Big Push App, Wish It Were Downloadable

Some kids are born repsonsible.  They get up on time, they go to bed on time.  They brush their teeth on a daily basis. Some of them even floss.  Yes, I know from my time on the internet reading Mommy blogs that most parents' children do their homework with little fuss, their clothes are organized by drawer and color, and they willingly consume raw beets and edemae as mid day snack.  Some of them tie their shoes at the tender age of four months and say their ABC's in utero.

My kids...well as of this point, I know one is wearing a Pikachu costume because it is warm.  It's August.   Another claims playing Civilization VI will help with AP history.  A third explained he's very good at creating art in Minecraft.  I'm not sure what skills that might translate to in the non pixelated world, but his siblings are impressed.  Ninety percent of parenting is playing the game, "What's my motivation?" so I've compiled some analogies from popular culture to help motivate all my kids to get ready for school again, using cool geeky references like all the kids do these day.  Failing that, I will speak in text, and that should do it.  

You should get your summer work done because....why?...well consider the alternative.

The Star Wars Imperative: 

Fill out the common ap now, or join us and live here forever.  It is your destiny.  Choose. It helped that I have loud breathing as a matter of course in my speech.  The sound track in the background was my husband's idea.  I love him.

The Pokemon Quest, Will You Please Go Now? 

Son. You want to be the very best, like no one every was.  On some campus somewhere, are Pokemon for you to catch with your phone.  Stay here, and your dad and I will cite Team Rocket's motto to you night and day.  Here's the link for the common ap.  Surrender now...

Fortunately, the photos of me as Jesse of Team Rocket from Halloween 2000 were destroyed in a freak accident when the disposable camera met its end, having been accidentally left on top of the mini-van.  I, and the internet, are forever grateful.  

Lego my Ego

This is 100% true.  All of it.  You are the special. You can do amazing things.  I want you to do amazing things. So....finish your work without me having to hover or I'll "kraggle" you to the chair to get it done.   Love, Mom.

Now I could push this, show montages of characters from Spiderman to Officer Judy Hops to Remy from Ratatoulie to illustate that anything we want which is important, anything that matters, demands more than we think it will, and pushes us beyond what we thought we could do.  But I think kiddos, you get the point.  You have to do this, and I don't mind if you reward yourself with mindcraft or civ or magic or whathave you, but you do have to do something beyond what is easy, or your life once you leave home, will be harder than it has to be.  

So...to put another way, reaching into your own family lore:  "Now is the time to start the big push."

Love, Mom. 

P.S.  I promised I'd do it.  git 2 wrk

Communion of Desire

Communion of Desire.

I'd not heard the term before but I loved it as if I'd known it all my life once I did.  Perhaps I should have paid more attention in religion class when I was growing up, as it is a long standing Catholic tradition. (We do have short standing Catholic traditions, ones that have only just begun to become old like the Divine Mercy Chaplet, the Luminous Mysteries and ones that shall seem to me forever novel like the Pope twittering and priests giving podcasts). 

This week, I'd felt off; like I'd lost friends.  I tried calling several to reconnect but the ones I sought in particular were not available to talk. I knew they were as busy as I was with stuff but it still nagged. Going out to take care of back to school items, everything was hard, complicated, a struggle and a hassle.  Worse still, I could see that it didn't have to be, didn't need to feel as it did, that the unrest was squarely in me and my own fault. 

Summer had been lazy almost to the point of slothful, and now it was time to ratchet things back up and my mind and heart were not used to such exercise and fixed schedules and non negotiable tasks.  It was then I found that the unlimited freedom of Summer had not taxed my mind or heart enough to grow better.  The three month break from daily routine had rendered my family a bit feral in its sensibilities; and so many of them bucked and fought the re-institution of stricter bed times amongst other things.  My will and theirs were out of practice.


Souls and friendships and talents and habits like an untended gardens, grow wild and need pruning that would have been so much easier if it had been kept to it all along.  I felt overwhelmed by the amount of gardening that would be necessary in so many components of my life.

The temptation when you stop exercising or stop dieting and gain a few pounds is to do nothing and hope things right themselves without effort.  The same is true for writing and writer's block, the temptation is not to write and thus stop being a writer.   The same is true for budgets. We blow it and then despair and therefore stop trying to right the course.  It is the temptation of appetite and despair, compounded by the desire for instant gratification and the stress and frustration when fasting is not offered up. 

Spiritual dryness is a peculiar grace that only a rare soul (like Blessed Mother Theresa) recognizes. I don't do well with fasting.  My instant response to any disconnect is to personally start pestering Heaven to re- infuse me with the energy to love better, rather than love better through the dryness.  I want God to do it for me, rather than for me to do it for God and let Him fill in the cracks. 

So when I read about the Communion of Desire, seeking to be filled even if one could not attend mass, it gave me a profound sense of peace; to ask to receive when I cannot receive, to help keep me yielding to the luminous cross I've been given; to love these ten children well and be a good steward of all these gifts I've received. 

Biting Humor

My youngest son has decided the easiest way to create a good impression is with his teeth.  It's a problem in part because we never know when this cute almost 2 year old wannabe member of Team Edward will strike. 

Now I used to teach biters and have been trained on how to get someone to release; you push back into the bite so that the head of the biter is pushed back and that causes him to open his mouth a bit more and thus the arm, hand or what have you that is being bitten, can escape.   However, even I remain fearful of using this technique since pushing back into my son's mouth might strain his neck. Down Syndrome children can sustain injury from a blow to the head that results in paralysis; the neck moves too far back.

Thus my children and I remain at least at present, the human version of teething rings whenever his need to nosh strikes.  

It's not that we don't shout "OW" or "No." or cuff his nose when he starts clamping down or put him in time out; it's that he views the whole thing as one big game.   He shakes his head no back at us with a big happy smile even as we place him in the playpen.  We cuff his nose and his eyes twinkle as he reaches out to repeat the gesture back.  We say "OW, that hurt!" and he claps and laughs.  So either he's the smallest sadist in the world or he just doesn't yet get what we are trying to convey.  

Part of the problem is my son loves stuffed animals; specifically one unimaginatively named Monkey,  stuffed monkey.  When Monkey is in his crib, Monkey gets kissed, hugged and his ears get bitten multiple times.  Monkey does not mind this and Paul showers Monkey with biting love.

However the rest of his family and the general population at large do not share Monkey's stuffed ears or capacity to tolerate however many tons of metric pressure one two year old with abnormally sharp cuspids, bicuspids, incisors and molars can bring to bear in a death grip.

So we now have taken extraordinary measures to keep our youngest out of biting range except in controlled environments.  Jean jackets work almost as well as chain mail; so do layered preppy look sweaters except when he goes for the arm.  For the men and boys and those who hate either of these two looks in the family, holding Paul facing away is an effective alternative, though that is much harder on the back; and the umbroller has become the vehicle of choice out in public.   I rejected the idea of a muzzle and/or retainer to keep his jaws under wraps.  

One of the children suggested making him walk everywhere possible in hopes that by wearing him out, he won't have the energy to take a bite out of us.    The problem with that solution is two-fold: 1) It reduces the speed at which we move to .0001 miles per hour and allows for other children to thus get into mischief and 2) the internal mental discipline required of the adults moving the party along that pace is as demanding as the physical conditioning needed to run a 10 K in whatever a decent time for a 10 K would be.  

The only real solution to this lies with our young son and the every day maturation process that is taking place.  We'll keep saying no, putting him in the pen and cuffing his nose until he gets it.  In the meantime, if our family portrait this year shows everyone in life preserver vests, I hope you'll understand.

Did I say that?

Memo: My computer is being retooled. (stupid virus).  That leaves me precious little time on the old machine.  Thus, you get a microwaved frozen leftover re-run from last summer. (Originally run on July 17, 2009). But, if you didn't read it last year, it's new to you. Enjoy!

“Don’t put stickers on the car door!”

“You shouldn’t play the piano with a toothbrush.”

“Please, give me the hammer back…Now!”

There are sentences that need no other explanation in the civilized world other than to say, “I am a parent.” Usually, they translate as imperatives that for all sentient beings, would never need be spoken.

Yet I have begun collecting them as samples of what my offspring require to survive 24 hours in my care. While on the phone with my brother, I heard similar utterances from him at his three children. “Put that down! Stop running into the window!” I started to laugh until I had to shout, “Don’t sit on the baby!” Now it was his turn, but we both recognized conversation was impossible and hung up.

My friends started giving me samples too. “What are you doing?” to a teenager stuffing an entire tortilla into his mouth in one swoop at ten minutes to six as she was serving dinner. “Who told you you could color your arm purple?” from a kindergarten mom. (It was picture day at school). “It’s a free dress day. I don’t have to wear my uniform.” was the child’s explanation. My personal favorite was “You made dinner?” from a third mother who said she’s still finding sauce stains in her kitchen from her fifth grader's experiment.

What is unsaid and unexplained about raising children often transcends what stories are told. Part of the omission is from personal shame. We can’t explain why our child had a three gallon water bottle in the middle of his room. We asked. He didn’t want to get up in the middle of the night to go the extra five feet to his bathroom sink to get a drink. We still don’t understand.

Part of it is the dim recognition that too much truth may be unbearable. Yes, she colored on the piano with a permanent black marker. Yes, he hid dirty clothes in a drawer until they fermented. Yes the toddler took a bite out of a tomato because she thought it was an apple and spiked the offending vegetable onto the newly clean floor. The amount of labor and property damage in those three sentences alone may be enough to doom the human race if universally disseminated.

When I asked my mom about these sorts of odd phrases that were coming out of my mouth as correctives of my children, she laughed and explained everything. “I told you about that when you were a kid...” “What was that? Mom? Hold on. Sweetie, stop squirting the instant mop on the wooden floor. Don’t pull your brother on a towel…”

“Mommmmm, we were playing sled.”

"What was that Mom?"

“See dear, you just weren’t listening.” My Mom answered over the phone.

It may be a dodge, but it’s a good dodge. I’m keeping it for when my kids have kids.

P.S. Today I said, and meant with all my heart, "Don't throw the cat at the chandelier." Son was tossing his beanie baby in the empty dining room and it got stuck. It's like they're secretly reading these posts!

Disciplining Cupie Doll

If children define themselves by what they are called most often, my toddler’s first name is No!

No! Baby! She just drew with blue marker on the walls in her room.

No! Sweetie! She tried to pick up her sister.

No! Stop. Bad Idea! She pushed a chair over to the refrigerator to get at the chocolate syrup.

No! No! No! No! She just unrolled a whole spool of toilet tissue and ran with it streaming behind her when I discovered her fun.

Fortunately, she still has that super cute toddler power to prevent parents from being too outraged, just overwhelmed.

The parent magazines say to try and catch the toddler “being good.” This is a silly statement. It’s not like I’m going to happen upon my two year old donating her piggy bank to the Salvation Army or find her on the phone soliciting funds for the March of Dimes. She’s two for crying out loud. She has two modes of operation, mischief and sleep. At least I think she sleeps sometimes.

That she sometimes doesn’t spike the wooden block on her brother’s head when they are playing together is not an incident of her “being good.” It’s the baseline. I expect them not to intentionally injure each other while playing.

These same helpful rags maintain that children this young don’t know what cause and effect is. So why does she run like lightning when she hears me start to yell NO! as she’s climbed up to the sink and turned on the tap? It seems to me she’s got a firm grasp on the boundaries of life she routinely exceeds. I’m not buying it. A kid that can climb onto the table to get the M&m’s and unwrap the rubber band holding them closed to get at the contraband chocolate she hasn’t earned because she didn’t potty, is sentient enough to be told “Knock it off!”

The discipline gurus stress that under two should not be put in time out for more than 2 minutes, as they have no sense of time. I need at least those two minutes plus to regain composure. I believe in punitive minutes for excessive destruction. I don't care if they're for me.

They also maintain that spankings are taboo and ineffective. So the kid can pull all the clothing out of a closet, pour grape juice on the carpet and push over a vase of flowers, and open the Oreos inside the pantry to feast before breakfast while I’m making kids lunches, and the proper discipline approach should be told ”No no no…” in an indoor calm voice. I don’t think so.

I’ve figured out a better way to discipline a toddler.

Sibling rivalry. I bet your brother can clean his room before you do….he’s so much bigger after all…off she goes…

Tom Sawyer rules. Scrubbing the colored walls with Mr. Clean sponges. “Wow, this is so much FUN!” “Let me! Let me! Let me! My Turn!”

Political spin: If only we could get this table cleared, we could play Candyland, but oh, woe, it’s just so much work. Put hand on head as if to swoon. “Help!” said with an overly dramatic helpless Southern accent, “What ever will I do?” “I’ll help Mom.” Says my son. “Help Mom.” Says my toddler.

And when they are engaged in a truly lethal action, like fencing on the pool table with the pool cues, I pull out the “NO!” that sounds vaguely possessed and is loud enough to shake the foundation of our home.

Oddly enough, they bug out fast to this sort of thing. Wonder if Parents magazine would be interested in my discipline tips for toddlers?

Pew Sitters and Kneelers take a Stand

Mass two days after Christmas feels like too much church for some of my crew.
Just after the homily, my darling 4 year old grew weary of sitting and stood up. This was fine, as she still barely tops the pew. But when her older brother moved in on her place in the row, she said quite loudly, "That's my spot. HE TOOK MY SPOT."

Thank goodness for my other son, who very deftly explained, "He didn't take your spot. He took mine and I took his." Pew Tetris isn't for the faint of heart. The dynamics of place settings rival a state dinner or an analytic question on the GRE.
She then asked in a loud voice, "Am I being good enough to get donuts?"

If I say yes, she will view every action she takes from this point on as mitigated by that admission against interest. If I say no, I will here heart wrenching caterwauls from the same person for the rest of mass. "We'll see." is the weak response I mumble to put her off for a while.

Midway through the liturgy, I get an urgent memo: "I'm tired." from one who should know better. I also get "When is this over?" during the song for the offeratory. Fortunately, the primary clock watcher can't actually tell time so I said, we're more than half way through the mass and that satisfied.

I don't know if other parents use the responses of the laity in the mass as editorial comments but it seems God understood we would need to occasionally talk in code to our children, to mentally cuff their noses while everything appears perfectly orderly.

"LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION." "PEACE be with you." and "Lord have Mercy." often get special emphasis in our family, such that some of our kids think you are supposed to raise your volume at that point in the prayer. I do know the lady behind me was overcome with a fit of giggles because of all the double meanings being conveyed through everyday responses.

Still, it's hard to get too frustrated with these people who don't quite know how to be present at mass because I too sit there distracted as I try to direct one to wait until after to go to the bathroom, another not to play with the kneelers and a third that he has no excuse for me not hearing his voice when 1) he can read 2) he has the loudest voice at home and anywhere else and 3)I can see his lips moving but no sound is issuing forth.

I too am not fully present, trying to remember our envelope number and scribble a check during the song, making sure we have all 22 gloves and 11 coats. We come back from communion and I keep searching the aisles, looking at all the faces, wanting to see in them what I know they cannot find when they see me.

The distraction is not limited to my family. We are two days from Christmas. We had just received communion. We ought to be lighter, brighter for the gift of the Eucharist. We ought to not be bothered by the coughing in the back or the music coming in late or the occasional opening of the Church doors in the back. We ought to be mirrors of the star that lit that night so long ago. We ought to be awash in light for others. Yet everyone looked worn and tired.

And so when my four year old clapped her hands when the priest finished the announcments, I felt grateful for the reminder via my daughter of how we are to regard this gift of the liturgy, of celebrating the mass and having it mean what it means. For a moment, she understood and was in rapt attention in a way most of us would have to work to find within ourselves.

Then we went back to, "That's my spot." and I was reminded, "Lord, we are not worthy to receive you." Thankfully, He says the word and all is healed.

Merry Christmas!

Home School?

No other aspect of parenting taxes my personal reserves like having to provide oversight during homework time to my kids.

Looking over my daughter’s math book, I spotted an error. “Two plus five doesn’t equal eight, you need to check that problem again.”

She pouts; her eyes begin to water, “I’m stupid! I’m never going to get this, never never never!” She folds her arms and puts her head down on the table and wails.

Over the two years of helping this one with homework, I’ve tried various responses, soothing tones of reassurance, militant aggressive “you’ll learn it and you’ll like it” boot camp, incentive offerings that make me feel like a time share seller. “Add now and get this glorious peanut butter jelly cookie, fresh baked from the oven…add two and get an additional glass of milk, Vitamin D enriched to ensure that even though you are missing prime playing outside time by doing your homework, you won’t get rickets.”

I've even tried praising her every attempt. Because it made me feel vapid, I used song. Cue Perry Cuomo! “You know that doing your work is… Wonderful! It’s Wonderful…so they say…” She'd humph, bury her blonde head on the table and refuse to move. But then, it might have been my singing.

Research within my own home has revealed all approaches equally ineffective, so now I just stay with the time honored, “I’ll get back to you.” when this happens.

“Do you like my essay?” My eldest daughter brings me her first draft. The writing is excellent but the spelling makes it hard to read. I praise her use of words and turn of phrase effusively as she beams. Then, I gently offer to underline the wrong words so she can look them up.

A cloud appears on her face, she draws in a deep breath and screams. “I can’t spell alright? It’s just too hard!”

“I know you can do this.” And I hand her the dictionary
“I don’t want to!” she shouts tearfully and stomps off.

Now this one, I know. She’ll huff, she’ll puff, she’ll pout up and down but in the end, she’ll fix the errors.

The first one had forgotten her pout until the sister’s response reminded her, “Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be upset.” She reboots her sad face.

Buying time, I check on my son.
“How’s it going?”

“RRRahgh.”
Having to read assigned books for school has reduced his verbal expressive skills to annoyed and angry.

“You know, I loved Charlotte’s Web when I was in third grade.” I started.

“Humph! That’s because YOU WERE A GIRL!”
“Am.”

“Whatever! RRRAGHH!” and he thrust the book back in front of his face with a scowl.

O for 3.

I don’t remember fighting this hard with my parents over homework, although I do remember getting poor grades for what felt like forever until I figured out what the teacher wanted. It involved actually paying attention. Who knew?

“I don’t like the book!” my son was insisting. I tried sympathy. I told him about hating “Lord of the Flies.”
“That book sounds cool! Can I read it instead?”

“No.” Ack! Conversation veering out of control. Going in very wrong direction!
“Why not?”

Think fast! Ummmm…..“You’re not old enough.”
“Do we have it?”

Knowing that if I say yes, there will be a wild gleam in his eyes as he then spends the time that should be allocated to discovering the lyrical joys of E.B. White to find the verboten tome that epitomizes adolescent male rage run amok, I swallow and answer honestly, “I don’t think so anymore.” It is vague enough to cause disappointment. I know in a moment, the spark to be contrary will be extinguished by the return to school work.

“I still don’t like this book.” He explains, thumbing the pages.

“That doesn’t matter. This is the book that was assigned. This is the book for the project. Here is the rubric. Just answer the questions.”

Reading the actual assignment for what oddly feels like the first time, he discovers he can make a 3-D poster instead of a report. Suddenly, Charlotte’s Web rocks as he breaks out the scissors, construction paper and glue.

The fourth child is nowhere to be seen. She has used the commotion to escape to the basement. It takes every fiber of parental discipline I have to call down to her to return. I discover she’s been spelling the words for her older sister. They both give me a mild look of, “and I would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you and your meddling!” before sitting down.

Meanwhile, the pouter has returned to coloring and may be safely redirected to math once her masterpiece is completed. She bolts through it like a champ and gushes, “This is easy! I’m really smart in math. You were right Mommy!” complete with a very earnest warm hug. Melted beyond my own willingness to admit, Perry unbidden comes back into my head to finish the song.

“It’s wonderful…so they say.”

Petit Fours, Petite Threes and Demi-Sass

The bumps of raising eight individuals all at different stages of development towards adulthood sometimes tickle and sometimes bruise. Fortunately, the odds are in my favor that there will always be at least one that isn't irritated with Mom.

...
When we moved the two toddlers into the same room, they were delighted. The Jedi master now had her apprentice to makeover in her own image. Within weeks, the younger had begun to contribute to the scribbled walls, discover the joys of dumping laundry and found an effective means of getting sweets, climbing into the lap of whoever was eating.

There were still limitations on the young Jedi which her master Yoda had to address. One evening after bed, they felt a bit peckish. The younger was unable to get out of her crib so her older sister lovingly provided room service. Sounds of unmistakable glee from upstairs awoke us, both girls sat in the crib scooping large quantities of mint chocolate chip goodness with soup spoons.
Home Regulations have been modified: Ice cream must now be put in the second freezer in the garage behind any frozen vegetables.

...

Watching the Olympics, my daughters were captivated by Women’s gymnastics. Naturally, each of the girls came to me separately asking if they could sign up at the gym where Dominique Dawes had trained for the 2004 games, only two miles from our home.

“If I start now, that could be me in 2012.” My oldest said dreamily. “The rules say you have to be 16 to compete, and that year, I’ll be 16.”

Treading delicately with my very talented daughter who makes great grades, was a fabulous guard in both soccer and basketball and plays the saxophone, but who cannot at this point, do a cartwheel, I tried to explain. “I’ll be happy to sign you up for classes.” I started, “But you should know those girls have been in most cases, taking gymnastics since they were about six.”

Shawn Johnson had just done a flip off the balance beam.

“Well thanks Mom for shooting down my dream with a sniper rifle!” She snapped and marched off. I sat there breathing deeply. Adolescence rots.
...

The other day, ever the optimist, I suggested to my not yet three year old that she use the potty. Being a talented negotiator, this wasn’t a skill she’d agree to simply because Mom wished it. “M&m’s!” she said brightly. I agreed. M&m’s for pottying and producing pee in the potty seemed reasonable. “Miss Chief”stripped entirely while her father tried to explain this degree of nudity was unnecessary to no avail. We decided modesty could be learned later.

She sat for fifteen minutes happily looking at a book. We went about the morning routine. The announcement that there was water in the potty seemed subdued to me. She then requested the promised M&m’s. The abandoned potty held oddly 100% clear water. Further investigation revealed the potty had been filled with water from the sink.

This may be the only child in the history of the world requiring urine testing to verify substance and not substance abuse.
...

Getting ready for school to start, it was time to clear the desks in the study from their summer displays of intricate lego wars. My oldest has a Smithsonian view of his lego displays. Once made, they must not be unmade. His five foot desk was covered.

“You have to have a spot to study.” I explained as I cleared off another child’s table.

“I do.” My son argued.
Looking at the desk, there was a 1x2 foot rectangle of clear space on the desk. He pointed to it proudly.

“That’s it?”

“Dad said I could keep a few models.”
Now 80% of the entire desk was a landscape of legos. I knew this was not what his father had meant. “You need a clear desk for school. Clear desk, decluttered space for studying. Clear mind.”

“It’s clear. I can put my papers and book here.” Technically, a sheet of paper and an open (small) text book could fit in his designated space. However, this minimalist interpretation did not satisfy the parent in me.

“No.” I stood my ground. “There’s a table…”

“August 18th! The day Mom crushed my childhood!” he yelled as he dumped every one of his models in a fit of temper into a large plastic bin, and marched out.
Taking deep deep breaths. Supressing urge to place a RIP childhood note on his door for the dramatics or a Wanted poster with my picture, I arranged a clear table adjacent to his desk for future Lego battles that don't involve me.
...

I'd be discouraged by all this except that having smaller people around helps maintain perspective.

Today, Miss Chief got up with a project in mind, two pony tail holders and a tinkerbell costume before breakfast. Mom indulged her morning whim and as soon as the costume was on and her hair up, she looked at me with great seriousness, her soft toddler hand holding my cheek. “Mom,” she said, making sure I was looking directly into her eyes, “I promise not to fly outside.”

"Not yet." I thought.

Thank goodness.

For humor that doesn't ruin a child's hopes or dreams or childhood, try Humor-Blogs.com

The Velveteen Parent

When you can identify the sound of mini-chocolate chips cascading from their yellow bag into a red bucket in your no longer sleeping infant’s playpen, as being dumped by her older toddler sister for a snack, while awakening from a dead sleep, it’s safe to declare one’s self a veteran.

There are still areas of parenting within which I am a rookie. Dating. College tuition. Cars. Curiously enough, the magazines that cater to adults trying to civilize non adults, avoid addressing these later issues in extensive detail unless it’s to tell you that you should relax and not worry about the boys or the girls, sell all your cars and hire a chauffeur and have started saving money before you yourself hit puberty.

And so, one might wonder why I still subscribe to Parenting magazine. I know about time outs, mini-meals, setting aside a homework time, over scheduling, potty training…well, okay, I know the theory behind that one. What more is there that the experts could teach that I haven’t already experienced by trial? I keep the magazine to comprehend something of the ideal as personified in an incident free life.

If I were a Parenting magazine mom, the television would only be turned on for educational material that supplemented the reading I intended to present that evening…say the speeches by JFK, after viewing a brief history documentary of the Cuban missile crisis. If I were a Parenting approved mom, we would serve fresh black berries we had picked yesterday on top of homemade waffles today as I taught about maple syrup and the sugaring process while locating Vermont on a map and reading from Little House in the Big Woods. If I were a Choosy Mother’s Chose Jiff magazine certified mom, the kids would be used to fish tacos and green peppers, beg for carrot sticks and raisins and each have a shelf of the awards and certificates they had amassed over the years, complete with the write up in the local paper. They’d play on select teams and have fresh pressed uniforms every day and matching socks too.

Examining my life style with the parenting magazine’s parent, it’s clear I’m a C- student stuck in the honors class. Honor parents do not own cars that are the residence of 25 pounds of slowly fossilizing French fries, 1.47 cents in pennies and about a Pinto size pile of miscellaneous toys. Honor parents get all their kids to bed by 7:30 complete with hair washed, teeth brushed, three bed time stories and a lullaby. The teens, they lovingly dismiss to their rooms, tucking a new book of Shakespeare under their hand as they say good night. They are archetypes of the archetypes in my world. They are the ideal.

But I’m not.

Honor student parents don’t raise their voices or deliberately spend twenty minutes locked in the bathroom pretending “I can’t hear you…” hoping the stall tactic will bore the kids enough to make them forget what they were tattling about. Honor student parents don’t consider buying a large stuffed tiger that growls to put outside their toddler’s room and tell the kid, the tiger comes to life at night if you get up. We didn’t…but we did put the tiger back on the shelf with some regret.

Reading these stories and techniques, it’s like a reverse of the Velveteen Rabbit. I can’t help but wonder if these people as “experts” who say “What not to say…” have ever had a day when getting down on their eye level and speaking in a calm controlled voice just didn’t satisfy. “I know you’re upset that your brother got invited to the party but, there’s no reason for you to smack down on his head. You should be happy for him.” The kid may quiet down for that sort of speech, but very very few –and I would submit, none, become suddenly self aware and think, “I’m not really mad at my brother for being my brother, I just wish I had all the cool things he had going on…so I’m actually envious and need to stop because that’s not right or healthy.” If my kids are anything like I was, they’re thinking…right….I’ll get him later…but how?

It’s not that I don’t want my kids clean, on time, well spoken, well educated, well read, polished, accomplished and civil. I want all of these things for all eight of them, but sometimes, the best I can manage is a screech owl version of “HEY, KNOCK IT OFF OR I’M GETTING INTO IT!” that results in a five minute suspended silence born of real fear that the person driving may not be entirely stable. What galls me is that someday, when they grow up, they won’t remember when I hit the mark and got them to piano, softball and still managed to make sure they got their homework done, had a bed time story and closed down the upstairs by 8:30 p.m. They won’t remember when I made banana splits for dinner that night because everyone had had a bad day. They’ll talk about the time Mom’s face turned purple when we played Starwars with French fries in the back seat on the beltway.

Those will be the moments remembered, when the Velveteen Parent became real.

Dieting in Middle Girth, A Hobbit's Tale

The scale has reached its Gandalf fighting the Balrog in the Lord of the Rings moment. I stepped on it this morning and declared "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"

Being American and naturally impatient, I opted for the promised immediate gratification of Atkins. So far, I had remained faithful to my carb free lifestyle for eight hours.

It has been a long day.

I ate two eggs for breakfast. I hate eggs.

Being a hobbit (I'm very short), eggs with toast and orange juice and butter and strawberry jam, I can deal. Just eggs with pepper and hot tea. Sigh. When is second breakfast?

I had two slices of Canadian bacon too. I am convinced that Canada produces Canadian bacon so that we will never be tempted to invade. Between the food, the weather and the moose, it just isn't worth it.

For lunch, I got a drive thru version of a Chicken Ceasar Salad. I didn't finish. Why? Because I'm already disturbingly bored by my options. Adkins just markets don't eat sweets or fried foods via a specific dietary regimen. If I was able to deny myself pasta and bread and ice cream and maple syrup and yes, chocolate, I wouldn't need to be on a diet.

I'm currently dutifully baking chicken for dinner. Normally, I'd be psyched that I already have dinner half way done, but I'm looking at the box of couscous that will be a side and feel a desire to eat the box. “We’ve had nothing to eat but meat and salad for three stinking hours!” Half way through the day, I'm thinking...maybe I'll switch to South Beach.

The fruit is calling...Sherry, don't you want some HEALTHY fruit? Healthy. Nice little fruit. Just one little fruit...I feel my resolve failing, just as surely as the carpet cleaner of the same moniker did to erase the three swipes of blue on the rug in the guest room. Grabbing a string cheese, I diligently eat and remember the scale. Focus on the BAD number. Anyone who says weight doesn't matter is either among the 2% whose natural metabolism keeps them fighting trim past the age of 40, or lying. I finish the cheese stick. I'm still hungry.

My children's sugar frosted cereals that I never eat, start to look appealing.

I start considering what if any options I might have. You see, I know the numbers game. 21 carbs is all you get. 21 precious carbs. IF and if is a big word in this sentence, I don't eat any OTHER carbs, I....can have a dove bar. A dove bar. Don't think about it! No. No. No! Think Big number No. Have another piece of cheese....yum yum...doesn't that taste good? No. It does not taste Dove Bar good. It does not even taste Nacho good because it isn't melted with jalepenos on top of chips. My inner Borrimir is thinking of staging a rebellion.

I drink a diet coke. Then, to be sure I don't impulse eat, I open another, this one with lime.

Just as I successfully beat down my id's desires, the children arrive to undermine my discipline. My toddler brings an apple. He's eaten half of it and is "finished." I can 1) throw away the leftover, 2) cut away the eaten part and cut the remainder into bits for his sister or 3) Cut away the bad and dip that sucker in hot carmel to snack.

It's fat free....I start to move towards the apple. I know how Eve must have felt. I personally would never have sold out for just an apple, well maybe, if I had been on Adkins and chocolate hadn't been invented yet. Original sin for a piece of fruit. Eve should have at least held out for something choice. Frodo is fingering the apple when fortunately for me, the toddler asks for it back.

I give the toddler the rest of the apple. My older daughter, eyes bright, brings home "an extra snack." meaning, someone in her class had a birthday and passed out hersheys with almonds and she saved it "just for me." Meaning, she doesn't like chocolate with nuts. "Thanks honey." I say, taking the bar. "I'll put it in the freezer for later."

The kids relay eye contact to each other that translates, "What's happened to Mom?" as they back away quietly and announce unprompted, "We're going to go do our homework."

When they come back to state, they've cleaned their rooms, practiced their instruments and want to know what they can do to help with dinner, I finally ask, "What's going on?"

"Well, you refused the chocolate."
"No, I just denied myself it now. I'm keeping it safe, I'm keeping it secret." I explain.

"That means you're on a diet."
"Yes. So?"

"It means you'll be grumpy soon."

"I'm a hobbit, not a dwarf!" I explain. She gives me a look of bewilderment.
"No, I'm just starting a diet and Hershey bars aren't on the menu yet."

The kids know the numbers game too. She scans the bar and says, "You can't have this, too many carbs." and with that, whisks the bar away to bring to her older brother. I want to protest, "My Precious! It's mine! It came to me! You tooks it!" but I know better and so does she.

Now my eleven year old knows I'm on a diet. She'll food police me Samwise style until I reach my target number and cast the ring into the fire of Mount Doom or snap, whichever comes first.

It's been ten hours on the Adkins diet. Have I lost any weight yet? No. Takes a shower, shaves legs, brushes teeth, blow dries hair, exhales. How about now? No? Rats, I'm still stuck in the first part of LOTR when they're mucking around the swamp with Tom Bombadil who no one understands or likes.

It will be a long first two weeks.

Why Can't the Parents Teach Their Children How to Speak?

I finally cracked the code.

I can speak my five year old daughter’s language.

Oh, I know we taught her English, but communication has always been an issue with her. I assumed it was part and parcel of being the fifth child out of eight. I thought she ignored directives on the theory that I wasn’t talking to her. I thought she pouted to be sure she got attention. Now I know better.

My daughter uses purple prose expressions. She likes sugar frosted cereals and pink fairy princesses and over the top sentiment. Moreover, she can be persuaded by use of the same exuberant broad brush painting with words.

How did I discover her dialect?

It was 32 degrees outside.
“Put on your coat. It’s cold.” I said.

“NO!” She crossed her arms and rolled her tongue, making her “ugly face” in response.

Normally I would simply assert my authority and the coat would be on her body. Today, in a moment of maternal weakness, I try to address her actual needs writ large in her defiance. “Look outside. See the frost? I’ve been outside, it’s very cold. Put your coat on.” I thrust the coat in her hands.

“NO!” she repeats and throws the coat on the floor and stomps off.

Torn between, “Oh yes you will wear this coat and I’m putting it on your stomping self right now!” and “Something must be wrong, this makes no sense!” I stall for time and my temper by asking “Why?”

“I don’t want to wear a coat on the playground.” She sobs. She repeats it three times, each subsequent statement becoming more sorrowful and full of deep breaths.

“I’m wearing my coat. It’s cold outside and I want to stay healthy.” My son volunteers, adopting his “virtue boy” voice.

“Thank you son.” I smile and wave him off to the car.

Recognizing he’s not going to get the additional credit at her expense he’d hoped, he sulks off to the car, taking off his coat as he does and pausing by the window to be sure I see him. I rap on the window. “I thought you wanted to stay healthy!” His own words force the coat back on, the cold helps too.
“I don’t want to…”she’s still sobbing.

“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” I rub her arms gently to calm her down and try to make eye contact. “I want you to wear your coat so you can be all toasty warm during play time at kindergarten.” She gives me a small smile. I push my apparent advantage.

“I love my daughter and I don’t want her arms cold or for her to not be able to play because she feels uncomfortable. That would be terrible. I want her warm, toasty, ready to go…” The coat goes on in a flash, as do the mittens and the hat, though an older one marches in to switch hats since this daughter is accidentally wearing hers. I wait for the melt down that doesn’t happen and we get in the car.

Something just happened. I asked her to do something and she agreed. Can I do it again? I wonder.

“Hey Precious. Would you do me a great favor to help take care of your brother and sister? It’s a pretty big job…”

“What what what?” She’s all in. I feel vague guilt asking except she’d have to do these things anyway, so I’m just manipulating the mood in which she receives these tasks, I tell myself. “Can you sit in the far back and give the baby her juice? She’s too little.”

“Yes.”

Now my brain is abuz with other prospects –doing homework, chores…the whole world suddenly seems open to me via talking to my dauther.

I start looking at the whole incident for what it truly reveals. Each of my kids speaks English, just with a different dialect. Mulling the whole thing over, the next day I try to say the same command to each child. The following are field tested results from a confirmed child whisperer.

Oldest comes down in short sleeved shirt. He’s fourteen so telling him what to wear other than to say “You’re out of uniform, or that doesn’t fit or is dirty,” is out of bounds. I ask him to take out the garbage. He goes to do the job and immediately comes back in for a coat, hat and mittens.

The next comes in to the kitchen. I’m ready for her. “I stuck your coat and hat and mittens In the dryer…” is all I get out. She’s gone to fetch them in a flash.

My middle girl is a bit of a mystery, compliant in many things but always for her own reasons. She loves cold, so the indirect way won’t work. “Which coat are you wearing today? I don’t want a note from the nurse about not wearing proper attire for playground.” She goes to get her stuff.

Virtue boy sees everyone else and tests me. “I don’t want to wear a coat!” “Fine, then you have to wear a sweater. I hold up the sweater.” He hates sweaters. Batting 1000! I think.

Purple prose still works today and I begin thinking I’ve got it down when it all crashes.

Contrary boy has dressed himself. He is wearing shorts. It is 32 degrees outside and he is wearing shorts. He is bragging about dressing himself. We have to get in the car.

I punt. I dress the baby and load her in the car with the others.

She who would be two loves her coat and willingly complies. Still wondering how I’ll do the last one, I'm considering using parental fiat power but don’t want to ruin my average. I’m in the zone, I think, there has to be another way. I get his socks and shoes on and he is singing about superheroes he’d like to be.

“Thank you Son!” I kiss his forehead and run to the linen closet.
Wrapping him in a polar fleece blanket won’t allow me to go anywhere but back home, but it does get us out the door. Super son and I get in the car. Twenty minutes ‘till school. Buckled and bundled, we’re gonna make it. I feel high on parenting…

“Mom!”
The urgency in her voice tells me I’m about to crash.

“What?”
I’m in freefall.

“You forgot to make us lunches!” There are universal cries of pure despair.
Crash.
“I’ll bring your food before lunch.”
“Before snack?”
Roll, tumble, hit a tree and flip into a ditch and crash again.
“Before snack.”
Mollified, we set out onto the road.

Well, I may have learned the dialect but the universal language is still food.