What Time is it?

For the past two weeks, we've lived without a schedule and for the most part, so have my children.   The resulting free-for-all timelessness of the holidays made returning to reality come Monday, very difficult.   For some, more than others.

My eleven year old son walked through the door.  "I'm Free!"  he shouted as he grabbed a root beer from the refrigerator.

"Do you have any homework to do?"

"Yes..." I saw him physically deflate.  "Then you're not free." 

"I'm not ready to do homework." he explained.  "I need to exercise." 

"That's great.  Put your coat on and take down the trash. It will take five trips so you'll have gone half a mile by the time you finish."

"I just remembered, I do have a lot of math." he volunteered.
"Fine. Get to work then."

Five minutes later, I found him at the TV watching The Animated Adventures of Superman.
"What are you doing?  I thought you said you had homework."

"I needed to put a DVD on for Paul."
"It's on.  Go do your homework."

"Awwww. Do I have to?" 

"Well, you could take down the trash first.  That way, you could get it down the hill while it's still daylight."  

"I'll go do math."

Five minutes later, I found him in a vigorous ping pong gun shooter battle with his older brother.  "Did you finish your homework?"
"Bathroom!"  
I knocked on the bathroom.  "If you don't start your homework, I'll make you do the trash now before you start." 

I pulled out the chair.  Unable to dodge me any longer, he sat and opened his backpack.  I began working on dinner.  Five minutes in, I hear "Mommmm?" 

"Yes?"
"I forgot my math book."  

"I will take you back to school to pick up your book..."
"Thanks Mom! I..."

"After you take down the trash, not before."  

For the record, yes I drove him to get his book, yes he did take down the trash, and yes, he did get his homework done.   

Summer Break

Even Congress goes on vacation in August, but the lobbyists in my house, never sleep.

This morning, two of my darlings decided they wanted to go to the pool. They knew they would have to persuade Mom. What motivates Mom? Clean house. It's true. My husband can be persuaded to overlook bedtime with a good back rub. But me, no, my inner bureaucrat requires direct graft in the form of unasked for but well sustained hard labor.

Being three, she saw me wipe a door knob that had become sticky and promptly pounced on the idea. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, she and her sister set about washing each and every door knob. I was feeding the baby and planning the day, dimly aware of her project and the proposed compensation as peppered in her constant stream of chatter.

She then dropped a very wet terry cloth towel in my lap.
"Mom, we cleaned all the doors."

I was then instructed to close my eyes and led through the house to personally inspect each and every glistening door knob. Some had puddles below. "Now the h ouse looks beautiful." She explained. "Can we go to the pool?"

My to-do list shall be shunted to tomorrow. Maybe I can get her to learn how to sort socks.

Your Birth Order's Up

Remember back a few years when there was this book on Birth Order and how it affected personality and problem solving and creative thinking and leadership and all that non-tangible jazz? Being a first born, I naturally presumed it was nonsense and refused to get “sucked into” such things, except apparently, that’s what firstborns do. They think they have to invent the wheel and spend their whole lives discovering it’s okay to ask older and younger people for help and learning to reach out to others rather than rely solely on themselves.

Firstborn being married to a firstborn, this problem gets compounded when we look at our own firstborn. He keeps thinking if he asks for help, be it from a teacher, parent or friend, he is somehow failing to acquire knowledge properly. Explaining that asking for help to make sure one “gets it” with respect to simplifying quadratic equations or analyzing “Romeo and Juliette” is a sign of maturity and intelligence, so far has been a tough sell.

Second borns are more scrappy and this is true, although I kind of feel our second views herself as a first born as well. I know the second son feels much more like the fighting type than the first two, and struggles because he compares himself to someone twice his age. Explaining that a 2nd grader should not grade himself against a 9th grader has worked about as well as discussing with the firstborn that he should seek assistance when needed.

The middle child is an accommodator, one who diffuses situations by humor or by not being part of the power struggle. She committed to this philosophy at an early age and specializes in becoming invisible when fights break out. Not only is she the queen of Hide and Seek, she also can disappear in plain sight, transforming herself from the instigator of a fight over the Nintendo to the innocent bystander with a mere placing of her hands behind her back. I foresee a promising career for her in espionage, as no one is more tight-lipped about classified information. “Who ate all but the last spoonful of chocolate ice cream and left the carton in the freezer?” I may know intuitively, but baring a DNA test, I’ll never prove it in a court of law.

The next step is the baby, but I have at the moment, two to four candidates vying for that slot in the order, each taking turns to make compelling arguments for the job.

Which leaves poor number 5, who has four older and three and one pending younger, trying desperately to make sure she isn’t drowned by sheer numbers and somehow stands out. In my estimation, she’s doing a great job. She wears outfits that make her unmistakably original –usually a dress with tights, shorts, heels, sparkly things and an accessory of some sort that brings the whole thing together –a boa, hat, skates, wings, sixteen bangles, four pony tales and ribbons plus homemade jewelry. Any attempt to modify her self expression is viewed as a personal attack. Fortunately, the uniform policy of the school takes care of this problem 9 months out of the year, five days a week. I can live with the glitter glamour girl the rest of the time.

My problem? There Aren’t any Parenting Books on the Psychology of #6 through 9.

The Surest Sign there are No More Weeks of Winter

There is one bonifide signal that Spring has set into motion in earnest.

Last minute school projects.

Every parent has had that dreaded moment when they struggle between teaching responsibility for time management and the urge to become a Superhero and pull an all nighter with the child in question to ensure a decent grade. Most of the time, we wind up circling the wagons and helping the delinquent student to finish their work before 1 am, but not without occasionally morphing into the adult from the nether regions...if YOU EVER...I am NOT DOING THIS AGAIN...

The other day, I got a text message. "Need three fold before weekend!"

I ransacked my brain in the desperate hopes of having at some point purchased such an item that went unused. It would have helped if I knew what a threefold was. I text messaged back but before I got six taps in, I grew irritated and just phoned.

“Can’t talk. Turning off phone now.” was the response from my beloved teen.

Now, I couldn’t even text message. I knew a fishing expedition to the local office supply store was imminent.

We had just loaded up in the car from my second son’s baseball practice. It was 6:30. Dinner had yet to be served, showers and bed routines were being thrown out the window, and even microwave pot pies were looking like a time consuming chore.

Twelve year old to the rescue! She knew what a tri-fold was, I thought it was either a hat or a way to properly stow a flag. I had my atm machine card at the ready. We would go to the bank and then the art store. We could do this seamlessly if I booked.

Alas, the errand gods were not with us.

The ATM refused to cooperate. The drive thru had closed thirty minutes before we arrived. We also needed gas. Having experienced the engine light read “Low” before and actually run out, I wasn’t taking any chances, so we tanked up before proceeding with the poster hunt. It was now 7:24.

The art store was closed, but I knew of an office store still open, so I gambled, scrounging through my purse and the pockets of the car. Collectively, we found change amounting to$3.57. I did have to promise to pay the two toddlers back their respective 64 and 12 cents. It was 7:37 pm. They’d get showers the next day. For bed time stories, I handed a book from my satchel to my ten year old and instructed her “READ...aloud…expressively,” although I had to conceed, "Writing Query Letters that Rock!" wasn't my first choice for my children's night time supplimental literacy program. She abandoned it in favor of a discarded Avenger's comicbook. I was in no position to argue.

I drove at a not entirely state approved rate and we arrived at five minutes to eight. The twelve year old went in, I looked at the clock. We’d not get to dinner before 9 o’clock if I cooked.

I phoned the local roasted chicken establishment and placed an order for the family feast for four plus a few extra sides.

My daughter returned triumphant, carrying a poster board as large as herself. She had 17 cents left, so I paid back the 12 cents and listened to the other toddler howl at not receiving prompt reimbursement. For a kid who can't add or count past 15, he knew getting a nickle was getting stiffed. I offered to pay interest. He wasn’t moved. I handed him a credit card, but discovered he was a cash only kind of guy until his sister offered him a turn on the game boy.

We drove to the chicken store, but the cash problem still loomed. Five cents was insufficient to buy the family meal order I had placed, and I wasn't even sure my son would lend me back the five cents!

I took out the toddler rejected credit card and hoped my daughter could go two for two. In she marched, and returned. The card had expired one day prior. Maybe that’s why my son refused it.

I handed over another and waited. Driving in circles in the parking lot, hoping the restaurant would take it, hoping they would let her sign for it and go, the phone rang, but I was too stressed and distracted to deal with it. We saw my daughter waving with her hands full. I drove up, joyfully anticipating an end of the struggle.

Her sister went in to help bring back the bounty.

Driving home, while congratulating ourselves on a successful mission, I planned out bed time routine in my head. Then I got another text message.

“I tried to phone you. Project due Monday moved to next week.”

Declaration of Independence

The Right to Liberty

The other day was Prize day. We awarded our almost four year old with a cool metal swivel seat tricycle (think big wheel) for becoming potty trained. He has about an accident a day but diapers are no longer part of the routine. No longer a toddler, he was a full fledged “kid” with all the rights and privileges therein, allowance, solo baths, and his own not a hand me down bike.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Picking up the box, hearing the parts inside shift, I knew I was in for it, but the vision of my son’s happy eyes when he feasted on the red and black shiny new wheels over road my common sense. I would be Ubermom for a few minutes in my son’s eyes.

Johnny Boo was at pre-school. When I picked him up, I explained there was a big treat waiting for him. He pestered me all the way home for clues. Amazingly, saying it had three wheels elicited the deductive guess of a Robot Dinosaur which sent me mentally scurrying and worrying, would there be let down?

No, the box picture was sufficient to earn “Thank you! It’s my favors. My very favors thing.” From him. Satisfied, I opened the box and momentarily hyperventilated at the eight screws, sixteen washers, two large bolts and several metal components that resembled a fossil dig of bicycle parts. The directions were alas, only in Spanish, which I never learned.

Freedom of Speech

When I explained this might be difficult to my son, he brightly answered, “I speak Spanish…Hola.”

Okay, with translator help like that, I could still follow the pictures. Self censorship followed for the next twenty minutes.

Right to Assemble Peacefully

By this point outside on the first Spring feeling day of 2008, my daughter wanted to help too. She kept picking up the parts, leading me to scramble to keep everything together. The wind sent the box and directions flying, sending Johnny Boo and me running in opposite directions while Cupie Doll examined the screws and washers undeterred.

With my legs covering the washers and screws, the metal parts splayed over my lap, the directions weighted down by my cell phone and the wrench, with Cupie Doll and the baby strapped into the stroller howling in protest, I began the process of making a bike. I won’t say potty training was easier.

Right against Self Incrimination

Twenty five minutes later, the bike sat waiting it’s maiden voyage –but I sent the prize winner in to the bathroom, I thought it would be bad form if he christened it on it’s opening run.
The pedals were too far for his legs.

“I can’t reach.” He struggled, he wanted to enjoy the bike but it was essentially useless in this state.

Back over my legs again, fifteen minutes of hassle later, the bike was ready.

Johnny Boo had gone inside to watch cartoons.

Returning with the promise of cookies and juice as a snack, he got on the bike. The brake was a source of great interest and our first drive halted every two feet as he kept squeezing the handle. “I know how to stop!” he said delightedly. He then tried the pedals. His legs were still about an inch short for easy movement, but he could do it. His eyes glimmered with the knowledge, he had WHEELS.

Freedom of Petition

“Can we go for a ride?”
“Yes.” I pushed the stroller alongside him as we leisurely moved down the hill. “Can we go downtown?”

I should have asked a question at this point, but I was savoring the first of Spring sunshine and the cool breeze and the satisfaction of having made something work for a change...I was in my “I’m Ubermom” moment. Not quite listening, I said, “Yes.”

We came to the mail box and I made the turn for us to go back up the driveway.

Johnny Boo’s face darkened. “You said we could go downtown!” He folded his arms angrily.
That Ubermom feeling faded away.

“Downtown! Where Dad Works!” He sounded exasperated. How could Mom be this dense?

Due Process

Explaining that 20 miles on a tricycle in heavy traffic is not possible. He was three year old, he had a bike. That was supposed to mean freedom.

He felt betrayed.

After trying to reason with him, I opted for a 21st century solution and handed him the cell phone. “Here, talk to Dad.”

Freedom of the Press

As my two year old helped push him back up the hill while I pushed the stroller, he chatted with his father “I’m driving Dad, but Mom doesn’t know how to get to Downtown so I can’t come visit you.” He explained. I need a spin doctor.

Right to A Speedy Trial

Back at the house, I broke out the juice and cookie snack, “Do you like your prize?” I asked?
“Yes. But it can’t go downtown.” He said as he looked mournfully out the window at it parked on the driveway.

Woman’s Sufferage

My daughter had thoughtfully pocketed the tools needed to assemble his prize and stood next to his bike, pretending to fix it.

Maybe I’ll let her do it herself when she becomes potty trained. Visions of giving her a kid tool kit that she could play with made me briefly smile at the idea of her creative energies being channeled in a positive manner. I’d be an Ubermom again for providing her with the proper outlet for her intuitive curious nature. Her smile would beam and it would be a beautiful moment in mothering…

for more fully protected by the Constitution slices of humor, try http://www.humor-blog.com!

Leftovers...

Today's offering is verbal stuffing, bits of this and that, mixed to make something really excellent to eat, but not often.

On Thanksgiving morning at six o'clock, the alarm went off.
"Come on Love, we have to dress and stuff the turkeys."
"Feed and clothe the kids, right." he smiled as he hit the alarm.

First a serving of Turkey...

Friday, emerging from the food comas, I happened to smirk at a bag of pecans that warned, "Processed on machines that may have processed nuts from trees." It reminded me of the recall in New Hampsire of Eggnog, where the feds insisted the products be removed from shelves as they lacked sufficient warning...MAY CONTAIN EGGS. Somebody must have egged the government on to do this, or else someone isn't using their noggin.

Mashed Potatoes for Brains...

Pulling out the hotdogs to make lunch, I observed the following label. "Child Safety: When serving hot dogs to young children, cut hot dogs lengthwise, then into small, easy to swallow pieces. Children should eat while seated and be under adult supervision. Please contact us at 1-866...for more information." I called the number to ask whether they could send someone over to supervise. They haven't gotten back to me.

Cranberries...

This year, retailers have recognized that "Happy Holidays" and "Season's Greetings" aren't cutting it with the vast shopping public that may actually be purchasing things to celebrate a religious observance. "Winter trees" flopped big time last year. Determined not to offend, some not so bright bulbs have opted for "Yuletide Season." Guess it's okay to acknowledge pagan religions, after all, there are so many druids running around.

Dessert....

Cutting cake to celebrate my husband's birthday caused our three year old to come a running. "Who's the cake for?" he asked. Our other children cued up for servings. "My favorite child first." their father replied and added with a wink, "Who's my favorite child?" The older four began to smile and one of them volunteered "All of us." but John grabbed the slice and said "ME. I'm your favorite." and hunkered down on the slice.

Gravy....

On the issue of favorites, a favorite story of my dad's. When asked by one of his sons, which of his nine children did he love the most, my grandfather told the story of how he couldn't be a priest because he had lost part of his thumb. He held up his hands. "You see I have nine fingers." he said. "I love and need them all."

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Adventures of Contrary Boy and She Who Would Be Two

Warning: I have been toddlerized.

I have come to accept the inherent cereal and milk encrusted feeling of all my door knobs and the fact that no wall escapes a Zorro like calling card.

One can only hope to contain a toddler, not control. They have to consent to any ideas or activities. The moment one says something in imperative voice to a two year old, the answer is already decided. “We need to go.” “You need a diaper change.” “It’s time to play, eat ice cream and ride flying pink ponies while watching TV and jumping off the furniture.” The reflexive response to all three of these commands is NO! Not only no but hell no!

Time to get dressed.

Now usually I bring the clothes down when I get them up and tackle that task while they’re still groggy enough not to reflexively resist. Today I was slumming and it was ten o’clock when I attempted this feat. Going through the laundry to find fresh outfits, my children sensed what was coming and scattered.

I do have a trick or two though. I have found that if I practice the piano, even so much as a single plink on those ivories brings them to practice with me. This secret summoning spell remains 100% effective as long as they are unaware that I am manipulating them.

Plink! Plink! Plink! I want to be sure they come so I play a winner, “The Spinning Song.”

Up they run, my son shouting “I want to play. I want to play!” “Play!” my daughter who turns two in a week calls. She gets to me first.
I take the first comer and wrestle her to the ground to get dressed. “Now you can play the piano.” I explain. She happily plinks.

Now my son isn’t willing to get dressed and stays out of arm’s reach. “Can we go to the fitness center today?” he asks. (They have better toys I’m told at the gym).
“Fitness Center.” My daughter repeats.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. If people get dressed.” I say, acting casual, as though going to work out would be a major effort and inconvenience to me. He picks out his clothing and hands it to me in a flash.

“Thanks Contrary Boy.” I say as I help him into his shirt.

Make no mistake, toddlers do have super powers; they get sane educated adults to comply with an endless array of tasks through erosion of will.

Yesterday, I needed to make an appointment. The receptionist put me on hold. I witnessed Contrary boy, complete with blanket cape, amble through the kitchen. He found a magnet, a marble, the back of one of my earrings, a cell phone I had given up for dead and a lost bag of chips ahoy to share with his sister. When I cried “Wait!” He bolted out of the room. In the meantime, She Who Would be Two came in, found one shoe, put it on her foot and walked off. She took a marker with her. Returning five minutes later with an entirely purple arm, I hung up. I’d call from my cell with them in their car seats.

Both she and her brother asked for a second round of breakfast.

What did they want?

“Peanut butter and Jelly sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches.”

We were out of bread.

“Could I make it on hot dog buns?”

They thought this was funny and I pointed out it looked like a mouth. Impulsively, I added blue berries on top as eyes. My son wanted his to have a mustache. That took some doing but after two minutes of discussion and a smear of peanut butter, I served Groucho Marx PB&J on a bun.

I thought I might squeeze back in the call. The Receptionist put me on hold before I could tell her not to.

“Mom. You didn’t give us napkins.”
“Napkins.” She Who Would be Two repeats.

I find a roll of paper towels and pull off two. Still holding.

“Mom, you didn’t give us drinks.”
“Drinks.” She Who Would be Two repeats again.

“I know.” I responded. “Mommy’s on the phone. The service here is terrible.”

“Terrible.” He repeated.

I started making sippy cups of milk before She Who Would be Two could repeat Terrible as well.

Happiness lasted as long as the sandwiches. She Who Would be Two shredded her bun and got her hair covered in peanut butter and jelly.

“My hands are sticky.” He explained, visibly distressed.
“sticky.” She starts to say.
I grab a towel and sponge off her hands and face first.

As I turn to wipe his hands, Contrary boy frowns. “Mom, We haven’t had lunch.”

I hung up again.

Ordering Out

Going through a drive thru is rather like taking a leap of faith with my brood. Or at least, it used to be. I'd write the order as follows:

W: Big Mac, root beer
B: Ten Piece, Chocolate Shake
M: Mighty Kids Double Cheese, Chocolate Shake BOY Toy (even though she's a girl)
P: Mighty Kids Chicken Nug/BOY TOY ONLY, Chocolate Shake
F: Happy Meal Hamburger/GIRL TOY ONLY, Sprite
J: Happy Meal Cheeseburger/BOY TOY, Chocolate Milk, Apples
R: Happy Meal Hamburger, GIRL TOY, Chocolate Milk, Apples
Me: Diet Coke, resign self to eating whatever order got messed up.
Order four more hamburgers and two four pieces to cover the bases and sigh as oldest produces three dollars to buy six pies.

After writing things down and having errors, writing things down and handing it in and having errors, writing things down and having the kids change their minds, I placed an ultimatum, either cope with what comes or no more golden arches.

This quelled internal dissent at least publically, but getting people to hear the order took time. I considered running through the drive thru twice, as five seems to be the cut off at which the cashier assumes you're done. Instead, I've channeled my inner Julie Andrews.

It is fortunate for me that blogs have not yet progressed that you would hear my words in my own voice. Imagine I'm in tune and very musical.

"A flat please maestro."

They laugh and then they listen. And, I almost never get any mistakes anymore.

(Sung to the tune of twelve days of Christmas)

"For our drive up order please listen to me please

Three happy meals, 2 with hamburgers and one with just cheese.

We'd also like two chocolate milks and an apple juice for drink

and six apple pies!

One big mac meal. A ten piece too

And two Mighty Kids Meals.

One is Cheeseburger, the other chicken!

Three Medium Chocolate Shakes and One Root Beer

And for me a diet coke!

and four hamburgers and 2 chicken four piece

from the dollar menu.

And two girl and Three Boy Toys....."

My only issue is if the kids change the order.

Goodnight Everybody!