Pick Your Battles

Man, that sounds like such obvious sane advice. So simple, so reasonable, so straight forward. But nothing in those parenting books explains how to deal with when your beautiful offspring have drawn a line in the sand, and you have to cross it.

Earning a Coat of Arms

Some of my children suffer severe allergies to winter garments. The very notion of long sleeves makes them break out in tears. They beg, please, let them wear the thinnest t-shirt I haven't squirreled away into winter storage and they'll be so good.

Fortunately, being children, they don't hunt and search terribly well. So I've hidden all the summer wear in the one place they'll never find it; the coat closet.

But they still roll up their sleeves and turn jeans into capri pants. At this point, I have to just pretend I don't know it's 48 degrees outside and windy and have occasionally sent in post-its to the teachers. "THEY INSISTED ON WEARING THIS." so as to have plausible deniability. I also have offered home made chocolate chip cookies on Friday to any kid who wears sweaters and long pants all week long.

The cookies work except for the fact that it's hard to keep the non sweater wearing from also grabbing the goodies which undermines the motivation for anymore than one child to comply each week.

Death Before Hand Me Downs

It's a reality in a big family, you have dresses, coats, shoes and shirts that kids outgrow long before they're worn out. But the kids view these "gifts" as having sibling cooties. The stuff will languish in their closets even as they come to me howling, "I don't have anything to wear." Picking my battles, I've learned to use tissues and package clothing I know the kids can wear but won't if they think it came from a brother or sister.  The younger ones buy it...or did until the older ones pointed out they're hand me downs.  I've not yet taken to adding price tags but...it might be the next step.

You Can Have My...NEVER

When my oldest turned 8, all he loved was Pokemon. I got him an airbrushed t-shirt with Charizard on it. It was two sizes too big, but he wore it until he was two sizes too big for it.

After trying to donate it three times and having him fish it from the charity box, one time in the dead of night, I waited until he was at school. I planned to stuff it in a bag, I couldn't find it. Perhaps he'd grown up. Perhaps he'd donated it himself. That evening, eyes full of tears, he told me. He worried I'd clear out his stuff that didn't fit anymore, and he'd put it under his bed in his fold away drawer. My son was hiding his old clothes from me. Why was I so determined to get rid of something he loved? I surrendered with the promise, he wouldn't try to wear it anymore.

Pick your battles I told myself. The experience stayed with me. My five year old still tries to wear a size 6 months tutu she received as an infant. I'm not going to even think about putting it in a charity box.

How Serious is the Dress Code?

Crown and fairy wings at mass? We've done that. Robin, complete with mask and cape for bedtime? We've done that too. Tutus with red cowboy boots? No problem. I thought I knew how to "pick my battles." Until I had a 4 year old who believed slippers and sandals should be worn everyday everywhere. When the weather dipped below 25 degrees,I learned to keep a spare set of acceptable shoes in the car. But sometimes in the process of getting out of the car, I'd forget and then, the "Shame on you" looks would come from the woman at the deli when we grocery shopped. "You know, you pick your battles," I'd say and smile weakly.

"You lost." she'd say as she handed me my 1/2 pound of provolone cheese.

So after two decades of trying to pick your battles, I've discovered the true meaning of that phrase...accept that what you are picking, is not which ones to fight, but which ones you're willing to lose.

Ten Signs You're a Potty Training Parent

10)  You have accidentally washed a Pull-up in the laundry.  (You don't have to raise your hands but I know you did it).  

9) All errands are plotted according to their proximity to friendly retailers who will allow you to pull an emergency pit stop.

8) Bedtime sans protective gear is a form of parent roulette.

7) Rock Paper Scissors is a spousal approved method of doing the morning wake and check run.  Hint, brush up on the tips to win here.

6) You begin daydreaming about what you will do with that extra 20$ per week.

5) M&M's are consumed at a much slower pace than the norm.

4) 45 minutes are added into all routines for repeated false starts. 

3) The debate of "Just diaper him this time" vs. "We'll set him back by months" takes on a religious overtone, between the liberal (I don't want to have this happen in public) and conservative (I don't want to start over).  For best results, try Rock Paper Scissors.*

*If you win the initial bet, but are proven wrong in the aftermath, i.e. the kid wets in public or ceases potty training altogether, having won the initial R-P-S trial does not immunize you from "I told you so" harangues by the loser of said R-P-S trial.  

2) Expect a panic attack when the diaper box is empty.   Purchase one more box for those "Just in Case" moments which like insurance, you hope you never use, and also like insurance, will need desperately if you don't own already.

1) Victory for you will be greater than for said child, but resist the urge to Facebook, blog or tweet about such matters.  We've only just begun to recognize the Internet has a long memory, and not discussing when little Johnny learned to use the bathroom will probably lead to easier teenager years. 

Take Me Out of This Ball Game...

To help teach responsibility and minimize extra trips to the school after school for missing assignments, books, materials, etc, I established a policy of three strikes.  Basically, my children got three times each school year when Mom would turn around or get back in the car and drive back to pick up forgotten things.  After the third time, they'd win a note, "So and So forgot his homework." and face the consequences of that memo.  The system worked great for the first two kids. 

Kid number one, got to strike 4 and straightened up and got it together for the most part, occasionally taking a ding in the homework department until he figured out how to get everything done at school BEFORE coming home.  His solution, speed.  Granted, quality suffered but nothing was ever late.  Kid number two, a perfectionist, opted for bringing everything home every day to ensure she never forgot anything.  She needed a rolling back pack, a shoulder bag and a second knapsack to carry everything.  She perpetually looked like a pack mule on safari.

Enter Kid 3 and Kid 4 to the homework every day set.  Kid 3, soft spoken but crafty, figured out that while there are only three strikes per kid, there were 12 opportunities to retrieve work in reality if everyone used their three.  She  tried bringing her stuff home like her sister, but found that too taxing to her back.   So she winged it, bringing home all of it most days, but reminding others of things they forgot if she needed a turn around so that her three strikes were never called in.  Kid 4, also deal maker by nature, offered money to Kid 2 to in effect purchase her three strikes giving him an additional three times when he could relax if he forgot something.   Kid 5, a forgetful one but straight shooter, burned through her three strikes in two weeks, requiring me hold an impromptu homework spot check every afternoon so that we never leave the parking lot before verifying she has all she needs.  

As a mom, intuitively, I want to help them succeed. As a person, I do not want to spend my whole existence coddling them such that they never own responsibility, I have to help them become full fledged capable people. As an adult, I also do not want to set up children to fail by being obnoxious when they plead for actual clemency about forgetfulness, nor do I want to be taken advantage of such that they view mom as the ultimate sucker.   The top five know all these conflicting roles and play off them with a mastery that beggars description.  In other words, I may be calling strikes but as the pitcher of these ideas, I'm getting shellacked. 

As a result of all these deals being brokered and multiple people to juggle, I'm sure someone has managed to get to strike number 147 in this game leaving me the sap with the seemingly unenforceable policy of three times and you're out.  Now, we have a sixth doing homework.   To which I can only say, call in the reliever.  After six innings of play, I'm done and willing to hit the showers.   Wonder if I can get busted down to double A ball?

OVER Rated clap clap clap clap clap

My writing habit began with my father's suggestion that I write out my frustrations about potty training. It lead to a book of stories, "THE POTTY WARS." Since its inceception, I've added two more chapters revealing just how impossible this task remains for me in parenting. Two more children have made it to the point of no return but given my poor track record, I recognize I must jump when the opportunity beckons no matter how painful.

Monday, my two oldest girls have softball practice. It's already a full day with school and afterschool band, meaning I am throwing dinner together some time after 7 and homework is done in the car and anywhere I can persuade someone to sit down with a paper and pencil. Mondays are nightmares.

The plus side is I get to (while the weather is pleasant) take all my children not playing softball to a very nice playground. There are slides and rock walls and balance beams and monkey bars and everyone down to the baby (who happily pats the leaves and rolls in the grass) enjoys the break in the action.

Last week, the play time was cut short when a child needed to use the facilities which necessitated rounding up six children of varing degrees of willingness and marshalling them all to the oposite side of the field to the open school enterance and the boy and girl bathrooms. People were understandably upset.

So this week, trying to prevent such a catastrophe, I pre-emptively took everyone to the restrooms before going to the playground. Feeling like "Haha, you smart mommy you, now we can enjoy this experience," I fearlessly left the stroller in the car to be less burdened by things as we played.

Ten minutes of pure playground induced bliss and my son is dancing in his pants. I consider my options. "Use a tree." I offered. He readily complied while I winced at contributing to the crassness of my son but the memory of dragging two toddlers, one baby and two very irritated older siblings along so he could use the potty last time overrode the civility protocols.

Ten more minutes pass.

My son returns, doing a different dance.
"What's wrong?"
"I need to go." He says meaningfully.
"You just went." I'm impatient, he'd been annoying his sister by following her and her friend and I thought this was just another ploy.

"Can I use the tree for this?" and he points to his posterior.

I began collecting toddlers.

Dragging five unhappy people to satisfy one feels like bad math but by the time we get there, everyone else has decided, "Now that I'm here..." including my two year old who wears diapers. "Go potty Mom." I thought it was a command. "ME." she pointed at her chest. If this had been my first, second, even my fifth, I probably would have done a back hand spring, high fived and spent the next few minutes hearing the Halleluiah chorus.

But she's my 8th, and I'm holding my ninth. I can't help her on the potty if I'm holding a baby. "But you wear diapers." I try.

She insists that she needs to go. Steeling myself with the chide, "You can't ignore this or else you deserve another year of Huggies." I slung the baby onto one hip and one arm disrobed her. Using that same arm like a crane, I hoisted her up and onto the potty. It sounds much more seamless than it was. I waited expectantly, almost wanting praise for my part in the matter.

She sits and looks at me and after a moment narrows her eyes. "Go away Mom." she orders. "Shut the door."

I go out and wash my hands one at a time, shifting the happy squirmy baby, wondering how I'll diaper her back up. She then calls me to see that she has done nothing.

Potty training. "OVER-rated! Clap clap clap clap clap."

Where's My Warrantee?

When the vacuum, dryer and dish washer all die on the same day and the microwave is hiccupping as it goes through the motions of melting cheese onto a tortilla, how do you do triage assessment of the most dire needs? Even more, how do you survive the next 48 hours?

1) Substitution. No dish washer. Hello paper plates, paper cups and plastic utensils. “You two children over there using glasses and a real knife to spread peanut butter, congratulations, you're our new dishwashers and dryers.”

After being called back three times including once for just putting the pots away sans a foray into the sink for hot water, they figured out I was serious and suddenly, you know, those paper plates were looking pretty good.

2) It's not Easy Being Green.

I admit, I’d prefer to be using an electrical machine rather than sun and wind power to dry our towels, but I can at least say we’re being friendly to the earth. While it’s not exactly beating a sword into a plowshare, making an extension cord, two garden shepherd's crooks and three bicycles appropriately spaced substitute for a non heating dryer had a touch of environmental irony.

Looking out at the drying shirts out in the back yard, my son commented, "Can I get my bike from the laundry room tomorrow?" He grinned impishly waiting for my response.

"Only if your baseball uniform is dry."

3) The microwave still worked, it just cut out at random intervals requiring that one station a sentry by the machine whenever it was in operation to push the buttons again when it stalled. I viewed this as popping the clutch.

When someone complained, I pointed out that the alternative was another pot to wash and a volunteer quickly came forward to supervise the microwave in its operational duties.

4) Surrender. I'd swept. I'd swept again, and then yet again, but the Shop Vac with its 4.5 horsepower engine and 12 gallon tub is something I've become accustomed to, and the broom and dust pan just weren't cutting it. So needy was I, that a venture into the local Wal-Mart with eight kids in tow seemed a mere trifle for the prospect of less gritty floors.

I'm a bit ashamed to say how completely happy I was with the reunion.It was 9:30pm when we go home (spring break), and though I had to wait to assemble until the children got to bed, my high school son did observe me working with it in the living room, positively beaming.

"Mom, you're weird, you know that don't you?" I nodded and carried on with my cleaning.

They'll have memories of me, baby in one hand, bottle feeding with my chin and the shop vac tube firmly lodged in the other, getting all those stairs and the corners of the room but I don't care, my floor got clean!

On the subject of why these things all died at once, the microwave we got in 2007, the dryer in 2006 and the vacuum in 2008. None of these things were in the same room, but admittedly all were used daily, usually at least three if not six times in a given 24 hour period.

Given the workload, I can only conclude, our things age in dog years.
...
I sure hope that doesn't include me.