Jail Break

The other night, my friend Adrienne got me out the house. She had tickets to a show called Stoop Stories and our friend Debbie was one of the guest speakers. Grateful for any chance to get out of the house, I jumped at it. Since we moved to Baltimore, I haven't worked, which meant I really didn't have any excuse or reason to leave home. I felt like it was some kind of jail break. Maybe that twitching wasn't from Tourette's after all.

My husband came home a little early. I gave him the summary: who did their homework, who hadn't done their reading, who vacuumed the cat, who stole and ate the entire bag of gummy bears, and ran to change. I had 15 minutes to get ready. What the hell do I wear? I have been living in sweat pants and fleece for months now. Do my clothes even fit? Ever since I decided that sweatpants could be stylish, I haven't felt guilty about not having those stretch jeans slide down to reveal my muffin top that I swear they created in the first place. No muffin-top in sweat pants. None. Why is that? Because sweat pants accept all of you and don't try to squeeze you out. It's just the nature of the sweat pants. I grabbed something purple to honor the Raven's Superbowl victory, prayed it fit, brushed my teeth and got my ass out of there. Adrienne pulled up in my chariot and we were off.

The subject of Stoop Stores that night was stories about parenthood. Great. I was leaving my family to go hear about someone else's. Why don't we just go watch a bunch of Brady bunch re-runs and do shots every time someone says 'Marsha'? Debbie had assured me it would be a great night, but even without  the show, it was destined to be good, because I wasn't home. I was out and breathing without anyone, anywhere, calling me mom. No one was climbing, pulling or whining at me. And then, Adrienne put a glass of wine in my hand. I love her. The drinkable wine. My wine of preference.

Stoop stories features eight different speakers talking about different personal stories. Some sad, some funny, some touching. At intermission, they encouraged those who wished to speak for three minutes to place their name in the bag and they would randomly pick three people. Adreienne and Debbie encouraged me to put my name in, so I did. Talking in front of peope is something I have been doing for 20 years. I have been telling my stories to my various fitness classes over the years. I've been asked countless times after I have taught an aerobic class or subbed someone's class if I wasn't a comedian posing as an aerbicocs instructor. Unafraid, I put my name in and left it to fate.

When they called my name,  we weren't suprised. Now I had to think of some material. What story could I talk about in 3 minutes? Who really keeps track at how long a story takes? I know that some stories lasted the entire squat series or some were good during the arms and chest exercises, but had no clue about time. I was the last of the three volunteers to go. When it was my turn, I did what anyone would do when they are in the spotlight with 500 people lookling at them, I had fun and enjoyed the moment.

"I'm out of my house", I said. And then talked about how great it was just to be out. You really wouldn't think it was a big deal, but for me, it was. It was nice to talk to people over 3 feet tall. It was nice to see adults other than the parents at your kid's school during pick-up. It was nice to talk to people and not tell them what to do. It was nice to ask people questions that don't involve inquires of personal hygiene maintenance. It was great to take a potty break without an audience or interruption. It was great to wear real clothes. It was great to be in a whine free environment for a while. It felt great to feel a wee bit like myself BC(before children). I had a pep in my step and a smile on my face.

I don't remember a lot of what I talked about, I had three minutes. But what I do remember, is hearing the laughter that I caused because of my story. From the time I started to the time they applauded, they laughed and that felt good.

When you have little kids or children on the spectrum, they require so much energy. As parents, we feel it's our job to give, provide, guide and help until it is no longer required. 18 or so, years later we may get a break, if then. I realized that I needed to take more breaks from my house, more often, because it's nice to drink with other people once in a while. The kids always finding me hiding in the closet anyway. So my new goal is to get out of the house and stop twitching because I think I  just saw my BC picture on a milk carton.

Transformer Soccer

In my town, the Recreation council has the fall soccer registration in June. (I have no idea why they have it so early,) So, I asked #3 if he wanted to play and he danced around the house excitedly and said "yes".

The year before, I had signed #1 & #2 up to play on the same team and arranged for a therapeutic aid to help them on the field. However, the coach was not an "Autism sympathizer" and sent the aide away. "We can handle it" he said. And then he didn't handle it. He ignored the kids and just "Dealt" with having them subtract from the team's capacity to win.  If he hadn't gone off to India right after making that decision, he would've received such a verbal scathing that he would've had to be scraped off the field, but he left for two weeks and left the assistant coaches in charge to follow through with his decision.  I then had to be on the field with the boys and spent the majority of the season restraining myself from taking down the coach after he returned.  I was grateful the two assistant coaches were willing to learn the strategies needed to help the boys; like making sure #1 stayed on the field.

I was determined not to repeat that experience, so I volunteered to coach. I played soccer as a kid, refereed in college and had lots of experience managing my own small team of five. Plus, back in the day, I used to run the kid's fitness parties at an aerobic studio, so I could handle large groups of kids. An added bonus: I got to order around a bunch of kids that weren't mine for a change.

As our first practice got closer, I started prepping him for the transition and that's when he informed me, "I hate soccer. I don't wanna play soccer." Great. Just freaking great. If I hadn't signed up to be coach, I would've pulled him from soccer. Now I had to figure out how to get this kid to play. Great. Just f-ing great.

#3 is the PDD/NOS kid who also has ODD (Oppositional Defiant Disorder). He is the most stubborn of the kids and when he chooses to rebel, he's not easy.  I  had to figure out a strategy for the soccer season. How was I going to get this kid, who swore he loved soccer two months ago, on the field now that he hates it?

I took a survey of motivators; things he liked that he'd work for. (In the autism world, we call these items motivators, incentives and rewards.) I really didn't want to sugar him up, I didn't want to go broke with toys and I didn't want to have a bunch of crap in my house. I took him to Target and asked him what he wanted to earn. He picked out mini-transformers, about $3.50 per robot.

Soccer was eight weeks. Practice and games were each once a week. I needed 16 Transformers. I'd rather buy beer. No chance you'd be happy with Bailey's in your milk? Once he agreed to the reward, then I put the demands in place."You have to play more than you sit, it must be no less than a 60/40 split. You need to be a good listener and do what your team-mates are doing.  If you want to sit, you have to sit with the moms. You can't wander around the field and if I have to chase you down, you lose the reward." He agreed and we shook hands.

With fingers crossed and chilled beer in the fridge, the day of our first practice arrived. I let him pick out the first robot and hold it while I put on his uniform and cleats. If he earned it, he could only open it after practice, but it would have to stay in the car until then.  He looked happy to hold the robot, but was anxious about meeting a bunch of kids he didn't know.

We had 10 kids on the team. I didn't have an official assistant coach, but I encouraged all the dads to be on the field and they were great. I let them be "in charge" of my kid. (Usually, kid's always do better listening to someone else.) The under six league had kids ages four to six and played six players on the field at one time without a goalie. I'm not a fan of a wild pack of kids running around the field, so I taught them zones. I utilized my informal ABA training and showed them a picture of the field and showed them their positions on the board. When they got on the field, it was much easier for them to function.

Over the course of the season, I taught them drills, zones, teamwork, ball control, our team-mate's names, team spirit, and that they had the capacity to be awesome.  Every practice and game each player was greeted with a hug, a spin and some encouraging words. They were my boys. My sweet boys; some who were sports inclined and some who were not.  I gave them all lots of positive feedback and laughed a lot. They were all so stinking cute. We had one kid who had just turned four.  I spent most of the season trying to get him to run the right way. I had one kid who melted every practice and game and chose to sit out all but the last two games. I had two brothers, who I swear will be the next Payton & Eli; they are that talented. I had a little boy, yet to be diagnosed on my team. I gave him some extra love and talked his mom through the process of getting an ASD diagnosis.  When my one anxiety ridden kid, who only played because I was coach, scored his very first goal during the last game of the season, I cried. My little guys went from a bunch of crazies to a team that only lost two games. They made coach proud. 

There were days he didn't earn his robots. I told him, "you didn't play more than you sat and you were not a good listener." He only lost robots twice and then one day he just got better. Once he started to like the kids on the team, he looked forward to seeing them. The bonus, was that four kids from his team were at his school and one was even in his class. He had the bond with his team and together we had a bond, because I was coach.  

When the season ended, #3 asked me, "Mom, can I play soccer again next year?"  I looked at him and said, "Yes.  But are you sure?" He nodded his head and said "yes, Coach." And that, was all I needed. Let's hope I can teach him the appeal of making sand art out of empty beer bottles by then. That would be a win-win.

The Truth Down Doggie style

"Live in your truth", the yoga instructor said as he told the class to hold the pose. Live in your truth? you don't think I'm living in my truth? I have five kids and three have autism. You don't think I'm living my truth every day? Hey Buddy, I'm living my truth so much every day, that I come here to escape it. I don't you need you to remind me what my truth is. This is my time and right now, I don't need to be reminded where I have to go when I'm done here-back to my truth. Must find my zen. Must plant a tree. Zen is so over-rated. Need to find some peace." I squelch the desire to punch yoga instructor in the face. 

The truth waits for me, as it does every morning. My daily truth involves a husband who has a great job, but is gone an average of 11 hours a day, three kids with transition issues and four year old twins who are quickly mastering the art of whine. I am overworked and under-medicated. 

Every day, I am a jungle gym, cleaning lady, laundry diva, homework helper, referee, landscaper and repairman. I am a speech therapist modeling language, an occupational therapist applying deep pressure and encouraging fine motor skills (which always causes #2 to melt). I am the entertainment coordinator, translator, cook, and am the fast food drive through person; "can I take your order?" I feel like a hyperactive ping-pong ball being hit by several paddles at the same time. 

The truth is, I am grateful for my ADHD. Because I am naturally wired to focus on many things at once, I think I would be very bored with just one or two kids. And if they were neuro-typical, well, just throw me some fire-balls to juggle to make it more challenging. I couldn't imagine what a day would be like if I wasn't trying to figure out the best ways to help the boys navigate through their days. 

Autism is a major time-suck. Managing the education of three special needs boys comes with it's own stresses, challenges and requirements. I have to be on top of the schools to make sure they are following their IEPs (Individual Education Plan). This document lists their condition and all the goals, objectives, and services that are in place for the each kid. It is my job to keep close tabs on their schooling because what I have learned from past experiences, is not everyone does their job well. There are some really awful administrators and teachers out there.

Another truth is that I spend so much time managing everyone and everything, that I get left in last place. I'm so overwhelmed, that if Hugh Jackman showed up at my house in a thong, I would hand him my vacuum cleaner and watch him use it.  I would get far more pleasure watching someone else clean my house than sparring with Wolverine.  In fact, I would welcome any happy helper, English not necessary. 

I tried to reclaim some time and energy for myself. That is the reason I went to yoga.  But then I was given an assignment. So what kind of truth was he telling me to live in? Who really cares. I paid for the class, and I'll live in it if I want to. In my time away from home, my truth can be whatever I wish it to be. In yoga, my truth is, that I'd rather be on some beach anywhere, letting my albino ass get some sun. (There are 700 shades of white and I am 40 of them). It would be quite a novelty to sit quietly, relax and maybe even read a book. I would love the shirtless, muscle bound dude on the mat to my left to be the one serving me drinks on that beach, bringing me snacks and rubbing some lotion all about. Now that, is some truth. I could bathe in that truth. Where's my towel?

The Worst In Us

A long time ago, even before I thought about having children, my friend Nancy had two young children. We were work out buddies and we would discuss and work through our lives problems on the treadmill.

One morning, she says, "When you have kids, you just assume that that they'll inherit all the good things from both of you, but the truth is, they inherit all the things you can't stand about yourself and your husband. They really get the worst of the worst".

Whoa, I thought, that is pretty deep. "Really? How could that be?", I thought. She went on to explain qualities that her two kids inherited, be it nature or nurture from her husband that drove her crazy long before they were displayed in triplicate. 

Years later, with five kids of my own, dealing with five unique personalities, it becomes clear what Nancy was saying. If we see a behavior in our kids that we don't like, maybe we need to think about where it came from. Maybe we subconsciously modeled that characteristic or behavior and we never had to acknowledge it until we had to face it mirroring back at us.

As parents, all of us are ready to step up and be proud when our children inherit abilities we are proud of. My #2, Aspy, is a science wiz like his dad; he has that natural math/science ability that I don't take credit for. #1 has perfect pitch  and can memorize any song. Last summer, the camp counselor told me a story about #1: she was teaching the kids a song, but she had to change the key because it was too high for most of the kids. He got mad and refused to sing it in the altered key.  He got both things: stubbornness and perfect pitch from me. I watch the way the twins talk with their hands, move around and modulate their voices to connect with their audience and I know that comes from me. (albeit, they are MUCH cuter). #3 is the gossip. He tells us all the things going on at school and with his classmates. "Mike's dad moved out and is looking for a new apartment." Oh, really?, but that is my grandmother channeling through him. And then there are things we both take credit for like bad dancing. At least they are Bar Mitzvah ready.

However, when they develop habits that aren't that praise-worthy, we spend more time trying to modify the behavior than figuring out the origin. One of requirements of ADHD is the need for organization. It is helpful when things are put in the same place, which makes it easier to find. As a family we try to have that organization in place, however, when the system fails and they cannot find their stuff, a meltdown is imminent. I know this better than anyone because I have ADHD. Before I learned that I functioned a lot better when everything had a place, I melted all the time. For a three year old, it can be cute, for a 20 year old, not so much. So when I see my kids melting because they can't find their stuff, I know my genetic influence is rearing it's ugly head. (We also know that ADHD often piggy-backs with Autism.)

Children model behavior. I have learned through years of modeling language for two of my children who were language delayed, that you have to be teach them language as building blocks. You have to give them the tools to use language because it does not come naturally to them.  When you are focused on communicating the message, there is no room for much of the judgement that is conveyed subtly through language. So, if you are saying "hurry up" but your tone sends the message, "hurry up you slow, fat sack of shit", that is how they will learn it and say it.  The words we choose to use responding to situations is how we teach our kids the way to react to things. If you are using those bad words in front of your kids, be prepared to hear it come back to you. We teach the foundations of human interaction every second we're in our child's presence. If we're in our car screaming at other drivers, they are listening to every word. If we are trash talking people on the phone, they are listening. If we hold doors for others, help those in need and offer kind words to people, they are watching and listening. We have to grab a hold of our subconscious reaction to situations and rethink our strategy if we do not want to see that behavior come back to us one day. To sum it up, we have to be the model of the person we want our kids to grow into. They don't become amazing adults without having amazing models. (And you didn't think parenting was hard enough already).

We all have heard the phrase, "Nature vs Nurture", but for many of us, we think the "Nature" part is tangible biology: eye color, skin, diseases, hair and height. But there are so many characteristics that fall into the grey area between the Nature & Nurture since scientists are still trying to figure out the genetic link to qualities such as personalities, predispositions,  intelligence, outlook on life,  approach to problem solving, interpersonal relationships, self-confidence, compassion and empathy. The nurture pat is everything that can be learned. Yes, there are so many ways to mess up our kids without even trying. The goal is to do more good than bad and try to tow the "good parent" line.  Most parents carry around a mental journal of all the things they endured, good and bad, from their own childhoods that they want to either teach their kids or end with them.  We all know that  we exemplify our parent's shortcomings in one way or another.  Our goal for our children is to do better than our parents did.

I know now, Nancy used a lot of our treadmill time as a pathway for introspection. She would talk about the discoveries she made about her kids behavior and then revealed how she and her husband consciously and subconsciously contributed to them. As my kids grow, I am glad I can take the lessons I learned from her and make my own journey into the land of introspection to learn how I can do better. How I can be a better model in not only my conscious behavior, but to be self aware enough to modify the other stuff, so maybe, just maybe, they can be the best of mediocre.  If that fails, I'll just blame my husband as I do for everything else.

 Map Quest This

For women, the day our internal GPS activates is when we enter into a committed relationship. That is the day the chores and duties of the household are divvied up and the GPS turns on. Suddenly, your partner is asking you where stuff is; their stuff, house stuff, and all stuff is now your responsibility.

When you have kids, 90% of your day is spent finding other people's stuff. The other 10% is finding the stuff that the kids took from you.

"Mom", Twin "R" comes to me, waving her hands around, doing her princess dance," I can't... find... my...Tinkerbell doll." Me, actually knowing where something is for a change, responds, "it is in your bed. Go get it." She responds, "it's... not... there."(agitated dancing). Meanwhile, she has not moved. She is still looking at me with her sweet little face expecting me to pull it out of thin air.  "But you didn't look", I say. "I did" she says quite emphatically stomping her feet as though that would help the argument.  I look at her wondering if she had an out of body experience in which she mentally teleported upstairs and could confirm her first statement. I say,"it's in your room, if you want it, go get it." and then she says, "you get it." Oh, no, not playing that with a 3 year old. "Excuse me?" (my older kids know that question is an invitation to "time out";the first sign in the road that they don't want to go down). "Come with me, please", she says. Impressed with her ability to negotiate a compromise, I agree and much to her surprise, it was in her bed.  And that, was an easy fight.

Not all quests for lost treasure end so well. Sometimes the girls come to me, and in their sweet little voices, ask me for stuff I can't comprehend. I ask them to repeat and all I get it "I can't...find...blahblahblah." (must envision that they are waving their hands to enunciate and dancing around like a drunk butterfly).  And then, I feel like I am a contestant on Jeopardy, the music is playing the audience is watching, the opponents are hoping that I fail, and I still have no clue what the coveted item of the moment is. "I'm sorry.", I say,(the audience groans), "mommy can't understand what you want."(cause all moms speak in third person). "Can you show me?" and then  child throws self on the floor with the whine that I'm sure all my neighbors can here. (Glad it's not summer. Window are open in summer. Sound travels in Summer. Hopefully my neighbor is already drunk.) I think to myself. "Vodka is in the cabinet", I hear the little voice in my head. Must ignore. Eye on prize. And then, I start guessing random toys they own that I have in my mental inventory. If I get to the point that I actually guess which toy, they look at me like, "it's about time moron. I am speaking English here."(said in NJ accent).  If I am no where close to finding the lost ark, I then dig deep and try redirection. I offer other toys, just to be shot down and given the "I'm so offended" face. In a sea of desperation, I offer the Strawberry Shortcake movies on Netflix. This is like crack to most 3/4 year old girls and even though the theme song makes me wish the liquor store sold vodka IV drips, I still offer it.

My favorite location requests come from the child who is seeking the object they just had in their hands. Really?!? "You just had it. Where did you put it?" And magically, poof, it just became my problem. They feel that once they told me the problem, their part was done. "Excuse me?" I tell them all the time, "it is not my job to find your stuff." But, they're not buying that at all. Somehow, they know what the mommy manual says and I am mistaken.  They just have the expectation that I will magically tell them where their possessions are; like it is part of my DNA. 

I am convinced the dryer troll who eats all the single socks, has an extended family that includes the "action figure appendage eater", "doll shoe troll," "anything Dora eater", "Fairy troll", and "Video game/DVD snacker". We have had to teach the children how to properly address our action figures wounded in action. "He is amputee Captian America. Make him play nice with Decapitated Wolverine." "Dora is happier barefoot. "The fairies are busy making things beautiful." (That one failed big time) Must remember that toddlers want things NOW!!!!!!). And now that the boys have Legos, those pieces are so tiny, the vacuum is the likely cause of their disappearance. When things cannot be located when they are wanted, it is an invitation for any child to melt. Although I have organized their crap in an orderly way, nothing can compete with a whirl wind of tornadoes leaving massive chaos.

Eventually, most things pop up, sometimes right in front of you and sometimes among the dust bunnies under someone's bed. Now that the boys are older, I send them on "search parties" armed with flashlights to venture under their beds in search of the lost DS cartridges, cars, action figures and whatever else they own and maybe hadn't realized was missing yet. Those expeditions are usually quite fruitful. But yet, there are the assorted items that slip into the twilight zone. Disappeared, never to be found again. As long as it is not my stuff, I'm really ok with that. Even my GPS has it's limits.

Potty Training: Not for Wussies-repost

When any parent announces that their kid will begin potty training, what they are really saying is,"my life is going to be hell. I just signed up for boot camp and until this kid has success, my life is going to suck. It is going to challenge me in ways I never knew and I cannot fail. It is my parental obligation to get this kid to use the potty. I will not fail. I will be a winner and be among the millions, billions, who have crossed that bridge before me. If they can do it, so can I. God help me".

And with "We Are The Champions" playing in your head, you walk up to your 2/3 year old and say, "hey, I want you to meet my friend the potty." Child looks up at you and then runs away faster than Flash could even dream of, then disappears under a piece of furniture you had no idea they could fit under. And that, my friend, is the first time your child said "HELLLLLLL NO" to you.

So you go online, read blogs, take DVD's out of the library and realize that none of it works for your situation. You begin to wonder if your child was Houdini in a past life the way they can disappear when you just mention the word "potty". You beat yourself up and start to lose your mind and then the one thing the kid was trying to tell you all along becomes clear: They are not ready yet.

You put the project on hold and refrain from punching anyone in the face who is bragging about "how easy" it is to potty train their kid and anyone who asks you how boot camp is going. "F-U people, boot camp sucks. Your child is just a product of your OCD ways. I know you duct-taped that kid to the potty." You let yourself go online to research adult diapers and buy a few rolls of duct tape, just in case, of course.

Over the next few months, you approach, re-approach and dangle fancy rewards in front of them, just hoping that something, (please god, anything) works. And then, one day, they comply. They agree to sit on the potty for whatever it is you offered them, (hoping you didn't promise them a small island somewhere) and you have to shake your head because you are in shock. "Did I hear that right? kid is not under the sofa. Oh my, they are PULLING THEIR PANTS DOWN". (cue Queen). Ok, 1/2 second on the potty counts. You can have that Island off the coast of Africa, Madagascar?, sure. 

You start the child on a schedule, you set the timer for every half hour and take off their diapers hoping, just hoping, they don't challenge the stain guard on the new carpet.  You load up on teddy grahams and every time that timer goes off, after thinking "already?", you put that kid on the potty. After two days, you want to get a baseball bat and smash that timer in a million pieces. You are feeling erratic with this new schedule, but the kid is just sitting on the potty for cookies. THERE IS NO OUTPUT. ANYWHERE.  News flash: the kid is working you. They have figured out that to get the reward, all they have to do is sit on the potty. No output required. That is when you have to up the ante and require output for reward. Be it cookies, M&M's, crack, whatever.

The kid responds one of two ways, they agree or tell you "hell no". What you realize after you've upped the ante, is that now you have to do more too. To get the kid to sit there and produce output, you have to sit there and encourage output. So, you get some books, toys and electronics and sit with them. (But be careful with electronics on the potty. My #1 murdered an ipod that way and I learned from the Apple store that more electronics are dropped in the potty each year than you would think, but I digress.)

Days, weeks to follow, you watch your kid like a hawk, (if you have multiple children, a distracted hawk) hoping you can identify the "pre-I-have-to -go-potty-dance", before it turns into, "I-got-to-go-potty-dance", to "I-am-peeing-myself-dance". You clean up accidents, encourage and celebrate successes. 

With all five kids, they were remarkably different. Kids with Autism have a much more difficult time than their typical peers just because many have transition issues. Imagine doing something your entire life and then one day you have to change. This is exactly what potty training is. You are now telling them what was previously acceptable is no longer an option.

We started #1 on the potty at age three, but he didn't have pottying autonomy until age five. With #2, we started at three and by age four he had pottying autonomy but was in a diaper at night for another year and a half. #3 fought us and outright refused. We attempted multiple times with a variety of rewards and nothing worked more than a day. What we learned from him was that he was the captain of his own ship; he wasn't going to do what you wanted no matter what the reward. It was not until we threatened to put him on the potty every 10 minutes,(that was fun) and we did that for a day, he decided to do it on his own.(he was 5.) No night accidents, he just did it. Control was his issue.

The girls....a different breed entirely.

Twin "R' sashays into the room singing, "mommy, I have to go pee-peeeeeees". "Ok", I say," go do it". She replies and her song turn to whine, "no, you come with me." (What are you the queen and want to receive an audience). As she is on the potty, Twin "S' makes her announcement, "I have to go too." (Identical twins. Biology doesn't lie). We are at the point where I am just monitoring autonomous or quasi-autonomous behavior. At almost four, they are just a pull-up at night team and really good during the day. They just want to hold court when they go.

In the end, potty training boot camp varies from kid to kid. you may hear the victory song quickly or it may take years. And when all is done, you're just glad you've made it through. And now that you're not buying diapers, you have more money for beer. Cheers!

"I picked out my car"

When I woke up Saturday morning to get the boys ready for ice hockey, I saw my #2 already awake sitting in front of his computer. I went into the garage to get the hockey bags, and he came in to help. As he grabbed his bag, he said, "Mom, it will only be 6 more years until I can drive a car."
I replied, "you are 8, it is more like 8 more years." (it is 7:15 am, he is 8. Am I really having this conversation?)

"Well", he continued, as I put his equipment on, "I was online designing my car."  "What kind of car were you designing?", I asked. "A BMW", he replied, "I had a choice of two doors, four doors, and a van like yours. I picked the two door." He went on to describe the option packages he wanted. "How much is the car?", I asked . "$44,000", he answered. "I also designed two Honda's. They were $22,000." I asked him, "So what does that tell you? You can get two Honda's for the price of a BMW."  He nodded, laughed, and continued, "I also designed a Hyundai, like dad's and a jeep. But, I liked the BMW the best.""Of course you did." I say, "A BMW is a premium driving machine. But rule number one states, that you can't have a better car than your parents unless you buy one for me after you have bought one for yourself." (How early did this kid get up to be able to design five cars before 7:15am?).

Later that day, I walked into the family room and saw #2 on the computer. As soon as he saw me, he closed his computer, grabbed it and started up the stairs. "I'm gonna use the computer in my room" he said. "Oh no", I said to myself. The story my good friends told me about one of their sons watching porn on his iphone in the middle of the living room came to mind. "Computer check", I told him, and then he began to melt. I  thought,"oh no, what is he watching." The more he protested the more I worried. Finally, I told him that I wouldn't be angry but I needed to know what he is looking at. Reluctantly and shame-faced,  he told me,"I was designing another car."

"OH, THANK GOD!" I thought to myself, and I couldn't help but laugh at the sheer cuteness of that moment. He looked confused. I told him, "You're not in trouble. You just need to be honest and ask permission next time."  I  explained the meaning of "proactive", how he needs to ask permission to do things instead of being "reactive", getting into trouble because he didn't ask. I explained what personal information is and the importance of not sharing it anywhere.

My relieved child smiled, and showed the me Cube Car he designed,(car #6). As he added on all his extras, he asked us about the difference between leasing and financing. That is when dad took over and explained. "Leasing is paying to borrow the car; You have to give it back after three years. Financing is buying something when you don't have the money. So, you wind up paying more for the car by the time you pay back all the money." #2 nodded his head, and I watched another fact being absorbed by his brain.

"Ya know, 2", I said, "cars change so much over the years, who knows what kind of cars will be available when you drive." "Yea mom", he said. "And maybe by then, I will be designing my own"." He smiled the biggest, goofy smile and went back to designing.