently in the 90s. I’m counting my blessings that I found a small fan in the back of my closet.

“So how are you?” I ask.

“Great,” he says, telling me about the books he’s reading, how the guys in the office complimented him on his French, how much he’s looking forward to Amsterdam.

“Have you talked to your brother?”

“No.”

“I haven’t heard from him.”

A few hours later I reach my 17-year old, get a “sorry Mom” for not calling (we’d agreed to once a week), and then, it’s a request for money. He’s utterly cashless, but managed to pool change with another student so they could do a few loads of wash. I marvel at the fact that all roads with my sons seem to lead to laundry. And Murphy’s on the loose again; no campus ATM will accept his card.

“So how is it going?” I ask.

“It’s a ton of work, but rewarding. And I’m meeting interesting people.”

“Great,” I say.

He tells me about design studio that has run until 10 pm, the first project that had to be completed in three days, how they sited a building on a hill, how he expects the work will get even harder, that he’s doing gesture drawings at a rapid rate. He’s planning to see fireworks in the park with a new friend. A girl.

Then I ask about the food.

“It sucks,” he says.

I smile. My maternal brain is churning as I listen. The items he needs.

“Send quarters for the washer and dryer,” he says. “And my diabolo.”

I sigh, trying to remember where his juggling gizmo might be, and as we’re talking, I find it beneath an orange hat, and the sticks, under the cushion of a big red chair. I tell him I’ll get something in the mail as soon as I can, and we say our goodbyes.

My 18-year old is in France, or Belgium, or Holland, or on a train – somewhere in Europe. Content.

My 17-year old is eight states away and needs quarters and a juggling device, and likely, some food. So I do my job, laughing: I dig around for quarters, search in the pantry for cookies and crackers, and start to pack a box. I’m just happy to have my weekend update. And to know where my children are, sort of.

More articles on travel, and travel with teens:

Standing room only (Low fare no care?)
How to Pack for Overseas Travel
Travel Time Needn’t Mean Headache
TGIF: My French (Travel) Fantasy

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

This is my kid. Yes, he’s sleeping. Head down, on an airplane. How can he do that??

Dining out

This was last night’s dinner. Out on the town. Shouldn’t everyone go gourmet when they travel?

Appetizers

This delightful appetizer was part of the ambiance last evening, with that fabulous burger and fries.

“What a great idea,” I said, after we scooped some peanuts, and munched them with our burgers. “Wish we had one of these places at home.”

My son rolled his eyes.

“We do, Mom,” he said.

Still – what’s not to love about peanuts and burgers?

Hotel living

“Look at this view!” I said, as we both stood from our ninth story window, overlooking skyscrapers on one side, and a college campus on the other.

“Doesn’t this feel incredible? I love the energy of the city. And it’s so great to get away. Anywhere.”

He rolled his eyes again and gave me a little smile.

“Yes, it is good to get away,” he said.

Parenting

He doesn’t say much. He gives me a lot of those “looks” – you know – the kind parents get all the time when we embarrass our kids. Not horribly. Just the usual amount of parental embarrassment.

And so far, so good. We’re here. Four months ago, pulling this off was unimaginable. The application process to this program. Figuring out the money. But we did it. He did it, with his brains and his talent.

Parenting pleasures

Yesterday on our flight as my son slept beside me, I realized how long it’s been since we shared a room, or since I watched him sleep.

Today, I’ll settle him into this academic program for the rest of the summer, hope to hit one museum, and head home in the morning. Knowing he’ll be fine. Better than fine.

My parenting job is far from finished, but it continues to evolve. There will be more hoops to jump through, but for now, I am content to spend this important weekend with this plane snoozing, peanut scooping, eye rolling kid who can drive me crazy. And I couldn’t begin to express all the reasons I love him, and how proud I am to be his mom.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Of course, I would endow her with a complex persona, not just character flaws and secret longings. She’d be my polished pinch-hitter (for whatever I dislike), my cocky counterpart (in tough fights), my wiser worldly self (on days I’m not up to the challenge).

My travel twin?

The fact is, if I had an identical twin, I’d insist she take care of all the dreaded travel issues. Yes, yes, I know – I love to travel – or at least I used to. And still do, under the right circumstances. But how many of us get to voyage first class, glammed-out, and only to luxurious locations?

When travel isn’t for fun, when I’m not at the top of my game, when no matter where I look I can’t find a single Ziploc bag . . .

You bet I’d turn things over to the travel twin, to a cooler, calmer, hardier version of myself. In lieu of that, it’s a stiff drink to steady my thready nerves through airport check-in, security lines, scheduling delays, lifting luggage, searching for shuttle buses, and all the other tiresome details involved in getting from Point A to Point B.

Contradictions, contradictions

Yes, I am the same woman who says that traveling with little ones isn’t that bad. (It isn’t, but I was younger then.)

Yes, I am the same woman who boards a plane for Paris at the drop of a chapeau – or better yet – the delicate heel, like some Franco-styled Cinderella who will strut her stuff along rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré. 

Yes, c’est moi.

Or perhaps that’s my identical twin. The one who wasn’t still packing at 3 a.m., the one whose son wasn’t still packing long after, the one who isn’t rushing for a grueling trip with too much baggage, no room for stilettos, and no exotic destination. So is 8 a.m. too early for a travel toddy? An Excedrin avec espresso martinis? A wistful realization that today will be tiring, but tomorrow may be wonderful once my son is transported and settled at his summer study program?

Flight of fancy

At this moment, I’m stressed and pressed and wishing I could call upon my twin to chillax, go with the flow, find her reserves of strength and just do it.

Perhaps on the return flight, I’ll close my eyes and imagine I’m headed to France after all. To the Left Bank, a cozy flat, a glorious Frenchman with open arms just waiting to welcome me, a week or two with no worries, no cooking, no dramas. Only walking, reading, writing, eating, sipping, speaking the language I love, and speaking the language of love.

Oh, let it be me, and not my twin, savoring the pleasures of that particular journey. . .

And if you had a twin – how would you use her?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

It’s later than usual and I need that first cup of coffee badly, and I step around the stacks of books to make my way to the kitchen. Good. The ladder is propped against the side of the fridge. Where it usually is.

I spoon out Espresso Roast and pour the water into Mr. Coffee. I flick the little black switch, wait impatiently, and can’t help but be aware of the scampering and knocking about overhead. In the attic. Squirrels again, dammit.

I listen to the last spit and gurgle of the coffee, consciously breaking my own rule. It will be a three cup day and I know it, downing the first gulps and replaying the scene in my head: my son’s serious expression when he walked into the bedroom after a very long day.

My immediate response, seeing his face – relief mixed with concern – clearly he was alright, but something had happened.

“Just life”

Oh, as crises go it wasn’t much. But in the thick of it, in the hours of frustration and scrambling, even if you know it’s just one more thing in an onslaught of inconveniences to weather – you’re worn out from having to sweat the small stuff along with the big stuff because there is no buffer, no reserve of resources, no support staff, and no end in sight to any of it.

It’s a hole in the ceiling, I tell myself, trying to stay calm.

A hole, with a heavy fixture dangling dangerously from gnarly looking wires. Bits of insulation floating around my teenager’s room. His worried expression and irritation, as he tries repeatedly to reattach the light, as we both take turns on the ladder and with the only screwdriver we can find after an absurd search through toolboxes, accompanied by a YouTube video running nearby, looping through Do-It-Yourself wiring, lest we inadvertently electrocute ourselves.

We realize it’s comical. And it’s not. It’s all too typical around here.

The tally (lately)

There was the total meltdown of all computers in the house six weeks ago. Countless hours, immeasurable stress, and $1200 on my credit card.

There was the car, two weeks ago. Three days of worry and inconvenience, and thanks to a warranty, that total was just under $100.

Yesterday there were the six stops and constant errands before my son’s summer program begins. We only purchased a handful of the supplies necessary, but I still ran up another $150 in credit, and there will be more expenses when we arrive on campus to get him what’s required. (We’ll just ignore the cost of getting there and back, for now.)

The money pit, and the money pit

We all know that children are expensive. We just don’t realize how expensive, though most of us will give the shirts off our backs to do right by them.

As for a house? The quintessential money pit. And here I must admit, during the years I was married, we followed traditional gender roles. I cooked and cared for the children. Of course, I also brought in a fat corporate income during those years. As for the father of my sons, he worked and traveled, played tennis with our little boys on the weekends, and fixed things in the house. He fixed everything.

And so, I never learned how. And I’m getting older. And I’m not strong. I need help. And this reality is one more reminder of being alone after all these years. Alone as an adult. Alone as a woman.

Hole in the ceiling, hole in my head

I needed that hole in the ceiling like a hole in the head. Which explains why I have this headache, why it was impossible to sleep, why the tools are tossed in a corner of the kitchen, why I finally slept but late, why my coffee is late, why my writing is late, why my everything-critical-to-get-done-today will be very, very late. 

But the hole in the ceiling is fixed. It took hours, the kindness of a very tired physician and his ingenuity, and I once again found myself in that utterly frustrating place of gender-based helplessness, single parent helplessness, and the all too familiar limbo between tears and laughter. Especially when I saw how difficult a repair task it turned out to be.

Why small stuff isn’t small, and pop psychology should take a hike

I sweat the small stuff. Sort of.

The mess in my house? It drives me nuts – but I live with it. The other small stuff? I do indeed sweat it, because it’s the unrelenting chain of little things that beats us up, wears us down, drains our bank accounts, and knocks us off our trajectories to wherever it was we thought we were going, once.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff” may offer sound advice in moderate circumstances; as we grow more capable and more mature in jobs and relationships, we gain perspective, letting little things go so we may focus on the bigger picture. To remain positive, and to accomplish more.

As parents, we learn that sweating the small stuff doesn’t work. We reach the point where a day without a trip to the emergency room can seem like a victory. Hell, it is a victory.

Real life

In real life, the small stuff is big stuff: the accumulation of broken fixtures, car troubles, sink holes, limbs on the roof, flooding hot water heaters, dead dishwashers, chauffeuring kids, looking for work, braces that require another six months, $800 for wisdom teeth not covered by insurance, the mouse in the house, the zapped computers, the bills, the bills, the bills.

And if you’re single and beginning to feel a little older? Trying not to impose on the same few people in your life? Trying to hold it together when you’re at the end of your rope again? Trying to find the funny, even as you flail about with one more thing you don’t know how to do?

You sweat. Believe me, you sweat.

Small stuff, great kindness

It’s small stuff, I tell myself.

I take a deep breath. I start the laundry. I pop a Motrin, and wonder how I’ll get through this day, and tomorrow, and the next.

I hope the ceiling light in my kid’s room will hold. I listen to the critters playing on the floorboards overhead, and I put on another pot of coffee. I tell myself “don’t sweat the small stuff,” because somehow, I feel better saying the words, and I’m grateful that kindness is alive and well, even if I’m lying in a pool of my own perspiration.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Or so I surmise from the most recent overseas phone call. But a few things have changed since we last spoke, and not just clean underwear.

My son (the European factory worker) is off the production line and into an office. This job – an unpaid internship – has shifted him to a computer at a desk. Suffice it to say, the jumpsuit has been replaced by proper business attire – the khaki pants and dress shirts we picked up on sale the day before he flew overseas.

The conversation quickly took a turn away from clothing to his current activities, something to do with auto-CAD (Computer Aided Design). And more, of course.

Ruminations from my 18-year old on the realities of rising early, commuting, and working from 8:00 a.m. until 6:00 p.m.

“This is hard,” he says.

“Uh huh,” I reply.

“So I’m looking for a specific area to research and then I’ll diagram with auto-CAD.”

“That should be interesting.”

“It will be, when I find the right project. And it’s great learning this stuff.”

“Sounds like it.”

“But this hard,” he repeats. “Getting up so early. Staying here at a desk. Not being able to schedule my own time.”

“Yes it’s hard.” I stifle a chuckle. “How long has it been?”

“Three weeks,” he says.

I sigh.

“Okay. Multiply your three weeks by 17. That’s about a year. Then multiply by 30 years. Now you can say it’s hard. And by the way, welcome to adulthood.”

He laughs.

“I guess I”ll be in school awhile longer then,” he says.

And I laugh.

I know he’s right. Graduate school was always part of his plan, but now more than ever. He’s not alone in this. How many are choosing to study longer because there is no work for pay?

I tell myself it may be better this way – young adults tied to their parents longer. It’s more caring, more communal. It’s certainly more European, except there is no European infrastructure to assist.

My own financial worries churn just beneath the surface. You can only hock and borrow and sell off for so long, and each day brings me closer to the end of the line.

I listen, trying to focus on the pleasure of this conversation, knowing my son comes home at the end of the summer for several weeks before heading back to college. No doubt when he returns there will be discussion, good food, and naturally – laundry. But I’m calculating the cost of feeding him. Wondering where the money will come from. I tell myself I’ll figure it out. Somehow, I’ll figure it out.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Now think about the facets of your own personality that you like the most, along with the traits you love in others and might like to possess. Are there inconsistencies in the mix? Outright contradictions?

What about your children? How many of us have marveled at how different our kids are – born of the same two parents, and raised in the same environment?

Opposites attract

In the middle of the night I was running through Part 3 of the Real Housewives of New York Reunion. I thought about the dramatically different personalities among the New York Housewives, the men they choose as partners, and the bearing this has – or will – on their parenting.

I also thought about my own life choices – the individuals I am drawn to, and the varying tastes and traits that govern my daily experience. I adore opposites; they offer  us excitement as well as balance: extroverts may seek introverts, tall men may gravitate toward short women, the insecure may be at ease with the confident, and so on.

Parenting Type A and Type B kids

Opposites create energizing tension, yet they startle us when we see them emerge in our children. But if opposites attract (and we marry them), are those traits really so baffling?

My own sons, now teens, couldn’t be more different when it comes to aptitudes, attitudes, personalities, and their responses to certain of life’s events. One is a Type A personality (as am I), and the other, Type B (like their father).

Talk about challenging! Parenting my Type A is easier for me; I recognize myself, and guide accordingly. My Type B child is more laid back (making him low maintenance), yet harder to figure out because our personalities are so different.

And when you look at your own family dynamics? Do you see the results of “opposites attract?”

Parenting, and the Real Housewives of New York

My thoughts on Part 3 of the Real Housewives of New York Reunion aren’t the usual impressions of who said what, did what, or wore what. And you already got my assessments on Parts 1 and 2. Last night was something else; I had a flash of each of these women in their similarities and differences. I thought about the husbands and lovers who (seem to) balance them.

Could Jill and Bobby Zarin be any more different? And yet they appear to complement each other in critical ways. Bethenny and Jason? Ramona and Mario? Likewise.

What about the New York housewives as parents?

How many fights that we never see take place over what’s best for the kids? Over value systems or logistics? Inclusion in the spotlight, or not?

Watching the fireworks throughout the Reunion and this season, I wondered about mothering styles, and reality-related parenting choices.

• Newbie Sonja Morgan made it clear she has purposely kept her daughter off camera.
• Alex and Simon seem to spend as much time as possible actively parenting their two little boys.
• Ramona has included her daughter in a consistent and respectfully “light” fashion. (Don’t we love Avery’s level-headedness?)
• As for the Countess, her two teens are only incidentally included. Likewise, Kelly’s two daughters (all pancake and Playboy scenes aside).
• Jill’s daughter, Ally, has been a pleasure to watch, though we’ve seen less of her lately.
• In each case, as we hit the teenage years, “less” seems normal. What teenager wants to be seen with his or her parents under any circumstances?
• Bethenny is a brand new mom, still in the wonderment and adoration stage. It will be interesting to see how her parenting evolves, and what is offered to the public eye.

As I watch these women behave (often badly), I can’t help but think that they’re all protective mothers. We’ve gotten a peek at varying parenting styles, and we may be relieved to see that they have husbands or (presumably) paid help to assist.

Parenting in the public eye

I’d like to believe that parenting brings out the best in most of us. It’s difficult enough raising children. How hard must it be with the constant scrutiny of the press?

Thankfully, while “money can’t buy you class,” it can pay for qualified child care. Luann’s former housekeeper, Rosie, comes to mind. And while we truly don’t know what’s going on with these Reality TV kids, I’d like to believe that they’re all doing well despite the unreality of cameras rolling on their parents’ lives.

However opposite their issues, personalities, and belief systems, the New York housewives all appear to be caring parents. That hasn’t stopped me from asking myself what their kids must think of “Mom’s behavior,” most recently, relative to Kelly Bensimon.

Real life

Then I remind myself that my sons have witnessed plenty of ups and downs over the years – the rugged, ragged reality of single parenting, without the assets or assistance that comes with affluence.

However many conflicting forces define us and attract us, good parents pay attention to what children need, as they reflect us, react to us, and move away from us. They will ultimately carve out their own futures, no doubt filled with opposites that we recognize and others that we don’t. Opposites that suit them.


© D A Wolf

The last time we talked, he was fresh off 20 long hours of travel. He was weary, but excited to find himself overseas again. Ready to begin his “first real job” in a bustling modern city filled with medieval architecture and contemporary nightlife.

A side benefit? His cousins and grandparents were only an hour away.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree as they say. Drop my son in France or pretty much anywhere in Western Europe, and he blossoms.

I listened to my son chat. He recounted the story of his first day of work, as my stalwart teen traveler made his appearance suited up professionally. With some amusement (from his new boss), he was instructed to change clothes. He was hitting the production line.

My son, the factory worker.

I can picture him rolling with it, donning a jumpsuit, and following along as he was shown how to sandblast something, and assemble something else I can’t recall. Suffice it to say, he is taking things apart or putting them together. Right up his alley.

More importantly, he’s learning about the real world, in very real ways. Total self-sufficiency. What it’s like to get up early, fix breakfast, pack a lunch, commute, then spend a long day at physical labor, only to commute home, cook, and drop into bed. Of course, he’s 18, so I imagine he isn’t dropping into bed at an early hour, tired or not.

“I’m making my own lunches and bringing them,” he said (sounding rather pleased with himself).

“I haven’t been able to do laundry yet,” he continued. (I refrained from comment; it’s been 10 days.)

He went on: “By the time I get home from work it’s late, there’s no washer or dryer in the apartment, and nowhere around to take my clothes. But a woman at the plant has offered to do my laundry. I just need to coordinate with her. I’m walking to the store now, to buy bread.”

I looked at my watch. 10 pm, his time. Yes indeed. Adolescent energy, not to mention the capacity to charm women, in several languages.

“It’s a taste of the real world, isn’t it,” I said, thinking that he doesn’t even have a bicycle to get around, as he did when he lived in France two years ago.

He chuckled, and went on to tell me how he hopes to coordinate activities for the weekend, despite the fact that his cousins are all in summer school. He’d like to manage a few days in Amsterdam, a city he’s never seen, where he’ll no doubt stroll the infamous Red Light District. Otherwise, there’s Paris, and a Belgian music festival at the end of the summer that’s very Woodstock, and he’s attended before. And if I know my kid – those plans are solidified.

Even as I note a hint of loneliness in his voice, I know how good this experience is for him. The hard work of daily adult life. The discoveries of many firsts. The use of several languages.

And I tell myself how fortunate I am, that he’s doing so well. And that he calls me like this, just to talk.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

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• My son, the office worker
• Going the distance
• How to pack for overseas travel
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