100. Listen to or watch a musical. Put on and sing along. You can.
99. Plant a garden.
98. Clear out your closet you've ignored for years.
97. Journal.
96. Bake something.
95. All those photos on your phone? Make into a scrap book.
94. Read one of those books you've been meaning to...
93. Pick up or practice an instrument.
92. Write your representative/congressman.
91. Pray a rosary.
90. Begin a fitness regimen.
89. Write a letter to a friend. (Not an email).
88. Paint a room.
87. Play a game outside with your kids.
86. Draw with chalk on the driveway.
85. plan a vacation for when this is over.
84. take a course online.
83. hold a family talent show.
82. Create a rube-goldberg machine in your house.
81. Make soup.
80. Listen to/watch daily mass.
79. take an hour nap each day.
78. introduce yourself to a new type of music.
77. read poetry aloud.
76. write poetry.
75. Grill food.
74. Play wiffle ball with your family.
73. Texas Hold-em, let people dress up for it too. Do the color commentary if you have enough people.
72. They're trapped now, family photo for the Christmas letter.
71. Take a long bubble bath during the day.
70. Donate blood.
69. Donate food.
68. Take a walk with just one other person from your family to give them time.
67. Create a Zoom meeting with your family, extended.
66. Eat cake for breakfast.
65. Go outside at night and look at the stars.
64. Take a virtual tour of a top museum.
63. Paint your nails.
62. Learn a craft --sewing/oragami, whathaveyou.
61. Marie Kondo your room.
60. Make a care package for someone else.
59. Spring Clean.
58. Bike ride.
57. Call your local pantry/food distribution service, see what they need. Get it for them.
56. Make natchos.
55. There are thousands of podcasts. Find something to listen to and go for a walk by yourself.
54. Play cards.
53. Pillow fight.
52. Draw.
51. Write down stories from your childhood.
50. Read one of those magazines you get and stack and don't touch until you get a new one.
49. Declare a spa day.
48. Now is the time to learn how to play the video games with your kids, it will be their revenge for all the homeschooling you're now doing.
47. Capture the flag outside.
46. Hide and Seek Inside.
45. Every kid eligible for driving lessons should get their 60 hours of practice in, one hour at a time.
44. Trim the hedges, grasses and pine trees. --Yes, aggression towards plants is cathartic.
43. Plant roses.
42. Stretch.
41. Do a chore every day to help the house.
40. Chess challenge. (Bragging rights are fun).
39. Pray for our nurses, first responders, and all affected.
38. Clean up your resume.
37. Clear out your paperwork.
36. Get 8 hours of sleep per day.
35. Call your relatives. Talk. Listen. Enjoy.
34. Use the good plates.
33. Shower and get dressed every day.
32. Poppers and sparklers.
31. Read aloud a book that hits multiple ages.
30. Watch a play or symphony from the Kennedy Center or Shakespeare Company.
29. Ice Cream for dinner.
28. Host a picnic outside.
27. Spend a whole day reading.
26. Now is a time for talent shows, things that allow everyone to show off.
25. Listen to/watch the mass.
24. Create a quarantine play list.
23. Pitch a tent in the backyard. It makes for another place for kids to hunker down with books.
22. Rollerskate/scooter in the neighborhood.
21. Reorganize rooms.
20. Take a quiz on your geography knowledge each day.
19. Try to spend a meal talking in another language.
18. Puppet shows.
17. Card castles.
16. Make cookies.
15. Learn how to floss (the dance) until you don't embarrass your children.
14. Create a video of your family for your extended family.
13. Yoga
12. Sunrise Chaplet.
11. Drums. Both actual and homemade. Again, theraputic.
10. Make lists of what you will do when this is over.
9. Phone others to see how they are doing. Ask what they need.
8. Declare a screen free day.
7. STEM night at home. --kids as scientists/engineers
6. Olympics at home. --family athletics at their finest. (or not).
5. Art Museum at home.
4. Iron Chef Home edition. (More like Chopped but you get the idea).
3. Scavenger hunt --sometimes adults have to pull out the stops.
2. Clean. (I didn't want to put it on the list but there it is).
1. And the final guaranteed way to get your kids to find something to do, ask the big question, "Have you done your school work? Do you need any help?" Clears the room very quickly.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 1, 2020
Friday, February 24, 2017
Hey! Where did Small Success Thursday go?
It's on Facebook over at Catholicmom.com. I don't know if someone who isn't on Facebook can read that link or not. Please, let me know one way or another. I'm still mulling over how to manage this weekly counting of the blessings of the past week if it isn't able to be shared beyond the walls of Facebook.
Suffice it to say, here's the key point:
We went to the zoo. As happens in most field trips with kids, it got hot. They got hungry. We had to walk everywhere, and there was a temptation to turn what had been a treat into a trial. We got through it and with that struggle, came this insight.
Suffering, albeit in a tiny way, somehow made the whole trip more memorable, the way a story becomes more memorable than if once upon a time, everyone lived happily ever after, the end. I thought about this as we prepare for Lent, knowing we're to recognize, the only way to Easter, is through the cross. Embracing suffering doesn't mean seeking pain, but weathering it well, and weathering it with other people when such moments occur, being the Simon or the Veronica to someone whose burden becomes visible.
So this week's small successes became focused around when we had the opportunity to be a Simon or a Veronica, did we take it?
Please, leave a comment in the com box if the link works or not (if you are NOT on Facebook). Thank you.
Suffice it to say, here's the key point:
We went to the zoo. As happens in most field trips with kids, it got hot. They got hungry. We had to walk everywhere, and there was a temptation to turn what had been a treat into a trial. We got through it and with that struggle, came this insight.
Suffering, albeit in a tiny way, somehow made the whole trip more memorable, the way a story becomes more memorable than if once upon a time, everyone lived happily ever after, the end. I thought about this as we prepare for Lent, knowing we're to recognize, the only way to Easter, is through the cross. Embracing suffering doesn't mean seeking pain, but weathering it well, and weathering it with other people when such moments occur, being the Simon or the Veronica to someone whose burden becomes visible.
So this week's small successes became focused around when we had the opportunity to be a Simon or a Veronica, did we take it?
Please, leave a comment in the com box if the link works or not (if you are NOT on Facebook). Thank you.
Monday, July 20, 2015
Be Very....Very Quiet
In our yard, there are three wild rabbits. My kids keep trying to run out the door and catch them. One created a trap using a bin and a carrot as bait and spent the whole morning watching, hoping the bunny would bite. He got bored before any long eared rodents got curious.
Now the kids know I've caught a bunny for a pet, they've heard the story.
So this evening, after dinner, the kids were loud. To get a bit of a break, I took out the trash. The smallest rabbit spied me while feeding on some clover and froze. Not wanting to scare it, I sat on the driveway for a time, watching the fireflies and the moon, taking in the air now that it wasn't as humid or hot. The bunny didn't move. I didn't either. We regarded each other for about fifteen minutes.
When I got up to leave, the rabbit resumed its feed, but it wasn't scared. I walked within three feet of it, before going back into the house.
Next time the kids are racing about the home making a ruckus, I'm going to tell them the secret of catching a pet rabbit.
You have to go outside and sit very still and very silent for at least, fifteen minutes. Maybe I'll make them practice inside, before letting them test it with the real thing.
Now the kids know I've caught a bunny for a pet, they've heard the story.
So this evening, after dinner, the kids were loud. To get a bit of a break, I took out the trash. The smallest rabbit spied me while feeding on some clover and froze. Not wanting to scare it, I sat on the driveway for a time, watching the fireflies and the moon, taking in the air now that it wasn't as humid or hot. The bunny didn't move. I didn't either. We regarded each other for about fifteen minutes.
When I got up to leave, the rabbit resumed its feed, but it wasn't scared. I walked within three feet of it, before going back into the house.
Next time the kids are racing about the home making a ruckus, I'm going to tell them the secret of catching a pet rabbit.
You have to go outside and sit very still and very silent for at least, fifteen minutes. Maybe I'll make them practice inside, before letting them test it with the real thing.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Kid Christmas Rules, tips and observations
10) Any time after 4:00 a.m. is late for getting up for Christmas but Mom and Dad refuse to move until 5:30 so it's best to just wait.
9) Parents should understand that any present that requires assembly/craft time or quality time must be opened and played with today. Otherwise, it doesn't count. Ditto for books unless you read them to us.
8) You may consider clothing a great thing to find under the tree Mom, and we may need it. Just don't expect us to get really psyched about such things.
7) Fudge, pie and Busche Noel make for a great Christmas breakfast.
6) Expect a toy coma to hit around 2 pm. It is then we will count up our Christmas loot, admire our gift cards and ask, "When can we go shopping?"
5) Food Network worthy feasts for Christmas day dinner are ill advised. Remember, we raved over instant mashed potatoes and Pillsbury crescent rolls.
4) No matter how much food you bought, there will be a need to run to the store. After all, we can't make ice cream with the new ice cream maker if we don't have heavy cream...(see rule 9).
3) Some assembly required should be done outside our eyesight. It ruins the mystique of the My Little Pony Tent Club House if an adult and 12 year old are having a vigorous discussion about how the thing assembles and one is saying...."But I READ the directions" while the other is explaining the top has to have three assembly points and this one has four.
2) Ignore what we said back in #8. Can I wear my new tutu with the new t-shirt and sparkly socks? Today? Tonight for bed? Tomorrow? Forever?
1) Thanks for not shoeing the Lego Sponge Bob Square Pants Crabby Patty Restaurant off the table even if it did mean we didn't use a table cloth for dinner. The fullness of Christmas is in our eyes and hearts long before we ever get it in our heads, thanks for playing along and being patient about the whole business.
Merry Christmas!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Better Parenting via Science Theory**
There are several scientific theories that would have been discovered faster if only the world of science had allowed for mothers to be part of the discussion much earlier in history.
Nature seeks homeostasis: This is a truism. Every time I wash my floor, a child attempts to reassert the natural sticky feeling their feet have become accustomed to, by spilling something impossibly hard to clean up within ten minutes of the floor actually drying. Olive oil, maple syrup, and salt are amongst three of the most memorable illustrations of this theory in practice.
Opposites Attract: Clean white wall. Permanent Black Marker. Any questions? I mean, other than from my own mother asking why in heaven’s name do I even own a permanent black marker, or from my mother-in-law, where is this clean white wall you speak of?
Chaos Theory: Some individuals would stipulate that a child's very essence illustrates Chaos Theory's validity, independent of space, time or setting. Some individuals don't yet know the untrammeled power of a hungry child. For those who are still confused by chaos theory, perhaps a live demonstration is in order. Please come on over to my house at five o'clock and try to fix dinner. I will take a nap.
Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.
Exhibit A: my son’s laundry.
Exhibit B: An orange oversized tee he got in 3rd grade that defies all maternal efforts to transform or destroy. Handing it down has not stopped the older child from retrieving it for his wardrobe. Purchasing new shirts has produced no measurable effect. Now that it is, arguably, a bit tight around the arms, he still resents the fact that his mom has twice attempted to give it to goodwill. The shirt in question is currently stored in a secret bunker under his bed and heavily guarded by legos, books, smelly socks and other items that if discovered, would lead his mother to despair.
Time is relative theory: The simple errand of driving to school normally takes twenty minutes. Starting at 8:39 a.m. after Mom has whisked away breakfast materials and begun the getting dressed routine for all occupants still home, there is a tearful phone call from her third grade son. “Today is bake sale day and I didn’t bring any cookies.” Thinking about the frozen cookie dough in the freezer, Mom stupidly agrees to bring something by 10:30, as the bake sale starts at 11.
While in the process of getting the toddlers dressed, Mom throws the cookies in the oven, locates shoes, puts three unmatched socks in the laundry basket, flushes an abandoned toilet, puts milk away, turns off the lights, removes four bikes and two whiffle ball bats from the driveway, takes the cookies out of the oven, straps the two toddlers (who both want cookies) in their car seats and the baby and then signs a form for a package being delivered before starting the car.
Once in the car, Mom remembers that the aforementioned cookies are still in the kitchen. Retrieving the cookies, the phone will ring; it will be the same child asking if you are bringing the cookies. While inside, Mom will spot permission slip that needs to be dropped off and feel so virtuous for multi-tasking, she will run to her closet to gather the dry cleaning. Leaving for the second time, Mom gets half way down the driveway before realizing; she brought her purse in, but not out. In the few seconds Mom is in the house, the phone rings again, she forces herself to ignore it. Grabbing a prescription bottle on the counter that is about to run out, Mom returns to the car with her purse, cell phone and a diet coke. Triple checking to make sure she has all her children, her errands, and all required equipment for those errands, she drives.
It is part of the law of nature that she will then hit every red light plus have to navigate one traffic jam owing to a cop issuing a ticket and a second at a train crossing. She arrives around 12:15. The bake sale is over, and the volunteer has several dozen frozen dough baked cookies left over. When she checks the message on her answering machine at home from the phone call she ignored, it was her son saying “Never mind, third grade isn’t doing the bake sale this week, it’s fourth grade.”
Theory of Gravity: How annoyed your mother will be after enduring the above mentioned scenario versus. how much she loves you.
Next week: Scientific Law in Relationships:
Theory of Constancy: The level of stress in a marriage is constant, the level felt by the individuals within the marriage, is fluid.
** Originally ran on January 20, 2008, back when I only had 8 children. What a piker!
Nature seeks homeostasis: This is a truism. Every time I wash my floor, a child attempts to reassert the natural sticky feeling their feet have become accustomed to, by spilling something impossibly hard to clean up within ten minutes of the floor actually drying. Olive oil, maple syrup, and salt are amongst three of the most memorable illustrations of this theory in practice.
Opposites Attract: Clean white wall. Permanent Black Marker. Any questions? I mean, other than from my own mother asking why in heaven’s name do I even own a permanent black marker, or from my mother-in-law, where is this clean white wall you speak of?
Chaos Theory: Some individuals would stipulate that a child's very essence illustrates Chaos Theory's validity, independent of space, time or setting. Some individuals don't yet know the untrammeled power of a hungry child. For those who are still confused by chaos theory, perhaps a live demonstration is in order. Please come on over to my house at five o'clock and try to fix dinner. I will take a nap.
Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.
Exhibit A: my son’s laundry.
Exhibit B: An orange oversized tee he got in 3rd grade that defies all maternal efforts to transform or destroy. Handing it down has not stopped the older child from retrieving it for his wardrobe. Purchasing new shirts has produced no measurable effect. Now that it is, arguably, a bit tight around the arms, he still resents the fact that his mom has twice attempted to give it to goodwill. The shirt in question is currently stored in a secret bunker under his bed and heavily guarded by legos, books, smelly socks and other items that if discovered, would lead his mother to despair.
Time is relative theory: The simple errand of driving to school normally takes twenty minutes. Starting at 8:39 a.m. after Mom has whisked away breakfast materials and begun the getting dressed routine for all occupants still home, there is a tearful phone call from her third grade son. “Today is bake sale day and I didn’t bring any cookies.” Thinking about the frozen cookie dough in the freezer, Mom stupidly agrees to bring something by 10:30, as the bake sale starts at 11.
While in the process of getting the toddlers dressed, Mom throws the cookies in the oven, locates shoes, puts three unmatched socks in the laundry basket, flushes an abandoned toilet, puts milk away, turns off the lights, removes four bikes and two whiffle ball bats from the driveway, takes the cookies out of the oven, straps the two toddlers (who both want cookies) in their car seats and the baby and then signs a form for a package being delivered before starting the car.
Once in the car, Mom remembers that the aforementioned cookies are still in the kitchen. Retrieving the cookies, the phone will ring; it will be the same child asking if you are bringing the cookies. While inside, Mom will spot permission slip that needs to be dropped off and feel so virtuous for multi-tasking, she will run to her closet to gather the dry cleaning. Leaving for the second time, Mom gets half way down the driveway before realizing; she brought her purse in, but not out. In the few seconds Mom is in the house, the phone rings again, she forces herself to ignore it. Grabbing a prescription bottle on the counter that is about to run out, Mom returns to the car with her purse, cell phone and a diet coke. Triple checking to make sure she has all her children, her errands, and all required equipment for those errands, she drives.
It is part of the law of nature that she will then hit every red light plus have to navigate one traffic jam owing to a cop issuing a ticket and a second at a train crossing. She arrives around 12:15. The bake sale is over, and the volunteer has several dozen frozen dough baked cookies left over. When she checks the message on her answering machine at home from the phone call she ignored, it was her son saying “Never mind, third grade isn’t doing the bake sale this week, it’s fourth grade.”
Theory of Gravity: How annoyed your mother will be after enduring the above mentioned scenario versus. how much she loves you.
Next week: Scientific Law in Relationships:
Theory of Constancy: The level of stress in a marriage is constant, the level felt by the individuals within the marriage, is fluid.
** Originally ran on January 20, 2008, back when I only had 8 children. What a piker!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Adventures with Me and Flat Stanley
I think I hate Flat Stanley. There I said it.
Look at any second grade wall the first month of the school year and the photo essays staring this pressed paper hero will showcase trips to museums, Europe, cruises, salt water fishing for prize Marlins, making salt water taffy but not eating it, rodeo elephant rides, free style skydiving, hiking the Appalachian trail, meeting NFL and NBA stars on the street for a pick up game, trying out for Broadway shows and throwing out the ceremonial first pitch. You'll see dance recitals that rival the Joffrey and ice cream sundaes that require building permits, great pictures of kids shaking hands with world leaders, rides in helicopters, winning the slots at Vegas and professional cooking classes with Iron Chef Michael Simon.
If the Flat Stanley project were subjected to judicial standards of truth, those photo essays would be very different. Every poster that included a trip would showcase F.S. strapped in a car saying, "Are we there yet?" Most would have a shot of the paper thin boy watching television, playing the Wii and coming to Mom on a perfect summer day and saying, "I'm bored." But there are no essays about how Flat Stanley sunburned the day we went to the ocean because we ran out of sun block or how we spent three weeks looking all over the house for the library book that he lost. No one writes or brags about how Flat Stanley played cards with the whole family past midnight or how he subsequently did not get up until after noon the next day.
I admit, I'm not going to buck that trend but now I know why I hate Flat Stanley.
Flat Stanleys are the school assignment equivalent of New Year's Resolutions and the boasts made at 20 year high school reunions rolled into one. We'd like to think we did fun exciting thoughtful splendid outings all summer long; and we can talk a good game but... just as reality indicates that we might not be our driver's licence weight and height, so also, the photos of Flat Stanley often show a kid who only wears one outfit all summer long.
It's not that we're all just braggarts and liars. It's not that we're simply poor planners or slackers. It's not that we didn't take the assignment seriously; it's that we're invested in the kids, not Flat Stanley. On those days when we say "Let's go to the pool!"getting the suntan lotion, the swimsuits, the towels, the sandals, and everyone loaded in the car was the priority and the purpose. Half way there, we'd remember we forgot the camera or we forgot Stanley or both. Even if we tried to outsmart ourselves by leaving the camera and Stanley in the car for the next outing, we'd forget we did that when the next outing came or the next outing would be a limited party that took the other car. Flat Stanley was not part of the routine, not part of the family, and not part of the mental mind set when we were thinking, "Fun!"
But with one week to go, I started thinking "Panic!"
So instead of bracing honesty, we embraced staged earnest emergency actions. Last week they went fishing. Last weekend, we went up to Connecticut for a big reunion. Yesterday we drove to Baltimore for a pirate ship cruise. Flat Stanley attended them all. We could document we did something of value and quality this summer. In the spirit of the actual assignment, I let my son take some of the pictures and pick the shots.
It was then that the authenticity that is childhood shone through my attempts at a polished veneer. All these splendid show Flat Stanley off escapades still could not escape the reality that it is the kid that determines the memory, not the parent or Flat Stanley. To illustrate the fishing trip? He chose the shot of the lobster we bought at the fish store afterwards. The 50 year anniversary party in Massachusetts where he played all day with his cousins? He shot a picture of the dog. And the pirate cruise? The one shot was used up. Hopefully they turned out on my phone. When I asked my son what he loved best, he said the ice cream afterwards. I didn't get a picture of that though.
So despite all my parental sins, my son remains untainted by Flat Stanley or me, still viewing summer as time off as properly spent in pursuit of very little when the rest of life requires so much. Flat Stanley remains a secondary perpetual nag in my book; but I'll give him credit. We had a fun time with the memories we were forced to create on his behalf even if the most memorable parts like the best moments of actual summer and life, were not always captured on film and don't translate well to a poster.
Look at any second grade wall the first month of the school year and the photo essays staring this pressed paper hero will showcase trips to museums, Europe, cruises, salt water fishing for prize Marlins, making salt water taffy but not eating it, rodeo elephant rides, free style skydiving, hiking the Appalachian trail, meeting NFL and NBA stars on the street for a pick up game, trying out for Broadway shows and throwing out the ceremonial first pitch. You'll see dance recitals that rival the Joffrey and ice cream sundaes that require building permits, great pictures of kids shaking hands with world leaders, rides in helicopters, winning the slots at Vegas and professional cooking classes with Iron Chef Michael Simon.
If the Flat Stanley project were subjected to judicial standards of truth, those photo essays would be very different. Every poster that included a trip would showcase F.S. strapped in a car saying, "Are we there yet?" Most would have a shot of the paper thin boy watching television, playing the Wii and coming to Mom on a perfect summer day and saying, "I'm bored." But there are no essays about how Flat Stanley sunburned the day we went to the ocean because we ran out of sun block or how we spent three weeks looking all over the house for the library book that he lost. No one writes or brags about how Flat Stanley played cards with the whole family past midnight or how he subsequently did not get up until after noon the next day.
I admit, I'm not going to buck that trend but now I know why I hate Flat Stanley.
Flat Stanleys are the school assignment equivalent of New Year's Resolutions and the boasts made at 20 year high school reunions rolled into one. We'd like to think we did fun exciting thoughtful splendid outings all summer long; and we can talk a good game but... just as reality indicates that we might not be our driver's licence weight and height, so also, the photos of Flat Stanley often show a kid who only wears one outfit all summer long.
It's not that we're all just braggarts and liars. It's not that we're simply poor planners or slackers. It's not that we didn't take the assignment seriously; it's that we're invested in the kids, not Flat Stanley. On those days when we say "Let's go to the pool!"getting the suntan lotion, the swimsuits, the towels, the sandals, and everyone loaded in the car was the priority and the purpose. Half way there, we'd remember we forgot the camera or we forgot Stanley or both. Even if we tried to outsmart ourselves by leaving the camera and Stanley in the car for the next outing, we'd forget we did that when the next outing came or the next outing would be a limited party that took the other car. Flat Stanley was not part of the routine, not part of the family, and not part of the mental mind set when we were thinking, "Fun!"
But with one week to go, I started thinking "Panic!"
So instead of bracing honesty, we embraced staged earnest emergency actions. Last week they went fishing. Last weekend, we went up to Connecticut for a big reunion. Yesterday we drove to Baltimore for a pirate ship cruise. Flat Stanley attended them all. We could document we did something of value and quality this summer. In the spirit of the actual assignment, I let my son take some of the pictures and pick the shots.
It was then that the authenticity that is childhood shone through my attempts at a polished veneer. All these splendid show Flat Stanley off escapades still could not escape the reality that it is the kid that determines the memory, not the parent or Flat Stanley. To illustrate the fishing trip? He chose the shot of the lobster we bought at the fish store afterwards. The 50 year anniversary party in Massachusetts where he played all day with his cousins? He shot a picture of the dog. And the pirate cruise? The one shot was used up. Hopefully they turned out on my phone. When I asked my son what he loved best, he said the ice cream afterwards. I didn't get a picture of that though.
So despite all my parental sins, my son remains untainted by Flat Stanley or me, still viewing summer as time off as properly spent in pursuit of very little when the rest of life requires so much. Flat Stanley remains a secondary perpetual nag in my book; but I'll give him credit. We had a fun time with the memories we were forced to create on his behalf even if the most memorable parts like the best moments of actual summer and life, were not always captured on film and don't translate well to a poster.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Cracking the Code
Saturday, my daughter came up the stairs and glumly interrogated me. "What are we going to do today?"
I rattled off the schedule, two basketball games, a run to drop off the high schooler for her service hours and a major art project for the third grader. "That's boring." It was true that none of it involved or concerned her. "Well," I asked, "What do you want to do today?" I was open to suggestions.
She walked off, "Guess I'll do my homework." I didn't remember barking at her to do that but reasoned, it was fine with me if she tackled it now.
A few minutes later, my son came to me, "What's for breakfast?"
I asked. "What do you want for breakfast?" I was fixing oatmeal but knew he didn't like oatmeal and we had other options. "Fine, I guess I'll have oatmeal." he said and took the bowl I'd just made and began eating.
At first I thought perhaps they were just not fully awake yet and that this was a mere fluke of not listening. But I went into the tv room. "What are you watching?" I asked. They turned it off.
After lunch, I asked my oldest son, "Do you want to play a game?" He went to the kitchen and started doing dishes. Every question I asked which involved someone else making a decision resulted in a dutiful response that had not ever been asked for....I didn't know why but I thought I'd test it further.
"Anyone want to go with me to the store?" I threw out. Normally saying I'm going out gets a list of what is needed and who wants to come. However, I'd posed it as a question.
"No, I need to finish my project."
"We're playing a game here."
I even got an annoyed glance up from a book. A trip out alone! That doesn't happen. Ever. You'ld think I'd be completely overjoyed at the prospect but being a mother means automatic neuosis....so my brain is wondering...."Why don't my kids want to play with me?" "Aren't I fun????"
Fortunately, having cracked the code, I know how to restore equilibrium in the system. "While I'm out, be sure and fold the laundry I left on the couch." Sure enough, the second the words escape my lips I hear,"AW Mom! Can I come with you?" "I need some markers and clay to finish my project." and "Can we go get haircuts while we're out?" Normalness has returned.
If I figure out the magic phrase to get them fold the clothing on the couch, I promise I'll let you know.
I rattled off the schedule, two basketball games, a run to drop off the high schooler for her service hours and a major art project for the third grader. "That's boring." It was true that none of it involved or concerned her. "Well," I asked, "What do you want to do today?" I was open to suggestions.
She walked off, "Guess I'll do my homework." I didn't remember barking at her to do that but reasoned, it was fine with me if she tackled it now.
A few minutes later, my son came to me, "What's for breakfast?"
I asked. "What do you want for breakfast?" I was fixing oatmeal but knew he didn't like oatmeal and we had other options. "Fine, I guess I'll have oatmeal." he said and took the bowl I'd just made and began eating.
At first I thought perhaps they were just not fully awake yet and that this was a mere fluke of not listening. But I went into the tv room. "What are you watching?" I asked. They turned it off.
After lunch, I asked my oldest son, "Do you want to play a game?" He went to the kitchen and started doing dishes. Every question I asked which involved someone else making a decision resulted in a dutiful response that had not ever been asked for....I didn't know why but I thought I'd test it further.
"Anyone want to go with me to the store?" I threw out. Normally saying I'm going out gets a list of what is needed and who wants to come. However, I'd posed it as a question.
"No, I need to finish my project."
"We're playing a game here."
I even got an annoyed glance up from a book. A trip out alone! That doesn't happen. Ever. You'ld think I'd be completely overjoyed at the prospect but being a mother means automatic neuosis....so my brain is wondering...."Why don't my kids want to play with me?" "Aren't I fun????"
Fortunately, having cracked the code, I know how to restore equilibrium in the system. "While I'm out, be sure and fold the laundry I left on the couch." Sure enough, the second the words escape my lips I hear,"AW Mom! Can I come with you?" "I need some markers and clay to finish my project." and "Can we go get haircuts while we're out?" Normalness has returned.
If I figure out the magic phrase to get them fold the clothing on the couch, I promise I'll let you know.
Monday, June 28, 2010
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!
“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!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Coffee Free Zone*
Driving my kids to school, my daughter proceeded to tell me about the water cycle as discussed on a "How Stuff Works" video. The theory is that because there are so many trillions of water molecules in a cup of coffee, that some of the molecules from President Abraham Lincoln's coffee on the day he was sworn in, could have followed the water cycle all around the world, through the sewers, the treatment plants, into the oceans and streams, across continents, back into clouds to rain into the local reservoir and thus return through the sinks of the nearby Starbucks into a cup for you.
Sounds tasty doesn't it?
While mathematically, it is statistically possible that old Abe's cup of Joe became a current overpriced cup of java; I've taken statistics and know that what can be illustrated cannot necessarily be proven. There are lies, damn lies and statistics as Twain once said.
For instance, remember Reach Mouth Wash? When it first came out, they touted the fact that they reduced plaque by 300% and they did, when compared to doing nothing. But when compared to gargling with water or brushing one's teeth, they did only 10% against the former. Reach sales plummeted when the scam of statistics was exposed. Having learned the statistical possibility of Lincoln's ahem, "coffee in its distilled by the body form" might be in my water, I predict a Reach mouth wash comeback at least in this household.
But my daughter insisted the water cycle proved it. Feeling really glad I stuck to diet coke at the moment, I pointed out that in some cases, like wines, water is taken out of the cycle for decades. I privately wondered if I should switch to that vice at that moment, it sounded more palatable. There is some knowledge that just isn't very useful for everyday life; or at the very least, for enjoying living. "We don't KNOW know." I countered.
"But the math proves that there's a 100% chance of water molecules from the coffee having come from President Lincoln's the day he took office!"
I pointed out that it isn't like one can Marlin Perkins style tag individual water molecules and release them back into the wild as it were. I also pointed out that water can get stuck, frozen on the mountains of Tibet, absorbed into a deep river inside the Earth, mingling in the ocean deep off South America, bottled in Fiji and sent here to sit on a 7-11 store shelf. Some of the water might have been absorbed by the woman who drank it, who then had a baby who took in those water molecules as part of his development and be walking around now with Honest Abe's water vapors as part of his DNA!For that matter, the rogue H20 could be absorbed by a jelly fish or drunk by a pig or mixed with other chemicals to make shampoo or concentrated orange juice or toothpaste.
Besides, we don't know if the President went to the facilities on Inauguration day after drinking coffee, so it might be a day younger. The very discussion itself was enough to put me off drinking water period.
She asked who Marlin Perkins was.
"Let me put it this way," I answered. "If your theory is correct, you probably brushed your teeth with him."
* Video of "How Stuff Works" on water cycle is linked in the title if you want to watch.
Sounds tasty doesn't it?
While mathematically, it is statistically possible that old Abe's cup of Joe became a current overpriced cup of java; I've taken statistics and know that what can be illustrated cannot necessarily be proven. There are lies, damn lies and statistics as Twain once said.
For instance, remember Reach Mouth Wash? When it first came out, they touted the fact that they reduced plaque by 300% and they did, when compared to doing nothing. But when compared to gargling with water or brushing one's teeth, they did only 10% against the former. Reach sales plummeted when the scam of statistics was exposed. Having learned the statistical possibility of Lincoln's ahem, "coffee in its distilled by the body form" might be in my water, I predict a Reach mouth wash comeback at least in this household.
But my daughter insisted the water cycle proved it. Feeling really glad I stuck to diet coke at the moment, I pointed out that in some cases, like wines, water is taken out of the cycle for decades. I privately wondered if I should switch to that vice at that moment, it sounded more palatable. There is some knowledge that just isn't very useful for everyday life; or at the very least, for enjoying living. "We don't KNOW know." I countered.
"But the math proves that there's a 100% chance of water molecules from the coffee having come from President Lincoln's the day he took office!"
I pointed out that it isn't like one can Marlin Perkins style tag individual water molecules and release them back into the wild as it were. I also pointed out that water can get stuck, frozen on the mountains of Tibet, absorbed into a deep river inside the Earth, mingling in the ocean deep off South America, bottled in Fiji and sent here to sit on a 7-11 store shelf. Some of the water might have been absorbed by the woman who drank it, who then had a baby who took in those water molecules as part of his development and be walking around now with Honest Abe's water vapors as part of his DNA!For that matter, the rogue H20 could be absorbed by a jelly fish or drunk by a pig or mixed with other chemicals to make shampoo or concentrated orange juice or toothpaste.
Besides, we don't know if the President went to the facilities on Inauguration day after drinking coffee, so it might be a day younger. The very discussion itself was enough to put me off drinking water period.
She asked who Marlin Perkins was.
"Let me put it this way," I answered. "If your theory is correct, you probably brushed your teeth with him."
* Video of "How Stuff Works" on water cycle is linked in the title if you want to watch.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Driving the Lessons Home to Me
I have a sixteen year old. He is learning to drive. Sometimes he hugs the road a bit too close to the curb and I silently will the trees and the mailboxes to jump back about two feet.
We have high ceilings.
Enter one five year old child full of joy, lighter than the balloon tied carefully to his wrist by an unreasonable parent. Said child is clever and knows that school scissors will cut the ribbon and allow him and the balloon their much deserved freedom. The deed is done in an instant. The balloon is now 25 feet up and the child crushed, all before Mom has finished unloading the car of all the other children.
I came in to find my son shooting his glider at the balloon. One presumes he hoped to lance the loop at the end with the nose of his plane and have the weight of the airhog bring the balloon back down to Earth. Needless to say, it didn't work, though it did take down a cover from one of the lights on the chandellier.
He was very sad when I declared this a no fly zone. I told him to let me think on the problem over dinner. He agreed. That evening, while he was taking his shower, I used a broom to perform the manuever that the plane could not, leaving the wayward balloon stationed in his room over his bed.
"Wow! How did you do it Mom?"
Visualizing my son attempting to steer the broom towards the balloon and taking out a few pictures that like the mail boxes and trees, couldn't get out of the way, I punted.
"It's technical. I'll teach you when you're older."
"Like how old?"
"Sixteen?"
Amazingly, he accepted this answer. Now I just have to help the older brother with the driving. Maybe I could put this off for another nine years too!
We have high ceilings.
Enter one five year old child full of joy, lighter than the balloon tied carefully to his wrist by an unreasonable parent. Said child is clever and knows that school scissors will cut the ribbon and allow him and the balloon their much deserved freedom. The deed is done in an instant. The balloon is now 25 feet up and the child crushed, all before Mom has finished unloading the car of all the other children.
I came in to find my son shooting his glider at the balloon. One presumes he hoped to lance the loop at the end with the nose of his plane and have the weight of the airhog bring the balloon back down to Earth. Needless to say, it didn't work, though it did take down a cover from one of the lights on the chandellier.
He was very sad when I declared this a no fly zone. I told him to let me think on the problem over dinner. He agreed. That evening, while he was taking his shower, I used a broom to perform the manuever that the plane could not, leaving the wayward balloon stationed in his room over his bed.
"Wow! How did you do it Mom?"
Visualizing my son attempting to steer the broom towards the balloon and taking out a few pictures that like the mail boxes and trees, couldn't get out of the way, I punted.
"It's technical. I'll teach you when you're older."
"Like how old?"
"Sixteen?"
Amazingly, he accepted this answer. Now I just have to help the older brother with the driving. Maybe I could put this off for another nine years too!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
23 Boxes of Powdered Sugar
I hate summer math workbooks.
I know the kids need to keep their skills sharp. Heaven knows I need a calculator to double check my sums when I write checks. But making your kid do math on a daily basis, when you add in trying to get them to read, make their bed, in some cases, indulge in a daily shower, not leave clothing on the floor and eat the occasional vegetable, it gets to be a bit much.
But now that I'm working with my 7 year old daughter and I'm dieting, I hate the math books even more.
Word problems currently try to be hip, interactive and engaging. Take three cans out of the cubbard. Take three boxes. Arrange them according to net weight. Which is heaviest? Which is lightest?
So we got out the powdered sugar, the instant jello vanilla pudding and a box of jiffy muffin mix, and a can of pineapple, tomato paste and refried beans.
The powdered sugar and the pineapple won the weight contest for heaviest.
The jello and the paste won the least.
Putting the items back away, I stared at the One Pound box of powdered sugar suddenly struck by its size and realized, I had 23 boxes left to lose, probably 25 if I used that one box on a cake frosting I'd been hoping to make. If I was truely serious about losing weight, I should use the tomato paste.
Damn I hate math.
I know the kids need to keep their skills sharp. Heaven knows I need a calculator to double check my sums when I write checks. But making your kid do math on a daily basis, when you add in trying to get them to read, make their bed, in some cases, indulge in a daily shower, not leave clothing on the floor and eat the occasional vegetable, it gets to be a bit much.
But now that I'm working with my 7 year old daughter and I'm dieting, I hate the math books even more.
Word problems currently try to be hip, interactive and engaging. Take three cans out of the cubbard. Take three boxes. Arrange them according to net weight. Which is heaviest? Which is lightest?
So we got out the powdered sugar, the instant jello vanilla pudding and a box of jiffy muffin mix, and a can of pineapple, tomato paste and refried beans.
The powdered sugar and the pineapple won the weight contest for heaviest.
The jello and the paste won the least.
Putting the items back away, I stared at the One Pound box of powdered sugar suddenly struck by its size and realized, I had 23 boxes left to lose, probably 25 if I used that one box on a cake frosting I'd been hoping to make. If I was truely serious about losing weight, I should use the tomato paste.
Damn I hate math.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Top Ten Reasons this Blog is Late...Paul was in the Hospital
Title: Top Ten Reasons Paul is Back in the Hospital
10) Likes having a staff.
9) Building a complete collection of fetching open faced gowns.
8) Trying to get quality alone time with Mom.
7) Have to beat last year's drain on the insurance company.
6) The food.
5) Wants to hit on the nurses.
4) Dad needed a break from work and Mom needed a haircut. Only way to make sure both happen.
3) My own room.
2) Even with the alarms and specialists and doctors, it's quieter.
1) Personal insurance against becoming an older brother.
By way of an update, we have come home and Paul is doing much better but it did keep me from posting at my normal time. My apologies to anyone who came here hoping for fresh stuff and finding what they thought was a dead blog.
10) Likes having a staff.
9) Building a complete collection of fetching open faced gowns.
8) Trying to get quality alone time with Mom.
7) Have to beat last year's drain on the insurance company.
6) The food.
5) Wants to hit on the nurses.
4) Dad needed a break from work and Mom needed a haircut. Only way to make sure both happen.
3) My own room.
2) Even with the alarms and specialists and doctors, it's quieter.
1) Personal insurance against becoming an older brother.
By way of an update, we have come home and Paul is doing much better but it did keep me from posting at my normal time. My apologies to anyone who came here hoping for fresh stuff and finding what they thought was a dead blog.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Ladybug Ladybug Fly Away
Nothing unites brothers and sisters like a mutual enemy. Mom calling for people to come clean up for example.
Or mutual fear.
In this case, it was bed time. Mom had done her part. All children under the age of 7 had been attended to, teeth brushed; stories read, clean, fresh pajamas and beds tucked in with prayers and such. Mom had recently explained that parenting hours are from 6 A.M. to 9 P.M. with provisos for children who are sick or under the age of 3. It has been a tough summer thus far enforcing this but I'd finally gotten the key message through. All others need to disappear into their rooms during non-service hours.
So when my fiver shouted out "Mommmmmmmmmmm. There's a bug in my room." I called back up the stairs to see if this was a five alarm bug or a don't bug me type bug.
"It's a ladybug." was the scared reply.
I called back that ladybugs were happy bugs, friendly bugs and would not bite, bother or scare anyone.
But other people upstairs only heard, "There's a bug in my room."
Immediately, five other residents of the upstairs bedrooms could just feel the presence of six legged creatures and see them everywhere. Not buying the mass insect hysteria, I let it be known that it was bed time, even for bed bugs.
So while I busied myself with the dinner dishes, the kids took matters into their own hands. Clearly, no one should sleep alone and clearly, no one could sleep in the bug infested room or the room adjacent to that, though that may have been a boy induced allergy to Barbies and all things pink.
My oldest son reported to me as he came out of his room, (also upstairs), the scene just outside his door. Commando crawling siblings armed with pillows and comforters scuttled across the floor like plaid and pink and Disney Cars colored ladybugs. They scrambled into the toddler room where two sisters were only too delighted to share their night time accommodations. They shut the door and turned out the lights, within minutes all of them were asleep.
They all slept in that one room that night.
I had to consider the possibilities; could ladybugs be used as a security system, to keep kids in bed after hours? Could they be used as a herding prod, to get kids out the door and into the car? Or as an incentive...eat your salad, or I release this ladybug into the kitchen.
But in the morning, I located said ladybug and took it outside to the garden and people resumed their normal citizen kid lives.
I haven't used the ladybugs despite their obvious alure, because I know, with great power comes great responsibility.
Or mutual fear.
In this case, it was bed time. Mom had done her part. All children under the age of 7 had been attended to, teeth brushed; stories read, clean, fresh pajamas and beds tucked in with prayers and such. Mom had recently explained that parenting hours are from 6 A.M. to 9 P.M. with provisos for children who are sick or under the age of 3. It has been a tough summer thus far enforcing this but I'd finally gotten the key message through. All others need to disappear into their rooms during non-service hours.
So when my fiver shouted out "Mommmmmmmmmmm. There's a bug in my room." I called back up the stairs to see if this was a five alarm bug or a don't bug me type bug.
"It's a ladybug." was the scared reply.
I called back that ladybugs were happy bugs, friendly bugs and would not bite, bother or scare anyone.
But other people upstairs only heard, "There's a bug in my room."
Immediately, five other residents of the upstairs bedrooms could just feel the presence of six legged creatures and see them everywhere. Not buying the mass insect hysteria, I let it be known that it was bed time, even for bed bugs.
So while I busied myself with the dinner dishes, the kids took matters into their own hands. Clearly, no one should sleep alone and clearly, no one could sleep in the bug infested room or the room adjacent to that, though that may have been a boy induced allergy to Barbies and all things pink.
My oldest son reported to me as he came out of his room, (also upstairs), the scene just outside his door. Commando crawling siblings armed with pillows and comforters scuttled across the floor like plaid and pink and Disney Cars colored ladybugs. They scrambled into the toddler room where two sisters were only too delighted to share their night time accommodations. They shut the door and turned out the lights, within minutes all of them were asleep.
They all slept in that one room that night.
I had to consider the possibilities; could ladybugs be used as a security system, to keep kids in bed after hours? Could they be used as a herding prod, to get kids out the door and into the car? Or as an incentive...eat your salad, or I release this ladybug into the kitchen.
But in the morning, I located said ladybug and took it outside to the garden and people resumed their normal citizen kid lives.
I haven't used the ladybugs despite their obvious alure, because I know, with great power comes great responsibility.
Friday, June 19, 2009
What I'd Do
A friend of mine had a convergence of the planets such that she will be sans her five children for a week while her husband is off for the summer. She emailed me, "What should we do?"
I answered: First, turn off the phones and run around the house screaming at the top of your lungs..."I'm off duty! I'm on vacation." Then, before the neighbors speculate on what you did with your children, calm down, pour a glass of wine and do one or all of the following.
1) Read a book without pictures.
2) Watch television you wouldn't and movies too,
3) Go to a coffee shop or a restaurant that uses plates and forks.
4) Then go to a museum where there are breakable things
5) and a concert your kids would deem uncool.
6) Take a walk in a park without themes or jungle gyms or with it and hog the swings.
7) Make an appointment at a parlor that doesn't use an elephant for the sink and experience an unrushed hair cut.
8) Cook weird food.
9) Drink the wine.
10)Make a list of what you didn't do today --pay bills, run a wash, bus the table or vacuum pasta pieces and apple slices off the floor. Then realize ever so softly, you miss it because of what these repetitive daily tasks meant.
I left off the thing most obvious because that's how you get to having to wait for a planetary convergence to enjoy the rest of these things.
I answered: First, turn off the phones and run around the house screaming at the top of your lungs..."I'm off duty! I'm on vacation." Then, before the neighbors speculate on what you did with your children, calm down, pour a glass of wine and do one or all of the following.
1) Read a book without pictures.
2) Watch television you wouldn't and movies too,
3) Go to a coffee shop or a restaurant that uses plates and forks.
4) Then go to a museum where there are breakable things
5) and a concert your kids would deem uncool.
6) Take a walk in a park without themes or jungle gyms or with it and hog the swings.
7) Make an appointment at a parlor that doesn't use an elephant for the sink and experience an unrushed hair cut.
8) Cook weird food.
9) Drink the wine.
10)Make a list of what you didn't do today --pay bills, run a wash, bus the table or vacuum pasta pieces and apple slices off the floor. Then realize ever so softly, you miss it because of what these repetitive daily tasks meant.
I left off the thing most obvious because that's how you get to having to wait for a planetary convergence to enjoy the rest of these things.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Breaking Fast of Champions
Learning to read the tea leaves of my various children’s inclinations and interests has often left me struggling between the desire to raise each child individually and the functional ease of running an army in which choices and options are extremely limited.
As a mom, it’s just simpler to say “Okay dogfaces, make your beds and get dressed or there’s no breakfast.” And “Drop and give me 20 minutes of cleaning before you get a minute of computer time.” than it is to accommodate the fact that on any given Saturday, three got up at six to watch cartoons, two more awakened at six-thirty, didn’t like the shows that were on and went back to sleep after fixing themselves waffles, and three play the Wii system downstairs until noon when their fingers give out and they notice...they're starving.
If I wait until everyone is up to cook, I’ll be here until eleven thirty and have blown the morning. If I feed people on demand, I’ll be a short order chef all day. The trick in a large family, is learning when to switch into the mode of raising nine only children, and when it’s time to raise only nine, and when it is time to raise Cain.
On the subject of sons and daughters also rising, I have come to the following hard and fast rule. “If you are old enough to read, you are old enough to feed yourself on Saturday morning.”
My daughters rejoiced at this new found freedom and promptly got out the griddle and made pancakes. My oldest son fired up the microwave to make himself some bacon. Having started the project, they now needed supervision to usher the breakfast through to safety. I got to cook pancakes. I got to cook bacon and show how to clean out the oven. I even had the luxury of making eggs for the two toddlers that saw the eggs used for pancakes and began caterwauling for a scrambled breakfast. It was 11:30 am and I had a pile of dishes and only six of nine children fed. I had snitched a piece of burnt bacon and a pancake sopped in syrup. It would have been grossly unfair to deny my middle son his modest request for oatmeal with raisins and cut up apple but I can’t say I didn’t feel tempted.
After cleaning up, I created the supplemental rule. The corollary to this parental guideline is, “If you make a mess, you will be cleaning it up.” Suddenly, the kid that said “Food taste better on real plates.” preferred paper. Suddenly, my daughter liked microwaved scrambled eggs. Suddenly, stuff coming out of a toaster tasted “really good.” However, meals were still being drifted into like high tide, and the menu ran the gamut from sausage and grits to hot chocolate and apples.
To minimize traffic congestion and mess, I set hours for the kitchen when the cafeteria is closed. It may seem a bit petty but I firmly hold that there is no way the kids can be more fatigued than me, and as such, if I can’t sleep until ten, why should they? The first time I instituted kitchen closing hours, there were howls of protests from the older children.
“I’m sorry, but the Board of Health requires that we suspend food preparation for the next ninety minutes pending clean up from the first meal of the day.”
“But I didn’t eat.” My son protested.
Now lest anyone think I am heartless, I will stipulate that I had seen this same teen scarf down three pieces of cold pizza as soon as he opened the refrigerator.
“You just had…” I pointed to the plastic bag containing the last humble piece of pepperoni from Friday night.
“That was just a snack.”
Looking at the individualized choices that ranged from peanut butter on toast to hot chocolate and an apple to microwave pancakes to baked cinnamon rolls, I have come up with one more rule for managing the kitchen on weekends.
Bring Mom breakfast in bed and don’t tell me what you’re eating. Just clean up afterwards.
As a mom, it’s just simpler to say “Okay dogfaces, make your beds and get dressed or there’s no breakfast.” And “Drop and give me 20 minutes of cleaning before you get a minute of computer time.” than it is to accommodate the fact that on any given Saturday, three got up at six to watch cartoons, two more awakened at six-thirty, didn’t like the shows that were on and went back to sleep after fixing themselves waffles, and three play the Wii system downstairs until noon when their fingers give out and they notice...they're starving.
If I wait until everyone is up to cook, I’ll be here until eleven thirty and have blown the morning. If I feed people on demand, I’ll be a short order chef all day. The trick in a large family, is learning when to switch into the mode of raising nine only children, and when it’s time to raise only nine, and when it is time to raise Cain.
On the subject of sons and daughters also rising, I have come to the following hard and fast rule. “If you are old enough to read, you are old enough to feed yourself on Saturday morning.”
My daughters rejoiced at this new found freedom and promptly got out the griddle and made pancakes. My oldest son fired up the microwave to make himself some bacon. Having started the project, they now needed supervision to usher the breakfast through to safety. I got to cook pancakes. I got to cook bacon and show how to clean out the oven. I even had the luxury of making eggs for the two toddlers that saw the eggs used for pancakes and began caterwauling for a scrambled breakfast. It was 11:30 am and I had a pile of dishes and only six of nine children fed. I had snitched a piece of burnt bacon and a pancake sopped in syrup. It would have been grossly unfair to deny my middle son his modest request for oatmeal with raisins and cut up apple but I can’t say I didn’t feel tempted.
After cleaning up, I created the supplemental rule. The corollary to this parental guideline is, “If you make a mess, you will be cleaning it up.” Suddenly, the kid that said “Food taste better on real plates.” preferred paper. Suddenly, my daughter liked microwaved scrambled eggs. Suddenly, stuff coming out of a toaster tasted “really good.” However, meals were still being drifted into like high tide, and the menu ran the gamut from sausage and grits to hot chocolate and apples.
To minimize traffic congestion and mess, I set hours for the kitchen when the cafeteria is closed. It may seem a bit petty but I firmly hold that there is no way the kids can be more fatigued than me, and as such, if I can’t sleep until ten, why should they? The first time I instituted kitchen closing hours, there were howls of protests from the older children.
“I’m sorry, but the Board of Health requires that we suspend food preparation for the next ninety minutes pending clean up from the first meal of the day.”
“But I didn’t eat.” My son protested.
Now lest anyone think I am heartless, I will stipulate that I had seen this same teen scarf down three pieces of cold pizza as soon as he opened the refrigerator.
“You just had…” I pointed to the plastic bag containing the last humble piece of pepperoni from Friday night.
“That was just a snack.”
Looking at the individualized choices that ranged from peanut butter on toast to hot chocolate and an apple to microwave pancakes to baked cinnamon rolls, I have come up with one more rule for managing the kitchen on weekends.
Bring Mom breakfast in bed and don’t tell me what you’re eating. Just clean up afterwards.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Imponderables
It's a snow day so I don't have the quiet to think, that's why lists are a good cheat. Enjoy.
10) Why does my six year old still think the top of the stairs is a good place to practice an arabesque?
9) How come my three year old raids the food pantry for poppy seed rolls and stores them under her bed? I mean, if it had been cookies I would have understood. She's done ice cream and apple juice before. I've taken to checking underneath her bed for grocery monsters.
8) Why can my adolescent daughter be the high scorer on both her basketball teams and not put clothing in the laundry basket?
7) What made my four oldest think stacking soup bowls face up in the dishwashing machine was a good idea?
6) Why is it that the child who has the most shoes, can’t find any two that match when I’m in a hurry?
5) How do all my kids know how much they are owed in allowance when some of them don’t know which day it is?
4) Exactly how messy does a room have to become before a child will recognize that such a state of being is unhealthy?
3) Why is it all the times she loved baked potatoes are negated by the one time she threw up?
2) Why can a boy wear the same shirt for three days and fuss if he finds a speck on a bowl at breakfast?
1) Why do multiple children act shocked when they've been pegging their brother with snow repeatedly, that he retaliates?
and the final question, When is Spring Break?
10) Why does my six year old still think the top of the stairs is a good place to practice an arabesque?
9) How come my three year old raids the food pantry for poppy seed rolls and stores them under her bed? I mean, if it had been cookies I would have understood. She's done ice cream and apple juice before. I've taken to checking underneath her bed for grocery monsters.
8) Why can my adolescent daughter be the high scorer on both her basketball teams and not put clothing in the laundry basket?
7) What made my four oldest think stacking soup bowls face up in the dishwashing machine was a good idea?
6) Why is it that the child who has the most shoes, can’t find any two that match when I’m in a hurry?
5) How do all my kids know how much they are owed in allowance when some of them don’t know which day it is?
4) Exactly how messy does a room have to become before a child will recognize that such a state of being is unhealthy?
3) Why is it all the times she loved baked potatoes are negated by the one time she threw up?
2) Why can a boy wear the same shirt for three days and fuss if he finds a speck on a bowl at breakfast?
1) Why do multiple children act shocked when they've been pegging their brother with snow repeatedly, that he retaliates?
and the final question, When is Spring Break?
Friday, January 23, 2009
I'll Have a Banana Split
In this down economy, we no longer employ my favorite survival crutch, a maid service with the wonderful name, “Crisis Cleaners.” So now, I must cajole, bribe, entice and warn with a scary low calm voice, my children into keeping their rooms neat and the public areas of the house reasonably free of debris.
The following are provided as a public service to parents everywhere, methods of getting the under 18 crowd to clean up their acts, however temporary.
One Room at a Time Tornado: If I send each child to clean, they will scatter to the four corners of the house, knowing that as I work, I will only rarely come into contact with all of them, thus allowing whoever does not get caught in my peripheral vision to remain in relative obscurity and leisure. By corralling all the critters in a single room and declaring, “We’re not leaving this room until it is perfect.” and blocking the door, the room will sparkle. Some children may get roughed up by others in the process. That’s okay as long as they don’t make a mess of the carpet.
The down side: When they grow up, they will write about you.
One Task at a Time: This approach seems promising, with a Socialist, Each Task according to His/her Skill, appointment of duties. Gamers however soon discern that incompetency equals easier work. So despite the fact that my sons can enter cheat codes and create power points, text message without looking and create 1000 part Lego masterpieces, the operation of a dish washer, washing machine and the mop remain mysteries. For a time, we were at an impasse. However, as I now have the passwords to all the computers in our home, I now can conveniently “forget” how to log onto the machines until they remember how to operate a vacuum.
The One Task at a Time method works as long as tasks can be clearly delineated, but sometimes, the house needs an overhaul in cleanliness, which leads us to the next method of extracting a clean home, straight bribery.
We paid a professional to get the home clean on occasion. Now, we shall pay the amateur. Putting post-its on the rooms with the designated required tasks and the going rate does lead to competitive cleaning. As long as the dollars are cold hard cash and not checks, you can get a room that looks like it was cleaned by a kid for pennies on the dollar. The trouble is, they expect prompt payment and usually, the rooms require a professional (Mom), to go through and redo. The money pays for the illusory feeling of children obeying commands.
Beat the Clock: This works when they are three and you have a fist full of Hershey bar mini’s for the kids who help clean up in the next two minutes. I could tell you that I don’t use it because I worry about cavities or obesity or that my kids have gotten wise to this approach but the fact is, Hershey bars don’t last long in our house, and it’s not because of the children.
The one guaranteed method of getting the home House beautiful is to enlist the aid of my beloved spouse. If Dad is cleaning, then no child has a prayer of exonerating themselves or escaping the chore taskmaster me. We set the timer for one hour and everyone cleans. There are Windex bottles spraying windows, toilets being scrubbed, floors mopped and a vacuum humming everywhere. There are flourishes like children who put fresh flowers on the table or the enterprising nine year old who straightens the pantry and by the end of the sixty minutes, the house looks like civilized people might live here.
After an hour, everyone is exhausted and the idea of dirtying the sparkling kitchen with pots and pans seems a poor tribute to the children’s actual work. So we’ve added a bonus to Sunday One Hour Clean up rule. Dinner on Sunday is Sundaes, and we go out to get them. Now, I just have to figure out how I can manage my diet if we keep the house clean.
The following are provided as a public service to parents everywhere, methods of getting the under 18 crowd to clean up their acts, however temporary.
One Room at a Time Tornado: If I send each child to clean, they will scatter to the four corners of the house, knowing that as I work, I will only rarely come into contact with all of them, thus allowing whoever does not get caught in my peripheral vision to remain in relative obscurity and leisure. By corralling all the critters in a single room and declaring, “We’re not leaving this room until it is perfect.” and blocking the door, the room will sparkle. Some children may get roughed up by others in the process. That’s okay as long as they don’t make a mess of the carpet.
The down side: When they grow up, they will write about you.
One Task at a Time: This approach seems promising, with a Socialist, Each Task according to His/her Skill, appointment of duties. Gamers however soon discern that incompetency equals easier work. So despite the fact that my sons can enter cheat codes and create power points, text message without looking and create 1000 part Lego masterpieces, the operation of a dish washer, washing machine and the mop remain mysteries. For a time, we were at an impasse. However, as I now have the passwords to all the computers in our home, I now can conveniently “forget” how to log onto the machines until they remember how to operate a vacuum.
The One Task at a Time method works as long as tasks can be clearly delineated, but sometimes, the house needs an overhaul in cleanliness, which leads us to the next method of extracting a clean home, straight bribery.
We paid a professional to get the home clean on occasion. Now, we shall pay the amateur. Putting post-its on the rooms with the designated required tasks and the going rate does lead to competitive cleaning. As long as the dollars are cold hard cash and not checks, you can get a room that looks like it was cleaned by a kid for pennies on the dollar. The trouble is, they expect prompt payment and usually, the rooms require a professional (Mom), to go through and redo. The money pays for the illusory feeling of children obeying commands.
Beat the Clock: This works when they are three and you have a fist full of Hershey bar mini’s for the kids who help clean up in the next two minutes. I could tell you that I don’t use it because I worry about cavities or obesity or that my kids have gotten wise to this approach but the fact is, Hershey bars don’t last long in our house, and it’s not because of the children.
The one guaranteed method of getting the home House beautiful is to enlist the aid of my beloved spouse. If Dad is cleaning, then no child has a prayer of exonerating themselves or escaping the chore taskmaster me. We set the timer for one hour and everyone cleans. There are Windex bottles spraying windows, toilets being scrubbed, floors mopped and a vacuum humming everywhere. There are flourishes like children who put fresh flowers on the table or the enterprising nine year old who straightens the pantry and by the end of the sixty minutes, the house looks like civilized people might live here.
After an hour, everyone is exhausted and the idea of dirtying the sparkling kitchen with pots and pans seems a poor tribute to the children’s actual work. So we’ve added a bonus to Sunday One Hour Clean up rule. Dinner on Sunday is Sundaes, and we go out to get them. Now, I just have to figure out how I can manage my diet if we keep the house clean.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Time Out for Time Management
*Sorry I missed posting yesterday* Here's Your Chocolate Fix!*
Families with more than two children know the transition from man to man to zone defense in parenting takes many forms.
Some of the changes are in perception. For example, mini-vans and SUV’s seem oddly small and hand me downs no longer seem shabby.
Others are in policy; the five second rule gets extended to about a minute. Bathing is an every other day affair with the option to push to a third. Bedtime is strictly enforced, whereas television viewing options and time limits are often relaxed.
With three or more children, parenting becomes much more pragmatic and purely functional. There is none of that “hush that blanketed the house during nap time.” Having a child chug the dregs of your left over diet coke is no longer cause for alarm. The purity of the first baby’s diet, which never saw French fries until after the age of two, has given way to frustration, as the youngest just “won’t eat her Chicken McNuggets.”
But the greatest change in family policy and procedure is in the arena of transportation. Once one is past three kids, getting from point A to point B requires a pre-factored half an hour devoted to purely loading and unloading. Subsequent children necessitate factoring in ten additional minutes per minor to account for lost shoes, trips to the bathroom, negotiating car seats and memory recall about where one was actually going. With nine, I’ve had to accept that I will make it within 45 minutes of being fashionably late.
Now, I really hate being late. So I keep tweaking the system. To date, I’ve tried pre-packing a diaper bag and laying out the clothes the night beforehand. I’ve tried keeping their shoes in the car and spare socks in the back pocket of the driver seat. I’ve considered dressing them and myself before going to bed. We’ve even set our clocks to be ten minutes fast to help trick everyone into leaving earlier. That works until I start calculating the fake ten minutes into my schedule, or someone helpfully resets the clock to the actual time.
Enter reality.
I had made an appointment for our youngest. “I want you to bring in the baby for a weight check up on Friday at 8:30 before any sick kids come into the office,” The receptionist said.
The nurse was helping me out, letting me in before office hours. I agreed despite every mom cell in my body screaming “ARE YOU INSANE?!” But I told myself, I can do this. I just needed to plan out my attack.
The next morning started badly. I woke up at six thirty instead of six. Getting them dressed, fed, cleaned up from being fed, loaded in the car plus the diaper bag, the double stroller, purse, cell phone, keys, appointment book, coats, socks and a change of clothing for the child that was wearing pants with matching holes in both knees, we were on the road by 8:50.
When I made it to the parking lot, it was 9:20. It took every ounce of moral courage to not fake the sign in time on the sign in sheet. (9:37).
“Mrs. A!” the receptionist beamed. “You’re early.”
“What? My appointment was at 8:30.”
“It’s tomorrow. Today’s Thursday.”
“Right. Thursday.”
I looked at my four under the age of five children, all dressed, all fed, all ready to go somewhere. We were ahead of schedule.
“Can we wait?”
Families with more than two children know the transition from man to man to zone defense in parenting takes many forms.
Some of the changes are in perception. For example, mini-vans and SUV’s seem oddly small and hand me downs no longer seem shabby.
Others are in policy; the five second rule gets extended to about a minute. Bathing is an every other day affair with the option to push to a third. Bedtime is strictly enforced, whereas television viewing options and time limits are often relaxed.
With three or more children, parenting becomes much more pragmatic and purely functional. There is none of that “hush that blanketed the house during nap time.” Having a child chug the dregs of your left over diet coke is no longer cause for alarm. The purity of the first baby’s diet, which never saw French fries until after the age of two, has given way to frustration, as the youngest just “won’t eat her Chicken McNuggets.”
But the greatest change in family policy and procedure is in the arena of transportation. Once one is past three kids, getting from point A to point B requires a pre-factored half an hour devoted to purely loading and unloading. Subsequent children necessitate factoring in ten additional minutes per minor to account for lost shoes, trips to the bathroom, negotiating car seats and memory recall about where one was actually going. With nine, I’ve had to accept that I will make it within 45 minutes of being fashionably late.
Now, I really hate being late. So I keep tweaking the system. To date, I’ve tried pre-packing a diaper bag and laying out the clothes the night beforehand. I’ve tried keeping their shoes in the car and spare socks in the back pocket of the driver seat. I’ve considered dressing them and myself before going to bed. We’ve even set our clocks to be ten minutes fast to help trick everyone into leaving earlier. That works until I start calculating the fake ten minutes into my schedule, or someone helpfully resets the clock to the actual time.
Enter reality.
I had made an appointment for our youngest. “I want you to bring in the baby for a weight check up on Friday at 8:30 before any sick kids come into the office,” The receptionist said.
The nurse was helping me out, letting me in before office hours. I agreed despite every mom cell in my body screaming “ARE YOU INSANE?!” But I told myself, I can do this. I just needed to plan out my attack.
The next morning started badly. I woke up at six thirty instead of six. Getting them dressed, fed, cleaned up from being fed, loaded in the car plus the diaper bag, the double stroller, purse, cell phone, keys, appointment book, coats, socks and a change of clothing for the child that was wearing pants with matching holes in both knees, we were on the road by 8:50.
When I made it to the parking lot, it was 9:20. It took every ounce of moral courage to not fake the sign in time on the sign in sheet. (9:37).
“Mrs. A!” the receptionist beamed. “You’re early.”
“What? My appointment was at 8:30.”
“It’s tomorrow. Today’s Thursday.”
“Right. Thursday.”
I looked at my four under the age of five children, all dressed, all fed, all ready to go somewhere. We were ahead of schedule.
“Can we wait?”
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Thanks for the Christmas Memory
Whenever we go to mass en masse, for other congregants, there is instant entertainment. No matter how disciplined one might be in focusing on the celebration itself, nine children of assorted ages have a way of creating unintentional distraction.
Christmas day was just such an experience. We were in the cry room at Saint John's, having force marched the kids after opening a present a piece to get dressed for Christmas mass 8:30.
It was 7:45.
Because we were pressed for time, we opted for the Parish closest to home, rather than our normal Church There was a cry room which provided excellent cover and sound proofing for the squirmy set. We took up two rows.
Other people came to the children's room to avoid the scruitiny of coming late on December 25th. Our kids were actually quite good given their own desire to be home diving through the wrapping paper discovering hidden treasures. My 20 month old played peekaboo with the family behind us and took every opportunity to point out every "baby" that she spotted in the room.
The four year old and three year old began a minor battle of wills over the mini chairs for kids and who should have the blue and who should have the red seat.
We got to the offeratory and my three year old darling cupie doll began to talk.
She explained to her brother behind her for reasons which will soon be obvious, "It's not right to pick your nose. Mom says it's wrong to pick your nose. You can't pick your nose. You can't pick your nose. You can't pick your nose." She did a little dance and song, "That's the rule, you can't pick your nose. It's wrong. It's wrong to pick your nose."
The two women who were across from us lost composure.
Merry Christmas.
P.S. Sorry I didn't post Sunday, I was feeling sick.
Christmas day was just such an experience. We were in the cry room at Saint John's, having force marched the kids after opening a present a piece to get dressed for Christmas mass 8:30.
It was 7:45.
Because we were pressed for time, we opted for the Parish closest to home, rather than our normal Church There was a cry room which provided excellent cover and sound proofing for the squirmy set. We took up two rows.
Other people came to the children's room to avoid the scruitiny of coming late on December 25th. Our kids were actually quite good given their own desire to be home diving through the wrapping paper discovering hidden treasures. My 20 month old played peekaboo with the family behind us and took every opportunity to point out every "baby" that she spotted in the room.
The four year old and three year old began a minor battle of wills over the mini chairs for kids and who should have the blue and who should have the red seat.
We got to the offeratory and my three year old darling cupie doll began to talk.
She explained to her brother behind her for reasons which will soon be obvious, "It's not right to pick your nose. Mom says it's wrong to pick your nose. You can't pick your nose. You can't pick your nose. You can't pick your nose." She did a little dance and song, "That's the rule, you can't pick your nose. It's wrong. It's wrong to pick your nose."
The two women who were across from us lost composure.
Merry Christmas.
P.S. Sorry I didn't post Sunday, I was feeling sick.
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