So, I need advice from the nail biters among you. Cody has been biting his nails since he was a tiny thing. They now look like this:

The nails are just about halfway gone and yet, he continues to bite them! We’ve had discussions about the necessity of him stopping, or he won’t have any nails left, but he still does it. When I see him biting, I remind him to stop, but my guess it that a lot of this goes on, without him even being aware, during school. Short of forcing him to wear gloves all day (I’m sure that wouldn’t create cause for ridicule by his classmates at all) or soaking his fingertips in vinegar (he hates the smell), what can I do? Will he chew away everything that’s left if given enough time?

Any advice, thoughts or help would be greatly appreciated!

No comment on the misspelled last name.(He and I have been over it many times.)

As I began reading the writing journal, which contains tiny gems in both pictures and phonetically-spelled words, I said, “Awwwwwww…” out loud when I got to this one:

My translation: The most important manners is always be kind. Being kind is nice. It is fun too. I like being kind.

What elicited the “Awwwwww…” from me was the picture, in which Logan drew himself opening a door for other people and saying, “Ladies go first.”

“What?” said Logan, who was sitting across from me, doing his homework and heard my sigh.

“That’s so gentlemanly of you,” I said, showing him the picture.

“Aw, Mom, you’re making me dashful,” he said.

“Dashful?” I echoed.

“Yeah, you know, when you’re embarrassed? You’re dashful,” he explained.

“Oh, you mean BASHFUL,” I corrected.

“Yeah, DASHFUL,” he nodded.

All of these factors came crashing together last night when Cody flung the door to my office open, on the verge of tears, clutching the book I had tucked him in with nearly an hour beforehand. The book was this:

Cody has become so fascinated with history, particularly ancient Egypt, I purchased this book for his birthday in August. It’s a really cool book, with tons of fast facts and illustrations about different ancient civilizations, designed for kids ages 8-12, though I spent a happy while flipping through it. (Incidentally, right now, Amazon also has it at a bargain price of $8.)

Back to the story, Cody silently brought the book to my desk, laid it in carefully in front of me, and pointed to the five sentences and the small picture that had given his night such a bad turn.

The section was titled, “Human Sacrifice,” and it described how the Incas sacrificed people to their gods. The picture was of the remains of a sacrificed girl found in 1999.

I scanned the paragraph, not completely realizing how shaken he was. “Yep, that stuff happened,” I confirmed, trying to figure out how old the girl might have been. She seemed young.

I heard a choked sound and looked up to see tears forming in Cody’s eyes. “How could people do that?” he said, and burst into sobs.

I comforted him the best I could, hugging him tightly and assuring him that he was safe. It wasn’t fear that gripped him though; it was anguish over the capability of human beings to engage in such a horrific act.

“How can I forget about this?” he pleaded with me. “How will I be able to not be creeped out by it ever again?”

I knew just what he meant.

As I held him close, I remembered the moment I really understood what people could do to each other. It was probably quite a bit less dramatic, but equally powerful and disturbing. It was the very late 70s or very early 80s (yes, I’m dating myself) and I was fairly young. My mom was watching something on TV and I happened to come in the room just as on the screen a jilted wife walked into the room where her husband and his lover were in bed and shot them both point blank.

It haunted me for days. I think it was mostly the fact that it was a woman that fired the gun that really got to me. I found the scene horrifying and reprehensible, maybe because at that young age I perceived all women as nurturing and caring. It was shocking and horrible to me that anyone, much less a woman, could shoot someone else in cold blood like that.

I remember the feeling of losing my blind faith in humanity well. It was like tiny pinpricks all over my skin, yet complete and utter silence and stillness inside, allowing for only a very slow thump of my heart, making my breath catch and hold every time I thought of the scene I had witnessed. The scene that represented the loss of my innocence.

How can I unlearn this? I remember feeling, and that’s just what Cody was asking me. How do I cope with this knowledge that humans can be so evil?

I sighed. “You can’t forget,” I told him. “But it’ll get better. It will fade in time and it’ll become less and less upsetting.”

I comforted him a while longer, until his tears had subsided and he had a different, much more upbeat, book in hand.

“I just never knew people could do that,” he said, his voice full of sorrow and resignation.

“I know,” I said softly. ”I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry you found out. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more comforting to say. I’m so sorry for your loss.

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Is there a particular event in your and/or your child’s life that marks the time when you (or your child) understood what people could be capable of?

Perhaps the biggest relief? The cessation of hearing my name called so often each and every day that I began to tire of the sound of it quite early in the summer. Some days, it seemed like one of my four children was calling me every few minutes.

It’s also quite funny (and I don’t mean funny-ha-ha) how they seem to need me all at once, or at least 2 or 3 at once. Almost nothing drives me quite as crazy as multiple children yelling my name at the same time because then I don’t know with whom to start. Inevitably, someone is frustrated because I didn’t deal with her first.

“Moooooooooooommmmmmmmm!!!!!!!” I’d hear from downstairs, as yet another child, seemingly bent on getting my attention at the same time, would yell, “MOM!” from the next room.

When the reason for calling my name was something like, “Will you (come downstairs from your office where you are working, even though I’m sitting in the dining room, which is right next to the kitchen and) get me some milk (because I don’t want to actually have to get up to get it myself)?” it was hard not to be angry.

Sometimes I’d hear my name yelled so loudly and sharply over and over (one particular [male] offender comes to mind here) that I’d ignore the yeller just to make a point. I’ve told my kids over and over that they shouldn’t yell anyhow; that if they need something, they should come to me and ask. It’s funny (again, not funny-ha-ha) how often they evidently don’t need anything that badly because if I don’t respond to the above-mentioned yelling, it usually stops. I guess it’s too much trouble to actually walk up the stairs to talk to me.

Or else they come to the realization that it’s just easier to get the milk themselves then to spend all that energy trying to get me to do it and going hoarse in the process.

Do you have times when you feel like your kids are “taking your name in vain?”

Roughly an hour and a half later (yeah, I know, I’m not the most speedy shopper), as we dragged our tired selves over to the shoe section to find skids for the four of them for activity period, the boys had asked me a thousand times if we were done yet.

“Not yet,” I answered mechanically, also for the thousandth time, wishing I could somehow magically transport us all back home without having to actually drive the 40-minute trip. “We still have to get shoes.”

A tedious task at the best of times, finding shoes that each child would like when they were already cranky didn’t seem like a fun prospect at all. Our small town is notorious for having fairly small selections in terms of style, and even smaller selections for size. Unless a person doesn’t mind stopping at every store in town with four tired kids in tow, one must reconcile herself with the choices put in front of her.

The girls’ shoe hunt went fine. They were flexible with their selections and their size, finally the same as mine, was easy to find.

Phew.

So we traipsed over to the boys’ section and located the Spider-Man shoes. (If I haven’t mentioned it before, Cody is absolutely obsessed with Spider-Man and has been since he was about 3. Needless to say, Logan shares the fondness, though not nearly to the same extent as Cody.) I found a pair for Logan.

Perfect.

But there were no Spider-Man shoes available in Cody’s size.

“Shoot, Cody, I guess you’re going to have to pick something else,” I told him.

Before Cody could protest, Logan piped up in his helium-infused, 2-year-old-sounding voice:

“Cody, that’s OK. I won’t get Spider-Man shoes either since you can’t, because that wouldn’t be faaaaaaiiiiiiirrrrrrrr,” he said, drawing out the last word like he does when he’s intent on making a point.

And he didn’t. They each picked out Iron-Man shoes instead.

When I related this story to the kids’ uncle the next day, echoing my thoughts, he said, “You just can’t teach that, can you? They either have it, or they don’t.”

I’m so proud that Logan has it.

How have your kids impressed you with their innate personality traits? What do you admire the most about your child/ren?

My dear friend, Amy, a freelance writer who is currently fighting her second battle with breast cancer and has a gorgeously-written blog on the subject, It’s in the Genes, once told me that she gets crabby when she’s not writing regularly. At the time, I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, even though it was when I was working in the Herbalife club most of the time (and NOT writing) and I was, in fact, becoming crabbier and crabbier.

It has now been around a year since Amy’s crabby comment and I think I now finally and fully understand what she means. Even though it was crazy trying to blog every single day in May during the Blogathon, I was happier because writing brings me such joy. I know it may not seem that way, considering how often I have actually blogged since May, but I’m coming to terms with the fact that no matter how busy I am, I must, for my peace of mind and well-being, write for fun at least several times a week.

This probably stems from the pile of journals I started keeping at the age of 11, along with the stories, poetry and songs I was always penning. Writing is a huge component of who I am, and that’s something I need to remember, not stifle.

Truth be told, writing of any kind has been difficult to squeeze in these days what with the kids being home almost 24/7, plus my office job for LOGIA, which I love and am completely grateful for, but which does not afford me the time to write that I used to have. I miss my freelance writing business dreadfully and hope that someday, when the economy is better, I can get back to it, at least part-time.

In the meantime, plan on seeing me here much more often. I need to carve out a bit of time here and there to write, and this is the best place to do it.

Plus, I have so much to write about, I can’t even decide where to start!

What activity in your life is essential to your mental and emotional well-being? Why?

To be honest, the girls and I are pretty thrilled to have a break. Our boys are loud, busy and energetic, as little guys tend to be.

I’m betting by the time they get home Tuesday night though, all three of us will be glad to see their noisy, smiling faces.

Peace and quiet in a normally active house just gets weird after awhile.

Unfortunately, the only ball we have is a hard baseball that I bought last week for Cody to practice with, since he just started playing baseball this spring.

After about 10 minutes, I heard crying through the kitchen window.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, opening the window wider so I could hear.

Logan stepped in front of the window, yowling loudly. “We keep hitting each other with the ball,” he told me, in between sobs.

Cody came up behind Logan and both boys stood there, bawling, red marks on their faces.

As I assured them I would purchase a softer ball for them to practice with, I had to hold back a chuckle at the absurdity of the whole situation.

Poor little guys.

Why is this yet another of many upcoming firsts?

Because their friend is a 14-year-old boy.

J, as I’m going to call him (he’s an avid reader of my blog and I told him I’d use a pseudonym — even though he doesn’t mind me using his real name, his parents might), is one of the most responsible, talented, engaging, honest and forthright kids I’ve ever met.

J has more direction, focus and passion than many of the adults I know. His first love is composing music. He also plays multiple instruments, is a movie and book buff and has a vocabulary that rivals many writers. In some ways, he reminds me of my dad; he has similar talents, similar maturity, even similar mannerisms.

In fact, J is so interesting and unique, I found myself sitting in on conversations between the three kids in an attempt to find out more about what makes him tick. It was weird for me, as I wavered between feeling like a part of the group and realizing that I was just the parent and most likely not all that welcome. As young, hip and plugged-in to teenagers as I may feel, I’m still the mom. Sigh.

Thankfully, J and the girls were gracious about my near-constant presence and neither of my daughters asked me to take a hike, which for a brief moment made me feel like maybe I’m not too awfully embarrassing. J has told my girls a few times that I am, actually, “pretty cool,” so I’ll take it. In any case, any teenage boy who is willing to talk to me with no fear either has nothing to hide or is a smoothie. J is the former and that makes him “pretty cool” in my book too.

I guess I’ve heard enough horror stories about Facebook that it makes me wary. Of what? I’m not sure. My worry has no name or face or appropriation. It’s just a vague feeling that has no real basis.

I’m sure there are all sorts of completely diagnose-able reasons behind my fear, probably ranging from an unwillingness to watch my kids grow up to excessive suspicion toward all things internet-related.

So, if you’re a parent who has let your kid sign up on Facebook, whether grudgingly or not, I’d love to hear some reassurance. Anyone else experience that near-panic about letting your kids loose into the virtual world?