Category Archives: Parenting

Monkey Has Left The Building

Posted on November 3, 2011 | 171 comments

photo by Traci Bunkers @ http://www.TraciBunkers.com

“I don’t like it anymore,” my son said, right before he took an enormous bite out of an enormous apple.

“What?”

He held up one finger to indicate that his mouth was full, a gesture he learned from me.

“This Monkey business. I’ve outgrown it.”

I’ve been waiting for this moment since my son started middle school.

Last year.

But now that he is finishing his first semester of 7th grade, he has decided that Monkey is no longer a good fit for him.

Forget about the fact that he actually looks exactly like Curious George.

If Curious George had freckles.

Forget about the fact that after he gets a brush cut, his hairline looks exactly like a little baby monkey’s.

Forget about the fact that he is sproingy like a monkey.

The reality is that Monkey is done being Monkey.

“So can I just start calling you by your real name?”

“Noooooo!” my son shrieked in his high-pitched I’m-in-the-midst-of-puberty-and-my-voice-but-my-voice-hasn’t-changed-yet timbre.

“Well, get to thinking,” I told my boy. “I have to call you something.

After he completed three hours of homework — ten algebra problems, a Spanish worksheet on conjugating verbs, some science worksheet on density, mass and volume, a social studies worksheet on Chapter 2, Section 4, and an English thingy where he had to read something and write a response (note: he keeps me out of the English loop) — he went downstairs to practice piano and then returned upstairs to practice for his bar-mitzvah.

Around 6 pm, he put all his books away and wandered into the kitchen where I was making dinner.

“Tech Support?”

“What about tech support?” I asked absently as I popped a black olive in my mouth while pouring marinade over that night’s chicken.

“That’s what you should call me.”

I looked at him blankly.

“You know, for your blog?” He picked up an olive and popped it into his mouth.

“That’s actually pretty good…”

“It’s good because it’s true,” he said.

Little bastard is right. He will always be my little Monkey, but over the last year, our conversations involve my screaming for his assistance because something has happened to my Excel Spread sheet formula, and I don’t know how to fix it. So he fixes it for me. Or I want to do a Power Point presentation, but I don’t know how to set it up. So he sets it up for me. Or I want to change the banner on blog but that involves Gimp and multiple layers, and I don’t know how to do that. So he does it for me. In 6.3 minutes. For years, he has been my IT guy: my fixer, my assistant.

I am starting to think I should pay him.

While I was thinking these things, my 12-year old son said aloud (to absolutely no one): “I will detach your head from your body!”

Looking around the room, I declared, “Wow, you are the King of the non-sequitor.”

“I know,” he smiled. “And yes, I know what a non-sequitor is.”

We both popped olives in our mouths and, as I finished the dinner prep, my son moved to the pantry in search of something that would be ready to eat sooner than the chicken.

Finding nothing, he moved to the freezer.

Which is empty.

Because it has been broken for one week now.

My son stuck his head deep inside the icemaker. From the depths of the freezer, I heard my son’s voice. It was deeper than usual. Distorted from being inside the freezer, he sounded like someone else: a man.

“I really want a frozen pretzel,” this man said, “When are we going to get our freezer fixed?”

“As soon as I get some.”

“Some what?” he turned to look at me, 12-years old again.

I smiled and popped another olive in my mouth, held up my finger and made him wait.

“Tech Support.”

What nicknames did you call your children? Have they changed over the years? What little changes have signaled your child is growing up?

171 Comments

Posted in Freshly Pressed, Parenting

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To Get Up or to Zzzzzzzz

Posted on October 21, 2011 | 45 comments
alarm clock, bought from IKEA

Image via Wikipedia

Monkey started 7th grade this year. When I think back to 7th grade, I recall I awoke each morning at 6:30 AM with the help of my digital alarm clock which I had carefully set to 62 WHEN the night before.

Once showered, I made myself breakfast — either a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal or a bagel with cream cheese — and by 7:15 AM, I quietly walked into my parents’ bedroom, took four quarters from my father’s dresser (with his permission), so I could buy lunch. I then kissed my mother and my father who were sprawled in their king-sized bed beneath a giant comforter. I was generally met by sleepy sounds, sometimes a little muttering, and bad breath; it was a daily routine, and it worked. They got a good night’s rest, and I got to watch The New Zoo Revue on our 7” black and white television, uninterrupted, for about a half an hour.

Eventually, depending on the weather, I put on the most appropriate outdoor coat — if it was cold, I popped on mittens and a hat. Since UGGS had not yet been invented and boots were totally uncool in 1978, I always wore my clogs. From there, I made opened the front door carrying whatever I might have brought home for homework (read: nothing) and walked about 1/4 mile from my parents’ little house to the closest bus stop and waited with a cluster of other neighborhood kids.

Fast-forward 30 years. Monkey completes a similar ritual where he wakes, dresses, makes his breakfast, gathers his stuff — paper stars, drawings of dragons, pencils, books, two huge binders filled with worksheets and completed homework — and crams it all into his backpack.

I hear Monkey moving around starting at 6:20 AM, and I stick my pillow over my head. Unlike my parents who stayed in bed, confident in my organizational abilities — or never really even thought about if I had everything I needed or not — I feel totally guilty for staying in bed. I mean I suppose I could drag myself downstairs at that unseemly hour, but I am just so dang tired.

And warm.

I don’t know why I feel I should go downstairs and smooch Monkey before he leaves the house. Maybe I feel like I should make sure his clothes match – because he’s not very good at that. Or maybe I feel I should check to make sure that his hair is brushed – because, to be honest, he is pretty lax in that area, too. Maybe it’s his teeth I’m worried about. You know, I just like to make sure that he in minty-fresh before he heads out the door because, again, the whole hygiene thing is currently not his forte.

I don’t do this though.

So typically Monkey does just what I used to do. He comes upstairs to announce he is leaving.

Except some days, he doesn’t.

Some days, the kids he walks with show up at our sliding glass doors and I hear the glass doors roll across the floor followed by a slam. I lie there, imagining him walking down the back steps, towards the enormous school that looms in our backyard. (I know it was designed to look like a dairy farm; still, it looms.)

On those days, I miss him.

My husband wonders what is wrong with me.

He says I should be thrilled that we have raised an independent person who can make cereal and bagels and waffles and eggs and (sometimes) remembers to brush his teeth and hair.

And I am.

But it doesn’t mean I’m not working against some weird maternal energy that wants to “just check” on him.

My parents never sweated over this stuff.

At what age did your parents step out of the picture so you could start doing things independently? How are you about completely stepping out of the picture? And more importantly, what morning TV shows did you watch while your parents were sleeping?
© Renée Schuls-Jacobson 2011. All rights reserved.

45 Comments

Posted in Memoir, Parenting

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What Not To Read When Your Child’s Fish Tank Has Ich

Posted on October 7, 2011 | 33 comments

Here we go again.

To review for those of you who might be late to the party:

We failed Goldfish-101. (So we squished three googly-eyed goldfish into one tiny bowl without a bubbler or filter? What’s your point?)

We failed at Puppy-101. (After two weeks with the puppy formerly-known-as-Mojo, Rubie now resides with my husband’s brother and my sister-in-law.)

We failed at Kitty-101. (Right at the three-week point, just as we had all fallen sufficiently in love with him, our fabulous polydactyl cat’s dander caused my husband’s allergies to go haywire, so Hemingway had to go back to Habitat for Cats.)

That was a heart-breaker.

The other night, I was informed that every one of Monkey’s brand new tropical fish – in his brand new tank is either dead or contaminated with something called Ichthyophthirius or Ich.

I don’t know; it’s some kind of parasite or something.

Ick.

I’ve said this before, but no one seems to want to listen to me.

The Lord clearly does not want us to have pets.

We are great with houseplants and lawn maintenance.

My husband can grow a mean tomato.

But pets?

Not so much.

So while Husband was feverishly Googling “How to make Ich Disappear,” Monkey was a little mopey.

He had dared to name his fish, so he was more than a little bummed about Hoodie and Mad, Derpy and Silverstein and The Something Brothers.

I went to his bedroom to console him, and offered to read him a book,

He wanted something short.

Something light.

I picked this.

“Really mom?” Monkey said, “A book about animals with spots?”

In hindsight, perhaps not the most sensitive selection.

Returning the book to his shelf, I grabbed another.

I hardly looked at it.

Hubby came upstairs then and adjusted the temperature in the tank to 86 degrees.

He announced that Ich can be killed if you increase the temperature, but that the tank would need treatment too.

You know, because the parasite is all over everything. The rocks, the plants.

I hate parasites. How they get all over everything like that. They are so nervy.

Anyway, Hubby saw the book I was preparing to read.

Excellent choice,” he said, “One Fish, Two fish, Red fish, Dead Fish.”

We all laughed.

Because pathos can be funny.

Especially when it rhymes.

Hubby and I smooched our son and told him we’d work on things in the morning.

Meanwhile, I ran downstairs and hopped onto Facebook to discuss the issue.

My friend Melissa reminded me of those dog collars they used to have at fairs.

You know, the ones that have a little harness and make it look like you are walking a dog?

Only there isn’t a dog.

Because that is what we need.

An invisible pet.

And to the person who joked that we need to get a pet rock?

We had one.

His name was Rocky.

We lost him.

(Which reminds me, we failed at cyber pet ownership, too.)

Yeah, I am pretty sure we are at invisible.

Can you think of other things that would be insensitive (read: really funny) to sing/read/watch/do when your kid has a fish tank contaminated by a funky parasite?

Tweet this Twit @RASJacobson

33 Comments

Posted in Humor, Parenting

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My Son’s First Concert

Posted on September 9, 2011 | 74 comments
The Very Best of Steely Dan: Reelin' In the Years

Image via Wikipedia

When my husband suggested we take our 12-year old son to see Steely Dan, live, in concert, I tried to gently suggest it might be a bad idea.

“He’ll love it,” Hubby insisted, in that clueless way that husbands sometimes insist on things.

What Hubby really meant was: “I want to see Steely Dan in concert.”

We were not trying to punish our son, but to a child who has a strong preference for techno, I’m pretty sure three hours with Donald Fagen and Walter Becker felt like something akin to water-boarding.

Here is the way the night played out in numbers:

6. PM: the time we left our house so we would get “good” parking.

10. Dollars spent so we could park as close to the exit as humanly possible.

22. Minutes spent in the bathroom for Break #1. This is where Monkey first learned that women’s lines really are 3 times slower than men’s.

30. The difference in the number of years between Monkey’s age and the age of the average concert goer.

5. Dollars spent for a sleeve of kettle corn in an attempt to distract Monkey from noticing the balding men and folks in wheelchairs toting oxygen tanks.

8. PM: The time Steely Dan was supposed to start playing. Except they didn’t. The opening band was a whacked-out jazz ensemble featuring a bass guitar, a drummer and an organist.

2. Number of songs Monkey sat through before he decided he needed to go to the bathroom.

Again.

87. Degrees Fahrenheit outside as people filed in under the shell to take their seats.

9. PM. The time Steely Dan actually started their show. Monkey and I were in the bathroom, so we missed the beginning of the opening number. We returned to our seats where Hubby  pointed to the four vacant seats in front of us. “Awesome!” he shouted, sticking his thumbs up.

Our "awesome view" of the man in front of us.

Suddenly, the incarnation of Andre the Giant arrived and sat right in front of us. He was 8 feet tall, and his head was bowling bowl big. His cranium completely eclipsed our view.

Oh, and Andre brought his wife Chatty McChatter and her friend Ima B. Talkintoo.

Monkey tolerated 3 more songs before he asked to go to the bathroom.

Again.

Once outside, my boy confessed he didn’t like the music. The lights were too bright. He couldn’t see anything. He was getting a headache from the people in front of us who wouldn’t stop talking. I suggested we go to the darkest, blackest, most deserted corner of the lawn and lie down on the grass. I rubbed my son’s hair, which had grown long. I looked at the clouds which appeared gray in the night sky.

“Sixty-three!” said Monkey.

“What?” I asked.

“I counted 63 people playing with their phones.” And he was right. Everywhere I looked, people’s phones flickered like little rectangular fireflies as folks plugged into their favorite apps. The sight actually made me a little sad. I mean, I remember going to concerts and really watching. Really listening.

Monkey sniffed the air a few times which smelled like freshly cut grass – if your lawn was a giant field of green, sticky-bud marijuana.

“What is that stink?” my boy asked.

So while Hubby enjoyed the music, I got to school our child about marijuana. And concerts. And how they sometimes go together. Monkey looked for the source of the smell and found we were surrounded. Monkey announced he did not like the smell. I told him he did not have to. That smoking pot was not a requirement for going to concerts.

As the show wound down, Steely Dan played “Dirty Work,” a personal favorite of mine.

When the song ended, Monkey didn’t clap.

“It would be fake clapping.”

On the way home, Hubby asked if there was one thing about the concert that Monkey had liked.

“Having it end,” our son said unapologetically and fell asleep in the backseat.

Monkey will probably not remember his first concert. He will more likely remember the 16 mosquito bites he acquired from lying on the lawn without a blanket.

It’s okay; he has a whole lifetime to see concerts by musicians he really likes; to laugh in the darkness with friends; to cuddle on a blanket with someone he cares about and smooch while a fabulous song plays in the background.

On an up-note, I’m thinking that the number of times Hubby will question my judgment about things like this in the future: 0.

What was your first concert? Do you remember who you saw? What else do you remember about the experience? Or what was the worst show you ever attended? How underwhelmed were you? Explain.

74 Comments

Posted in Parenting

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Roots & Wings

Posted on August 26, 2011 | 44 comments
The Golisano College of Computing and Informat...

Image via Wikipedia

Way back in December, a brochure made its way into my house advertising a summer kids’ camp at the Rochester Institute of Technology. Monkey read it hungrily and announced that he really wanted to take a computer programming class.

I heard him but I left the information on the back burner.

On a very low simmer.

Because I didn’t want Monkey to spend two weeks inside with eleventy-zillion computer screens. Lord knows our summers in New York State are short enough as it is. So I didn’t really jump on it.

But Monkey was relentless.

(I don’t know where he gets it.)

After weeks of daily questioning, he wore me down and I signed him up so for the desired two-week session. For two weeks, five hours a day, my child sat in a college classroom learning how to use Adobe Flash to create a computer video game.

And he loved every minute of it.

In the car on the way home each afternoon, he talked (mostly to himself) about “code” and “servers” and “syntax errors” and “unnecessary right braces before end of program” and other things I did not understand.

On the first day of the second week Monkey said: “You don’t have to walk me in.”

I looked at my 11-year-old son. He assured me I could just drop him off at the curb, that he knew just where to go “on-campus.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and kissed me on my nose, an old ritual since his pre-school days.

I let him go.

I wasn’t worried about him, but I didn’t drive away so quickly. For some reason, the moment felt kind of monumental. I watched my son’s slim body move further and further away from me until he was so far up the path that I almost couldn’t differentiate him from another student. Eventually, Monkey (or maybe it was the other kid) opened one of the two heavy doors to the brick and glass Tom Golisano Building for Computing and Information Science and disappeared without even looking back.

I imagined my son graduating from high school and heading off to college in five years time. And never looking back.

Later that week Monkey asked me if he had to finish middle and high school or if he could just skip ahead to college.

(This from a child who still doesn’t know how to properly use a comma.)

I, of course popped into teacher mode. I explained to him that, while he might excel in computer technology, he still needs to learn about literature and history, to continue to work on his writing and language skills – because otherwise there would be holes in his educational fabric.

“Right now, school is helping to weave a tapestry in your brain,” I said. “But that tapestry is only partially created. If you stop going to school or skip the subjects that don’t appeal to you, it would be like enormous moths attacked the tapestry and chewed giant holes into it.”

Monkey was quiet so I kept going. “You need a know a lot of different types of knowledge before you go to college. And you are going to need to understand how those types of knowledge are interconnected…”

Monkey interrupted. “Mom, I’m kidding!” He patted my hand in mock reassurance. “Don’t be so serious.”

Oy.

I know it’s a parent’s job to give a child roots and wings. And Monkey has got ’em.

I just didn’t think he would want to fly off so fast.

If your child wanted to pursue year-round school academics, would you encourage him/her to do so? Or do you feel taking time off to relax during the summer is important?

44 Comments

Posted in Education, Parenting, Technology

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Gazpacho for Muchacho

Posted on August 22, 2011 | 37 comments
Gazpacho (Spanish liquid tomato salad).

Gazpacho (Spanish liquid tomato salad). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yesterday, it was a warm, breezy summer night and our family was having  supper outside at our heavy black wrought-iron table, under our umbrella in the backyard. It was a light meal: a little bread, some cheese and fresh fruit. And gazpacho.

When we finished, Monkey pushed his chair back from the table and patted his tummy.

“Mom,” he said, “I’ll bet no matter how old I am, whenever I think of summer, I’ll always think of your gazpacho.”

And before I could smile and say how good that made me feel, to think that I could feed him something healthy that he would forever associate with a specific time of year and –perhaps, maybe — a place and a feeling of family, he added: “And now that I’m thinking about it, can you give me a recipe? Because one day you’ll be dead, and I want to be sure I know how to make it!”

Ahhh boys.

So sensitive.

I know Monkey meant his words as a compliment. And I know he loves my gazpacho — which is really a recipe from my old friend Allison. When we lived in New Orleans, she made her recipe one summer and I remember reacting just like Monkey. It is divine. For me, Allison’s gazpacho is all about hanging out with teacher friends during the off-season.

Here’s the Allison’s Gazpacho Recipe for those of you who love easy meals:

  • 2 cucumbers, reserve about 4 tablespoons
  • 1 bell pepper
  • 1 large red onion
  • 1 small can black pitted olives (drain the juice)
  • 2-3 tablespoons olive oil
  • 2-3 tablespoons red wine vinegar
  • dash of Lea & Perrins
  • 1 bottle of V-8 (I use regular; some people like it hot)
  • dash of Tabasco sauce

Put all ingredients into a food processor in order listed, pulsing gently — until you get to V-8. Pour V-8 and Tabasco into a gorgeous tureen, then add all the ingredients from the food processor. Garnish each bowl with a few cucumber chunks. Let sit 1 hour in fridge to chill. Serve cold. Easily serves 8-10 people.

What food(s) do you associate with summer? What do you see? Feel?

37 Comments

Posted in New Orleans, Parenting

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What to Do If Your Kid Says “I’m Bored”

Posted on July 25, 2011 | 76 comments
Toilet in german theater munich

Image via Wikipedia

It only takes once.

If your child says, “I’m bored,” this summer, here’s what you do.

First get all worked up into a thrilled frenzy. Then, in the most madly excited voice you can muster say:

“You are! Because I have the best thing for you to do, and I was just waiting for you to say you wanted to do something new.”

Take your bored child gently by the hand and guide him to the bathroom.

(Ed. note: *The brush needs to be there already or else he will try to escape.*)

Have your child stand before the toilet and hand him the brush.

(Ed. Note: *You must gush here. Very important to ooze gush.*)

Start swirling.

At first, your child might like this activity, especially after you add all the bubbly cleaning supplies and let him swish them around – but after a short while, as we all know, this task loses its magic.

He will want to stop.

When he moans or complains or asks to stop, look positively bewildered.

(*Seriously, you must appear profoundly confused. Furrow your brow, but only briefly. We don’t want to leave wrinkles.*)

“But you said you were bored…”

Don’t forget to remind your child that you have X more toilets to clean if you hear him say he is bored again.

Ever.

Monkey has not said “I’m bored” since he was 4-years old.

On a down note, for the last 7 years, I have been the Chief Cleaner of all Things Porcelain.

What tactics do you employ when your child complains that he or she is bored in the summer?

• • •

Today marks my 200th post. To show how much I love the folks who comment and to make sure you are not bored, I have a fun little exercise: If you leave a comment on today’s post, I will create a fabulously fun post which will share how we met. Of course, all the content will be a lie. That’s right, I will create a piece of fabulous fiction to include each one of you. If you have a blog, I will even show you some linky-love. So let’s have a little fun! If you’ve never left a comment before, this is the day to do it!

76 Comments

Posted in Humor, Parenting

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Dirty Movies For Tweens

Posted on July 18, 2011 | 67 comments
Dude, Where's My Car?

Image via Wikipedia

It’s summer. We’ve had a lot of 11 to 12-year-old boys hanging around the house. When it’s raining, they become basement dwellers playing ping-pong or Legos and K’Nex or Wii. I hear their mutterings.

Not long ago, one of Monkey’s friends was over. Let’s call him Steve-o. (Note, Monkey’s friend’s name is not Steve-o, but he was trying really hard to be cool, and I find that when you add an “o” to anyone’s name, it sometimes achieves that affect. Not always, but sometimes. Try it.)

So Steve-o’s talking about movies he’d recently seen. He announces that he’d just seen Dude, Where’s My Car?

Monkey had never heard of it.

Dude, Where’s My Car? is about two dudes who get totally wasted and forget where they parked their car.

That’s pretty much it. That’s the basic premise.

How do I know this? Because hubby and I once rented it.

(Let the judgment begin. I can take it.)

I feel compelled to tell you a little more about this flick, so if you had big plans to rent it, this is your chance to skip the rest of this post and just answer the question in blue at the bottom.

Monkey’s friend forgot to mention that during the course of the movie, things get a little sci-fi. Not my favorite genre. So, it’s kind of hard for me to recall all the details of the movie because I got up a few times to wash dishes and organize the condiments in the refrigerator, but the stoners meet these gorgeous, large-breasted, female aliens. And honestly, I have no problem with that. Especially when they are wearing really tight, black jumpsuits. Because seriously, that’s hot and what else would gorgeous aliens wear?

That said, I’d imagine this part of the film is probably a lot steamier if one has experienced puberty.

Anyway, the stoners also run into these weirdos who have some kind of Continuum Transfiguration machine cleverly disguised as a Rubik’s cube that accidentally gets activated and, of course, can potentially destroy the universe.

Ninety-six percent of women reading this are rolling their eyes.

This is when I started folding laundry.

Hubby was digging the flick.

At the end the movie, the stoners (of course) save the universe, and they even find their car. Oh, and the aliens erase everyone’s memories (of course) but leave gifts for the stoners’  girlfriends which are actually for our young slackers’ enjoyment: breast enhancement necklaces.

Okay, fine. Whatever.

As we ate our respective salads, I asked Monkey’s pal, “So Steve-o, do you think that movie is appropriate for people your age?”

Steve-o hesitated. “I’m not really sure. I mean my parents didn’t know my little brother and I were watching it. We just downloaded it from Netflix to the Wii.”

I didn’t even know that was possible.

(Note to self: Figure out how to not make that happen.)

Steve-o continued, “It did have a transsexual stripper in it so maybe it’s not for really little kids. But it sure was funny.” He smiled to himself. Then he looked up at me in all earnestness and said, “At least it was funny until my dad caught us. I’ll probably never know how that movie ends.”

Realizing he’d never know the planet was saved, I felt kinda bad for Steve-o.

I wondered should I tell him about the Breast Enhancement Necklaces.

Instead, I stuck a big forkful of salad in my mouth. You know, to silence myself.

What is the most inappropriate movie you have ever caught your children watching? Or you watched (or tried to watch) as a kid?

67 Comments

Posted in Humor, Parenting

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I’m in Manitoba Visiting Ironic Mom, Eh!

Posted on July 13, 2011 | 20 comments

I’m guest-posting at Ironic Mom today!

Back in June, Ironic Mom (aka: Leanne Shirtliffe) held a big, exciting contest called “What’s in a Name?” in honor of her 200th post where she discussed how people have butchered, screwed around with, and twisted her name which has kept her entertained for decades.

I could totally relate.

I told her my story here.

And then she told me I won here!

I felt so special!

Then I learned she had used a Random Number Generator to determine the winner.

But privately, she told me she was really psyched I had won.

So that was cool.

As the recipient of the Grand Prize, I got to post on Leanne’s blog.

(Um, Leanne has like 10,237 followers, so I’m hoping some of her people fall in love with me.)

So, my shizz is in Canada today.

Ironic Mom's Place: Home of Thing 1 & Thing 2

Seriously, I’m at Ironic Mom’s today, where she is vacationing in Manitoba.

Click on the picture, and you’ll be there in like one second.

I hope you’ll read my piece and comment over there.

Or here.

Or both.

Either way.

It’s all good.

For those of you who do not reside in Canada, you do not even have to have a valid Passport or go through Customs or anything.

So hooray for hockey and Queen Elizabeth, beavers and Biebers, maple leaves and Mounties.

And all things Canadian.

Especially Ironic Mom.

20 Comments

Posted in Parenting

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Monkey is Blogging

Posted on July 7, 2011 | 19 comments

Last June, Monkey and I worked out an agreement. If I bought him the world’s most awesome double barrel water-gun, he promised that he would continue to practice playing piano, reading Hebrew and honing his writing skills over the summer. The first two were easy. The third was harder, but really important to me. I have seen how long summer vacations — while wonderful — can cause kids’ brains to mushify. I didn’t want him to forget his skills.

In an effort to capitalize on Monkey’s innate love for all things technological, I suggested that he start a blog. After all, last May my own blog was in its infancy, and I figured we could sit side-by-side and write together. It was a romantic notion.

“How long would these posts need to be?” the pragmatic Monkey asked.

“Just write as much as you need to say whatever it is you need to say,” I said cheerfully in an intentionally vague way.

Monkey is a Math/Science guy: not a fan of the “intentionally vague.”

He attempted to clarify. “So 150 words?”

“Sure,” I said, figuring any writing he did was better than none at all.

Then Monkey attempted to up the ante. “But I don’t have to write you when I’m at overnight camp.”

“What?” I challenged, a little miffed. “You definitely still have to write me when you are at camp. For goodness sakes, I would like to know what you are doing when you’re away for three weeks!”

“Okay,” Monkey relented, “but only one letter a week,” he said. “That’s three letters in 21 days. You get that, right?”

Thank you, Math/Science Monkey.

“Fine,” I countered, “But in the meantime, you have to make sure that every blog includes correct spelling, proper punctuation and some kind of image or video — for the reader’s interest.

“Fine,” Monkey agreed.

We shook hands like lawyers.

So this year Monkey is blogging again. And while last year, he wanted his blog to be “our secret,” this year, he wants readers. I told him I would pitch his blog — if he agreed to up his word count to 200 words per post.

So here I am, doing my part.

Only he seems to have forgotten his end of the bargain, seeing as his first post had only 157 words.

What’s a momma to do? 😉

Anyway, if you’d like to check out the inner-workings of the mind of an 11-year-old boy, click here.

If you’d like to subscribe to his blog, I can guarantee you there will only be six entries as he heads off to overnight camp at the end of July.

How do you keep your kids writing over the summer? Or do you just let them shut down?

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