Raising Maxwell

Of our three children, it is Maxwell that daily sends me to my knees in prayer and frustration. It is Maxwell that forever has me second guessing myself as a mother. Wondering where in the world I went wrong with him. What mistake it was that first put this perpetual ball of chaos into motion? It is Maxwell that makes me grapple with the very real possibility that he might not EVER pull it together enough to move out of our home and be independent. And it is most definitely Maxwell that has my blood pressure elevated to new heights here lately and that I am quite certain is hell bent on making me certifiably crazy. To say that Max and I are having a difference of opinion would be putting it mildly. For some time now Max has had quite a bit of difficulty grasping the concept of "clean up your room". And no matter how many times we go over it and show him what it's all supposed to look like, he just doesn't get it. Only, really, I think he so totally DOES get it. But he's a bit of a lazy boy, that one. And I think it's less taxing on him to hear me scream and yell and throw a fit than it is to actually pick up the room. He is a master of labor avoidance techniques. At twelve, one would think he is more than capable of making a bed, and hanging up his t-shirts in the closet. You would think. And you would think that it might dawn on him that if he is having to step over his clothes to get out of the bathroom he just showered in, that he should pick up those clothes off the floor and get them out of the way. You would think. You might also expect that a boy of twelve might be able to keep up with his sneakers. Yet every single day we have the "Great Sneaker Hunt" because Max can't find them. At some point, especially with it being suggested to him about a MILLION times, one might think he would make a habit of putting them in the same place each afternoon when he takes them off. But no. That would be entirely too logical. And besides, it's so much more fun to hunt for them and find them behind the bathroom sink in the powder room, or under the barstools in the kitchen, or back behind Oscar's kennel in the family room. ANYWHERE and EVERYWHERE EXCEPT where they are supposed to be. Oh yes...so much more of an andrenaline rush knowing he is maybe just seconds from missing the bus and there are no shoes to be found. Whenever there are tasks to be done (like clearing the table or unloading the dishwasher) Max suddenly develops a great and uncontrollable urge to go poop. Go figure. It seems that helping out around the house has a bit of a laxative effect on the child. Quite frankly, I have grown a bit frustrated with him. Now...if you are sitting there and saying to yourself "Big deal...the kid's room is messy." Well...let me say that if Maxwell was able to contain his chaos to JUST HIS room, then I might be able to chill a little bit on it. But Maxwell is a whole lot like Pigpen from Charlie Brown. There is a bit of an aura that surrounds him. Everywhere he goes, he leaves a trail. I can walk in the kitchen and know that he had oatmeal as a snack. For one, the empty packets are still sitting on the counter. He tends to have bad aim and there is usually a nice little cloud of oatmeal dust and oats in the area. The bowl is usually still sitting there long after Max has gone while the remaining oatmeal remnants attempt to cement themselves for all eternity to the sides of the bowl. His backpack can usually be found deposited smack in the middle of the round foyer area. OUTSIDE of the closet where it belongs and most definitely NOT on the hook that was SPECIFICALLY placed there for such items. However, in the same downstairs closet, I can usually find the day's dirty and discarded socks pulled off and thrown there on the floor. (note...there is NO laundry basket in said closet) And while I can most certainly count on finding his dirty socks there...NEVER will I find his shoes there because THAT IS EXACTLY the place he is SUPPOSED to put them. He spreads the newspaper out each and every morning looking for the comics. But he can't simply open the Accent section and read them there. No. He has to remove them from the section, leaving the section wide open there and taking the comics off to his breakfast bowl. And when he is done, 9 out of 10 times you can find both the bowl and the comics right there with the rest of the newspaper spread all over the place. Sigh. This morning Max and I had it out...again. I reminded him of what needed to be done upstairs and quickly sent him up to take care of it. I decided that I would pop up there and help him pay close attention to the details. Only, as I came up the steps, I did not find him attending to ANY details. He had simply plopped himself in the chair on the landing and was apparently just....well....sitting, That did not go over too well. I marched him into his bedroom and quickly got him started on the tasks before him. The laundry that I sent up with him two days ago to be put away was in a pile on the floor. Every dresser drawer was hanging open. The bed was not made. There were two days of towels on his floor. And that's just a tiny slice of it, but you can use your imagination. I instruct him to get this laundry put away and notice that not only can he not put it away, but he can't even seem to get his drawer to shut. Hmmmm? This was not a problem AT ALL for me last month when I went into his room and proceeded to refold every single item in every single drawer and make them just as neat and clean as they could be. So I head over to see what in the world is the problem. Well...that drawer that would not close is for shorts. Just shorts. All of his t-shirts for school hang up his closet so that they won't look like he slept in them. Except that Max, in all of his Maxness, has chosen NOT to hang up his shirts the way he is supposed to, but to simply CRAM them into the drawer to the point that the drawer can no longer be closed. And my nice neat, wrinkle free t-shirts? NO MORE. They look like they have been slept in for months on end. Slept in, stomped on, put through the crimper. It's great. So, needless to say our morning was not off to a great start. At that point I informed Maxwell that if he simply refuses to help out in the house and cannot even manage to clean up somewhat after himself, that I can no longer be helpful to him. And that from this point on he will need to figure out the activity bus for all of his afterschool activities as I will no longer be going out of my way to accomodate anything other than his very most basic needs. And since he has so little regard for wrinkle free clothing and so little appreciation for the time I have spent laundering drying and folding all his clothing so that he can throw it all on the floor, he can now take over his own laundry as well. I'll just repeat here that it was NOT a good morning in our house. Well. Max walked off then, presumably in search of his shoes (where in the world might they be hiding THIS wonderful morning?!). He comes back in a few minutes, shoes in hand, and proceeds to say to me "Mom, I hate to tell you this, but I'm going to say it. This whole thing is just a big downward spiral. You're being mean to me and then I feel like being mean to you and then it just goes on and on." And then he just stares at me. And I am thinking to myself...MEAN?! He thinks this is all about being MEAN?!!! Chris's Max is a very bright child (and I say Chris' because I am struggling to claim him right now. I'm struggling with letting him live here much less claiming him!). If you have ever met him you know that he received double if not triple the brains of the ordinary kid. He is EXTREMELY bright. HOWEVER. I am totally amazed at how COMPLETELY and THOROUGHLY that child can miss the mark at times. He just doesn't get it. And so there we were. Him, defiantly staring at me, fully expecting me to agree that he is right. And me, completely flabbergasted that this very bright child, so like his father, can just really be that dumb. That after all of the discussion on why we help out as a family and why we do our share and how much work it takes to care for a home...how many hands make light work and if we all just pitch in a little bit, it all goes by so much faster. After all of that...I'm simply mean. SIGH****** That whole "train up a child..." verse in the bible. It all seems fine and good in theory. But I am finding myself really struggling with it in real life. Easier said than done, ya know?

On another note, which also happens to center around Max. I am fairly certain that our family must surely be under federal investigation at this point. In Max's Reach class, which is the gifted program at school, they have to do an independent research project. Some topic that interests them. They have to research it, interview someone "in the know" on the topic, and put together a report. Max's topic that he chose to research? Is it possible for one single person to launch a bioterrorist attack on the world? Yep. That's our son. Of all the topics in the vast, wide world. So he's been scouring the internet for weeks now. I don't even know how one begins to search for that info. Do you just google "how to destroy the world in ten easy steps?" Or "bioterrorism for dummies?" I mean...really. Then yesterday, he finally gets around to making his phone call to try to interview a specialist in the field. And they are on the phone for about 30 seconds when they tell Max that there is NO WAY they would answer any of his questions because that sort of information is dangerous in the hands of the public. And they simply would not tell him if or how it would be possible to launch a bioterrorist attack. Not what method it could be done with, not which vehicles of transmission....NOTHING. Well, between that lovely phone call and all the internet searching Max has done, I am quite certain that it is possible that we have raised more than a couple of flags with National Security. If you see the national terror threat elevated, it's probably Max's fault. I'm sure that as I type this the CIA is probably staking out our home and monitoring all phone calls and e-mails. Heck, they probably have a hold of this blog too! Oy Vey! Raising Maxwell. Is is NOT for the faint of heart.