The Scrutiny of Jelly Beans
This year, the real Easter egg hunt began before April 12th, as shoppers scoured the local pharmacies, grocery stores and bulk warehouses for what have apparently become the latest scarce commodity in these economic hard times; jelly beans. Now normally, no one cares one wit about these rainbow colored sugar gel confections. Oh sure, they enjoyed popularity under President Reagan when Jelly Bellies were all the rage and a brief renaissance via Harry Potter’s Every Flavor Beans, but ultimately, they remain the third stringer in the candy world of Easter baskets.
This year, there weren’t any to be found despite multiple stops. I know it wasn’t just me, as I heard several other parents asking the store staff and calling out, as if they needed to summon these candies by name. Jelly beans were missing. The parents looked lost as they gazed at row after unhelpful row of pure chocolate candies. Jelly beans allowed one to stomach giving one’s offspring as much candy as Easter baskets provide without feeling totally indulgent. They’d get candy but one could be sure, they wouldn’t eat all of it. One adult summed it up perfectly, “No jelly beans…How could it be Easter?”
Leaving aside the lack of theological connections between rainbow colored peanut shaped licorice and the salvation of all our souls, I had to agree.
Those little colored jewels are life savers for when it’s ten o’clock at night and frankly, the Energizer Easter bunny needs a nap. Pour those suckers into the plastic eggies and boom, you’re done. Even better, they come in bulk, and thus multiple eggs can be filled in a short period of time. This is why the rabbit invented jelly beans. He had to get around the world in one night with no elves, no reindeer, he was both the UPS delivery guy and the truck itself. The poor creature needed to streamline if he was going to get to everyone.
Now I know perfectly well why those classic candies aren’t in the stores or on the shelves. It’s a conspiracy and I blame the children. While all kids love finding the eggs, jelly beans rank somewhere above lima beans but not by much. They’d stashed the bags somewhere behind tax software so that parents wouldn’t find them or be in a buying mood when they saw them. I went through the alternatives in my head. We could still fill the eggs.
Some would have money. Some could have chocolate or even malted milk eggs and Cadbury crèmes. I saw bubble gum eggs for sale, but consider that too adventurous. There may be parents out there who don’t mind cutting a lot of hair after Sunday mass, but I am not one of them. I was pining for the beans myself, not for eating mind you, I wanted my filler. But the absence of them made me recognize the reality of the life of a jelly bean.
Check any Easter basket two days post Sunday. You’ll find the foil remains of the bunny and no small number of wrappers from the malt, chocolate and marshmallow eggs. Beneath the green stringy grass, lurks at least a quarter cup of jelly beans of all assorted flavors.
Then, the sorting begins.
Three days after Easter, the yellow, red and pink ones have disappeared. By day five, the need for a sugar fix is still insufficient temptation to venture a bite at those black ones, though the purple, green and orange ones have all been sampled. Eventually, experimentation takes the place of voluntary eating, with jelly bean tooth pick statues, microwaved beans and dissected candy being amongst the most memorable alternatives.
As I lamented the loss of this bulk content piece from the children’s Easter baskets, there was a run in the store on marshmallow peeps. As I grabbed one of the last six packs of yellow chicks, a fellow mother had her hand on the bag. There was a brief tug-a-war, but I surrendered when she said, “Let my Peeple go.” It's Easter and you have to let these sort of things pass over.
Happy Easter Everyone!
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parents. Show all posts
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Monday, February 20, 2012
Eye've Had Enough
In this rough economy, I have found a need, a niche for some enterprising young soul out there.
There are kid clothing stores and kid restaurants and kid hair cutting places. There are kid dentists and kid pediatricians and kid shoe stores. But there is not a kid's eye glasses place.
Going to get spectacles for my daughter, I had to bring my youngest seven. It was not ideal but it was necessary. I'd put it off for a week hoping to find an easier path to take, an easier way to make it happen, but this was one of those chores one would have to will into existence.
For the record, Bleah. I hate those.
Eye glasses stores always try to make it look posh and sophisticated, easy breezy and lovely. Walking into them always feels like a cross between a jewelry store and a library. I generally do not take my children to jewelry stores. As for libraries, I do not take them to the latter place without two or three older children to act as border collies. One could hear the collective gasp as we walked in, both from clientele and the people who worked there. Poor folks, this was a horde streaming into the store. My middle son rolled his eyes as I had five of them sit down and handed him his younger brother with the hopeful but not really meaningful instruction, "Be good." so I could sign us in.
The manager eagerly took my insurance card and told my daughter to look at frames. I hoped he would see the crowd I'd assembled and take pity and expedite our time. No such luck. Apparently, we'd hit rush hour and half of the DC area had come in for specs. My daughter blissfully tried on one after another until I explained she was limited to those that were covered by our insurance. I also didn't want the clerk to have a nervous breakdown from the pyramid pile of spectacles she'd stacked up.
Spending the next half hour playing I'll hold you and you and you'll hold him and we'll just pray the other three behave themselves had me churning out the "Hail Mary's" in my head although my lips may have been moving some of the time. My oldest son there was muttering, "Don't read the contract, just sign the thing so we can go." Privately I agreed but I wasn't about to say so.
When we finally got our turn to be served, I'd successfully been negotiated by my daughter for McDonald's for lunch. Truthfully, they could have held out for a car, dog and deluxe vacation in Europe. Anything, just give me five more minutes. I know bribing is frowned upon but every parent who has ever been in the fix of the untenable unknowable waiting period for an errand that is already in progress has succumb to the need to acquiesce to the minority demands. It's reality.
The man sat down. I sat down holding my baby and a toddler who had refused to sit with her sister and wanted to go behind the counter. She promptly went boneless and I attempted to have a conversation with the man while juggling semi invertebrate children. "Hello. We just want to order her glasses and go." I said.
After trying on several pairs and selecting one, he said he had to check the computer. He came back and told me that we couldn't get a frame this year, we'd have to wait until next year. "Fine. Just pop the lenses from this one and put in the new ones." I answered.
He went to check his computer again.
"I'm sorry, we don't have that lens in the shop. We'll have to order. Come back in a week." Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. I'd bribed my children with McDonald's for what? To come back next week. My daughter is sad and sulking because she'd found a new pair she'd fallen in love with thanks to the good service of the gentleman who praised her for her fine taste. I now have seven irritated put upon people who want McDonald's and an unfinished errand.
Defeated, discouraged and demoralized, I started the long drive home, ever mindful --six people are reminding me, that I PROMISED McDonald's. Never have I surrendered money for happy meals less willingly. I felt robbed, jipped. I'd given up something for nothing. Then I remembered how desperate I was in the store. So I'm hoping by sharing my pain, someone will figure out how to create a shop that 1) checks your insurance before making you wait half an hour and 2) services kids only. Maybe having a TV or something to distract those who must sit and wait for drops to take effect or get lenses or whatnot. Maybe selling french fries. Maybe those glasses with the fake nose and mustasche for non eye impaired siblings.
In the meantime, we will sojourn back there again next week. Here's hoping they don't figure out how to hold out for a trip to Europe.
There are kid clothing stores and kid restaurants and kid hair cutting places. There are kid dentists and kid pediatricians and kid shoe stores. But there is not a kid's eye glasses place.
Going to get spectacles for my daughter, I had to bring my youngest seven. It was not ideal but it was necessary. I'd put it off for a week hoping to find an easier path to take, an easier way to make it happen, but this was one of those chores one would have to will into existence.
For the record, Bleah. I hate those.
Eye glasses stores always try to make it look posh and sophisticated, easy breezy and lovely. Walking into them always feels like a cross between a jewelry store and a library. I generally do not take my children to jewelry stores. As for libraries, I do not take them to the latter place without two or three older children to act as border collies. One could hear the collective gasp as we walked in, both from clientele and the people who worked there. Poor folks, this was a horde streaming into the store. My middle son rolled his eyes as I had five of them sit down and handed him his younger brother with the hopeful but not really meaningful instruction, "Be good." so I could sign us in.
The manager eagerly took my insurance card and told my daughter to look at frames. I hoped he would see the crowd I'd assembled and take pity and expedite our time. No such luck. Apparently, we'd hit rush hour and half of the DC area had come in for specs. My daughter blissfully tried on one after another until I explained she was limited to those that were covered by our insurance. I also didn't want the clerk to have a nervous breakdown from the pyramid pile of spectacles she'd stacked up.
Spending the next half hour playing I'll hold you and you and you'll hold him and we'll just pray the other three behave themselves had me churning out the "Hail Mary's" in my head although my lips may have been moving some of the time. My oldest son there was muttering, "Don't read the contract, just sign the thing so we can go." Privately I agreed but I wasn't about to say so.
When we finally got our turn to be served, I'd successfully been negotiated by my daughter for McDonald's for lunch. Truthfully, they could have held out for a car, dog and deluxe vacation in Europe. Anything, just give me five more minutes. I know bribing is frowned upon but every parent who has ever been in the fix of the untenable unknowable waiting period for an errand that is already in progress has succumb to the need to acquiesce to the minority demands. It's reality.
The man sat down. I sat down holding my baby and a toddler who had refused to sit with her sister and wanted to go behind the counter. She promptly went boneless and I attempted to have a conversation with the man while juggling semi invertebrate children. "Hello. We just want to order her glasses and go." I said.
After trying on several pairs and selecting one, he said he had to check the computer. He came back and told me that we couldn't get a frame this year, we'd have to wait until next year. "Fine. Just pop the lenses from this one and put in the new ones." I answered.
He went to check his computer again.
"I'm sorry, we don't have that lens in the shop. We'll have to order. Come back in a week." Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain. I'd bribed my children with McDonald's for what? To come back next week. My daughter is sad and sulking because she'd found a new pair she'd fallen in love with thanks to the good service of the gentleman who praised her for her fine taste. I now have seven irritated put upon people who want McDonald's and an unfinished errand.
Defeated, discouraged and demoralized, I started the long drive home, ever mindful --six people are reminding me, that I PROMISED McDonald's. Never have I surrendered money for happy meals less willingly. I felt robbed, jipped. I'd given up something for nothing. Then I remembered how desperate I was in the store. So I'm hoping by sharing my pain, someone will figure out how to create a shop that 1) checks your insurance before making you wait half an hour and 2) services kids only. Maybe having a TV or something to distract those who must sit and wait for drops to take effect or get lenses or whatnot. Maybe selling french fries. Maybe those glasses with the fake nose and mustasche for non eye impaired siblings.
In the meantime, we will sojourn back there again next week. Here's hoping they don't figure out how to hold out for a trip to Europe.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thursday's Small Successes
Today is the day we take stock of all that we got done last week. The thousands of little things that make up those seven days includes a lot of small victories and love and show that while we may not have achieved what we seek to get done, we're making progress.
I don't know about you, but sometimes the weeks just fly. Next week, school starts for everyone and the world will seem to move even faster. I need my Thursday to slow things down.
This week's small successes include:
1) Got high school sophomore off to first day of school. So far, we've been on time each time. (Trust me, it's a victory).
2) Last weekend, we drove up to Connecticut to see Grandparents and go to a reunion. It was a blast and a delight and reminded me how much we need feasts in our lives, how much we need to have those relationships with family that extend outward and back in time. My favorite moments were sitting and listening to people tell stories I did not know. Also, Latvian desserts (a 12 layer mocha cream and apricot jam frosted cake) rock!
3) We got school supplies! Now I have to pack them.
4) This week we went to Urban Pirates in Baltimore and took a pirate cruise with 8 of my kids and my brother's kids and their mom and my parents who are visiting from Texas. It was a blast and I will treasure to my dying day, my four year old daughter wiggling her hips in the Pirate dance and saying "Arrrgh! Shiver Me Timbers." in one of the games. Awesome.
5) My parents are here! My heart is full.
6) The baby is up on all fours and she can scoot some. She's getting ready to be mobile.
7) Paul yesterday was playing with dinosaur puppets and would pretend to have one bite his hand and then fallen down. He did it multiple times to show me that he was acting as if the dinosaur had eaten him. It was amazing to see him using his imagination in such a complex way.
Now it's your turn! Just use Mr. Linky to showcase your blog here and list your successes for the week on your blog. Be sure and visit the other blogs linked here and leave a comment for them. It's part of being neighborly and part of the fun of this exercise. So join in! We can't wait to see what you did this week.
I don't know about you, but sometimes the weeks just fly. Next week, school starts for everyone and the world will seem to move even faster. I need my Thursday to slow things down.
This week's small successes include:
1) Got high school sophomore off to first day of school. So far, we've been on time each time. (Trust me, it's a victory).
2) Last weekend, we drove up to Connecticut to see Grandparents and go to a reunion. It was a blast and a delight and reminded me how much we need feasts in our lives, how much we need to have those relationships with family that extend outward and back in time. My favorite moments were sitting and listening to people tell stories I did not know. Also, Latvian desserts (a 12 layer mocha cream and apricot jam frosted cake) rock!
3) We got school supplies! Now I have to pack them.
4) This week we went to Urban Pirates in Baltimore and took a pirate cruise with 8 of my kids and my brother's kids and their mom and my parents who are visiting from Texas. It was a blast and I will treasure to my dying day, my four year old daughter wiggling her hips in the Pirate dance and saying "Arrrgh! Shiver Me Timbers." in one of the games. Awesome.
5) My parents are here! My heart is full.
6) The baby is up on all fours and she can scoot some. She's getting ready to be mobile.
7) Paul yesterday was playing with dinosaur puppets and would pretend to have one bite his hand and then fallen down. He did it multiple times to show me that he was acting as if the dinosaur had eaten him. It was amazing to see him using his imagination in such a complex way.
Now it's your turn! Just use Mr. Linky to showcase your blog here and list your successes for the week on your blog. Be sure and visit the other blogs linked here and leave a comment for them. It's part of being neighborly and part of the fun of this exercise. So join in! We can't wait to see what you did this week.
Monday, May 3, 2010
My Fault
I am officially responsible for everything wrong in this world. I know I've tried to explain that I wasn't born yet, that I have no knowledge of such things, that I have no power, but after years of being bombarded, I've come to understand that all my rational explanations were just a dodge, a cop out, a stubborn unwillingness to face my own culpability. It's me.
The outrageous pollen count? My fault. I have offspring and their favorite activity is to make wishes. So the general population of dandelions has increased exponentially this spring.
The gigantic blizzard this past winter? Again, my bad. I actually was praying for a big snow because I didn't like how jumbled our shedule was for the coming week and wanted a guilt free way to get out of all our obligations.
The crisis of Obesity? I watch the food network religiously, ergo I boost their ratings, enabling them to show still more television shows about yummy rich food, tempting those who would otherwise be svelt people to overindulge.
The untimely demise of James Brown? I had front row seats to his next concert that summer.
The oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico? I went down to Texas a few weeks ago and stuck my toe in the water and filled a bottle to bring back to Maryland. Clearly, I upset the ocean equilibrium with my violative acts.
The hole in the Ozone? A preemptive act by the Earth in response to knowing that one day I would drive not one but two SUV's and have a large family.
The Budget Deficit? I voted Republican in every Presidential election and I bet, if I'd been born in earlier decades, I still would have simply voted for Republicans more. So who else could one possibly blame?
The recession? When I first started trying to grow money via the stock market, I put away in an Asian fund. For ten years. For ten years, it lost money until I finally swapped out. The Asian stock market subsequently pulled a major turn around. No I'm not telling you what I've currently got our money in but we bought a big house in 2007 and....
So, now you know when you skin your knee or burn your dinner or have an overdue library book or extra expensive bill from the Utilities company (and not because someone left the hose on overnight) who to blame. It's Me.
Why? How do I know?
Simple. I'm the parent of multiple adolescents and I ruin everything.
The outrageous pollen count? My fault. I have offspring and their favorite activity is to make wishes. So the general population of dandelions has increased exponentially this spring.
The gigantic blizzard this past winter? Again, my bad. I actually was praying for a big snow because I didn't like how jumbled our shedule was for the coming week and wanted a guilt free way to get out of all our obligations.
The crisis of Obesity? I watch the food network religiously, ergo I boost their ratings, enabling them to show still more television shows about yummy rich food, tempting those who would otherwise be svelt people to overindulge.
The untimely demise of James Brown? I had front row seats to his next concert that summer.
The oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico? I went down to Texas a few weeks ago and stuck my toe in the water and filled a bottle to bring back to Maryland. Clearly, I upset the ocean equilibrium with my violative acts.
The hole in the Ozone? A preemptive act by the Earth in response to knowing that one day I would drive not one but two SUV's and have a large family.
The Budget Deficit? I voted Republican in every Presidential election and I bet, if I'd been born in earlier decades, I still would have simply voted for Republicans more. So who else could one possibly blame?
The recession? When I first started trying to grow money via the stock market, I put away in an Asian fund. For ten years. For ten years, it lost money until I finally swapped out. The Asian stock market subsequently pulled a major turn around. No I'm not telling you what I've currently got our money in but we bought a big house in 2007 and....
So, now you know when you skin your knee or burn your dinner or have an overdue library book or extra expensive bill from the Utilities company (and not because someone left the hose on overnight) who to blame. It's Me.
Why? How do I know?
Simple. I'm the parent of multiple adolescents and I ruin everything.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Pillow Talk
Sometime after a child manages to climb out of the crib, he or she decides that Mom and Dad’s bed is the only place to hang out after dark. Consider our latest two-year-old, who views head butts as a means of greeting a sleeping adult. At four in the morning, usually one is only dimly aware of having the covers invaded. Most of our earlier two year olds were content to snuggle up to the parent of their choice and hope general fatigue would prevent eviction.
Not so this one. She Who Would Be Two must have an audience on which to work her kewpie doll toddler magic, so Mom or Dad must wake up.
Wham!****
Curiously, the intensity of pain increases as one becomes more alert.
Oh, ow, ow, Ow, Ow, OW, OW, OW! I’m up. I’m up. Ow! I’m up.
She Who Would Be Two, having accomplished objective one, has started phase two of her plan, singing a soft sweet lullaby as if nothing happened. She hopes to melt any potential irritation brought on by a throbbing head and tender nose with cuteness. She looks at me and giggles. It works. Her Father and I the Mom have a standing rotation of alternate nights as to who gets to handle wandering monsters. Nothing happened last night.
It figures.
“Come here.” I the Mom take her in my arms and pull the covers over us both, hoping she will drop off quickly and then I can carry her to her own bed. I the Mom am completely gone in less than a minute.
It’s boring sitting in the dark with two sleeping adults who should be up and playing games with She Who Would Be Two.
She dimly recognizes that if she pushes too hard, either Her Father or I the Mom will carry her back to her own bed. So She Who Would be Two tries finding a comfortable position. For the uninitiated to the world of toddlers, this involves stretching to one’s maximum height and lying down perpendicular to the adults, ensuring that most of the real estate of the mattress is in the toddler’s domain. (It’s just more comfortable that way).
Adults vaguely aware of losing property rights, scoot and contort their bodies in an effort to remain unconscious for as long as possible, even allowing legs or arms to drape off the edge or surrendering all covers and pillows as a concession for being allowed to continue sleeping. Alas, appeasement seldom works. She Who Would Be Two remains listless.
There is a phone next to the alarm clock, keys, wallet, a CD player and a lap top. She Who Would Be Two has watched her parents use these. They look like fun. I the Mom somehow register that in the middle of the night, something is not right and open one eye to discover the wallet has been emptied. She Who Would Be Two has also turned off the alarm and placed a call. She is still talking on the phone. Someone is answering her back.
Fully alert, I snatch the phone from her hands. "Hello." I say into the phone a bit too loudly. "I'm sorry my daughter..." It is a recording. I hand the phone back to my tearful daughter and tell her to hang up. She is satisfied with an "How Rude." look at me as she hangs the phone up.
Taking back the keys and the wallet, she pouts at me. She's in the wrong and I feel bad. She sucks her thumb and shuts her eyes in a contented smile and pulls the covers up. I was going to move her. Looking at her sweetly almost sleeping, I can't believe I would be so cruel. Then I'm mad I'm such a sap.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The early get up and agoing alarm has sounded, waking She Who Would Be Two but not Her Father. She cries.
The conscious adult I the Mom must then make the calculated judgment, difficult at a predawn time. Should I get up? Should I take her to her bed? Can I go back to sleep? If I get up now I could….insert tedious task here.
Changing diapers, offering water and tucking in doesn’t earn much time in the morning, but it does stand the outside chance of predisposing She Who Would Be Two to go to sleep or at least lie quietly in the bed for a little while. Following the dutiful adult routine, the now completely zombified I the Mom returns to bed, just in time for the second nag alarms to sound their evil call. Hitting the snooze, I crawl under the covers, sleep is coming fast, I the Mom can feel it.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I wake again, feeling the tender part of my nose, a parting gift from She Who Would Be Two. Making a fist to smash the alarm, I the Mom blink and survey the room. There is a new trail of toys showing the path the toddler took to get to Mom and Dad’s room. Picking up a stuffed monkey puppet, naked Barbie, three shoes, sippy cup and bed spread, I the Mom swallow a yawn while considering the morning ahead.
Can I collapse the schedule to grab another fifteen minutes or will slowness now result in a hectic day where every event would be easy if only I had fifteen more minutes then. Just as I’ve abandoned common sense and put my feet into the cave of the still warm blankets, She Who Would Be Two is back.
“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two says expectantly with all the innocent sweetness and full sincerity she can muster.
It’s not going to work this time I the Mom think as I set my will. I’m going to sleep.
“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two repeats.
When she ages, maybe I'll rechristen myself I The Mom Who Sleeps.
Not so this one. She Who Would Be Two must have an audience on which to work her kewpie doll toddler magic, so Mom or Dad must wake up.
Wham!****
Curiously, the intensity of pain increases as one becomes more alert.
Oh, ow, ow, Ow, Ow, OW, OW, OW! I’m up. I’m up. Ow! I’m up.
She Who Would Be Two, having accomplished objective one, has started phase two of her plan, singing a soft sweet lullaby as if nothing happened. She hopes to melt any potential irritation brought on by a throbbing head and tender nose with cuteness. She looks at me and giggles. It works. Her Father and I the Mom have a standing rotation of alternate nights as to who gets to handle wandering monsters. Nothing happened last night.
It figures.
“Come here.” I the Mom take her in my arms and pull the covers over us both, hoping she will drop off quickly and then I can carry her to her own bed. I the Mom am completely gone in less than a minute.
It’s boring sitting in the dark with two sleeping adults who should be up and playing games with She Who Would Be Two.
She dimly recognizes that if she pushes too hard, either Her Father or I the Mom will carry her back to her own bed. So She Who Would be Two tries finding a comfortable position. For the uninitiated to the world of toddlers, this involves stretching to one’s maximum height and lying down perpendicular to the adults, ensuring that most of the real estate of the mattress is in the toddler’s domain. (It’s just more comfortable that way).
Adults vaguely aware of losing property rights, scoot and contort their bodies in an effort to remain unconscious for as long as possible, even allowing legs or arms to drape off the edge or surrendering all covers and pillows as a concession for being allowed to continue sleeping. Alas, appeasement seldom works. She Who Would Be Two remains listless.
There is a phone next to the alarm clock, keys, wallet, a CD player and a lap top. She Who Would Be Two has watched her parents use these. They look like fun. I the Mom somehow register that in the middle of the night, something is not right and open one eye to discover the wallet has been emptied. She Who Would Be Two has also turned off the alarm and placed a call. She is still talking on the phone. Someone is answering her back.
Fully alert, I snatch the phone from her hands. "Hello." I say into the phone a bit too loudly. "I'm sorry my daughter..." It is a recording. I hand the phone back to my tearful daughter and tell her to hang up. She is satisfied with an "How Rude." look at me as she hangs the phone up.
Taking back the keys and the wallet, she pouts at me. She's in the wrong and I feel bad. She sucks her thumb and shuts her eyes in a contented smile and pulls the covers up. I was going to move her. Looking at her sweetly almost sleeping, I can't believe I would be so cruel. Then I'm mad I'm such a sap.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The early get up and agoing alarm has sounded, waking She Who Would Be Two but not Her Father. She cries.
The conscious adult I the Mom must then make the calculated judgment, difficult at a predawn time. Should I get up? Should I take her to her bed? Can I go back to sleep? If I get up now I could….insert tedious task here.
Changing diapers, offering water and tucking in doesn’t earn much time in the morning, but it does stand the outside chance of predisposing She Who Would Be Two to go to sleep or at least lie quietly in the bed for a little while. Following the dutiful adult routine, the now completely zombified I the Mom returns to bed, just in time for the second nag alarms to sound their evil call. Hitting the snooze, I crawl under the covers, sleep is coming fast, I the Mom can feel it.
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! I wake again, feeling the tender part of my nose, a parting gift from She Who Would Be Two. Making a fist to smash the alarm, I the Mom blink and survey the room. There is a new trail of toys showing the path the toddler took to get to Mom and Dad’s room. Picking up a stuffed monkey puppet, naked Barbie, three shoes, sippy cup and bed spread, I the Mom swallow a yawn while considering the morning ahead.
Can I collapse the schedule to grab another fifteen minutes or will slowness now result in a hectic day where every event would be easy if only I had fifteen more minutes then. Just as I’ve abandoned common sense and put my feet into the cave of the still warm blankets, She Who Would Be Two is back.
“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two says expectantly with all the innocent sweetness and full sincerity she can muster.
It’s not going to work this time I the Mom think as I set my will. I’m going to sleep.
“Breakfast.” She Who Would Be Two repeats.
When she ages, maybe I'll rechristen myself I The Mom Who Sleeps.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Spahn, Sain and Pray for Rain*
I know why weather forecasters are almost always wrong.
It isn't the doppler radar. It isn't because they aren't able to analyze patterns of high and low pressure. It isn't global warming and it isn't because everyone talks about such things but no one can do anything about it.
Predicting the weather is the simple correlation between the sport schedule of the plurality of children in a given geographic area, and the level of devotion of the parents overtaxed by their kids extra curricular activities. In short, Prayer.
Back in the fall, my daughters played softball and I overheard many a folk sigh as they glanced at the blocked up weekends. "What can we do?" one of them said. "Pray for rain." I joked. That weekend, it poured. The next week, things looked worse. "Should we pray again?" one of the moms asked.
"Yes!" was the emphatic response. A deluge ensued.
Things got out of hand when people began hoping to get out of practices. It became one of the wettest autumns on record. Games got cancelled on account of hail, lightning and cold misty black skies that seemed conjure themselves at the crack of a bat. Practice was called once when a rainstorm literally had parked itself right over all the fields for play. Everywhere else was cloudy but no precipitation.
I bring all this up because today was supposed to be two basketball games and a dance. We were expecting a light dusting and got 4-6 inches. Not my fault. I didn't ask but given the number of things on my schedule for next week, expect blizzard conditions.
*Slogan for the Boston Braves in 1948 given the strength of their pitching line up. If facing a double header, the best hope for the opposition was "Spahn, Sain and pray for rain." Tip of the hat to my husband for the title and the trivia.
It isn't the doppler radar. It isn't because they aren't able to analyze patterns of high and low pressure. It isn't global warming and it isn't because everyone talks about such things but no one can do anything about it.
Predicting the weather is the simple correlation between the sport schedule of the plurality of children in a given geographic area, and the level of devotion of the parents overtaxed by their kids extra curricular activities. In short, Prayer.
Back in the fall, my daughters played softball and I overheard many a folk sigh as they glanced at the blocked up weekends. "What can we do?" one of them said. "Pray for rain." I joked. That weekend, it poured. The next week, things looked worse. "Should we pray again?" one of the moms asked.
"Yes!" was the emphatic response. A deluge ensued.
Things got out of hand when people began hoping to get out of practices. It became one of the wettest autumns on record. Games got cancelled on account of hail, lightning and cold misty black skies that seemed conjure themselves at the crack of a bat. Practice was called once when a rainstorm literally had parked itself right over all the fields for play. Everywhere else was cloudy but no precipitation.
I bring all this up because today was supposed to be two basketball games and a dance. We were expecting a light dusting and got 4-6 inches. Not my fault. I didn't ask but given the number of things on my schedule for next week, expect blizzard conditions.
*Slogan for the Boston Braves in 1948 given the strength of their pitching line up. If facing a double header, the best hope for the opposition was "Spahn, Sain and pray for rain." Tip of the hat to my husband for the title and the trivia.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Game Show
And now it’s time for every parents’ favorite game show “Do You Hear What I Hear?”
“Hello again and welcome back for another exciting round. Today’s contestants are Veteran Mom, New Dad and Grandmother. Welcome to you all. Now you all know the rules so let’s get down to identifying these sounds. The first one is up for grabs.”
“Slunk. Slunk. Bunk a bunk a bunk pttttttttttah. “
Buzz!
“Yes! New Dad?”
“That would be a football falling down the stairs Bob?”
“No, I’m sorry that is incorrect. Grandmother? Veteran Mom?”
Buzz!
“Is it the sound of a Halloween Pumpkin Candy Holder falling down the stairs?”
“Ooh. Very close. Very close. Contestant Veteran Mom, do you have any idea?”
Buzz!
“Yes?”
“Yes Bob, it is a Halloween Pumpkin Candy Holder, but it was kicked, it didn’t fall.”
“That is correct! Veteran Mom, take fifty points. For a bonus point, identify Why it was kicked.”
“His sister ate all the reese's pieces and left only the lime flavored tootsie rolls and candy corn.”
“Correct!”
“Excellent work. Excellent. We’ll start the next round worth one hundred points. Okay, contestants will have thirty seconds to identify this sound.”
“ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Huhhhhhhh! ZZZZZZZZZ! Huhhhhhh! ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!”
“Buzz.”
“Buzz. “ “Buzz.”
“New Dad was first on the buzzer. What was that sound?”
“Bob, it was Snoring. It wasn’t me because I don’t snore, but it was snoring.”
“Sorry, that was not the correct answer, we move on to Grandmother. “
“Snoring and the baby was crying Bob.”
“I’m sorry, we have to turn to Veteran Mom.”
“Snoring and the baby crying and the Toddler just climbed out of bed and is staggering around the house looking for his stuffed lion and a sippy cup of water.”
“That is 100% correct! I see we now move to the speed round where we will play a sound. Your job is to identify the situation and whether it requires a run or no run parenting response. Remember, you must indicate the severity of the situation if there is any.”
“Slishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Drip. Drip. Drip. Slisshhhhhhhhhhh. Drip. Drip. Drip.”
“Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.”
“Okay, we have a three way tie between the Veteran Mom, the New Dad and the Grandmother so I’ll have to ask each of you to write your responses, along with run or don’t run.”
“Okay, Grandmother, what was your response?”
“It’s a sink Bob, a child was brushing his teeth and turned off the sink when another child came in and did the same. No run.”
“Ooh. No. I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. New Dad, what was your answer, did you correctly identify the mystery sound and run/no run response?”
“That’s the ice machine in the kitchen, being used to pour drinks for the neighborhood by a five year old and a three year old. Run.”
“I’ll have to check with the judges to determine if they’re willing to give partial credit but in the meantime, let’s check with our final contestant.Veteran Mom?”
“Yes, Bob, that is the sound of a toddler getting a drink out of the toilet. Run and scream at the same time.”
“That is correct and congratulations to our winner Veteran Mom! She gets to move on to the bonus round, while we say good bye to Grandmother and New Dad, thank you both for playing.”
“Now Veteran Mom, you know how this game is played, we give you a sound and you identify the danger level and its origin. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Here is your mystery sound.”
………thirty seconds of silence pass.
“Bob, it is a code red emergency, there are three children upstairs trying to create a bridge out of a sleeping bag, two chairs and a toy box and the youngest has a hammer she is preparing to tap on the window. If an adult does not intervene in the next four seconds, someone will be hurt and something will be broken.“
“Congratulations, Mom is our grand champion!“ Balloons cascade onto the stage and credits begin to roll. A voice over is heard, “There are no prizes awarded in “Do You Hear What I Hear?” other than the peace of mind that comes from knowing what your children are up to all the time and being able to put a stop to it.”
Bob turns to the camera. “Tune in next time when contestants will be asked to speed round mate all white socks and assemble lunches with no white bread available.”
“Hello again and welcome back for another exciting round. Today’s contestants are Veteran Mom, New Dad and Grandmother. Welcome to you all. Now you all know the rules so let’s get down to identifying these sounds. The first one is up for grabs.”
“Slunk. Slunk. Bunk a bunk a bunk pttttttttttah. “
Buzz!
“Yes! New Dad?”
“That would be a football falling down the stairs Bob?”
“No, I’m sorry that is incorrect. Grandmother? Veteran Mom?”
Buzz!
“Is it the sound of a Halloween Pumpkin Candy Holder falling down the stairs?”
“Ooh. Very close. Very close. Contestant Veteran Mom, do you have any idea?”
Buzz!
“Yes?”
“Yes Bob, it is a Halloween Pumpkin Candy Holder, but it was kicked, it didn’t fall.”
“That is correct! Veteran Mom, take fifty points. For a bonus point, identify Why it was kicked.”
“His sister ate all the reese's pieces and left only the lime flavored tootsie rolls and candy corn.”
“Correct!”
“Excellent work. Excellent. We’ll start the next round worth one hundred points. Okay, contestants will have thirty seconds to identify this sound.”
“ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ! Huhhhhhhh! ZZZZZZZZZ! Huhhhhhh! ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!”
“Buzz.”
“Buzz. “ “Buzz.”
“New Dad was first on the buzzer. What was that sound?”
“Bob, it was Snoring. It wasn’t me because I don’t snore, but it was snoring.”
“Sorry, that was not the correct answer, we move on to Grandmother. “
“Snoring and the baby was crying Bob.”
“I’m sorry, we have to turn to Veteran Mom.”
“Snoring and the baby crying and the Toddler just climbed out of bed and is staggering around the house looking for his stuffed lion and a sippy cup of water.”
“That is 100% correct! I see we now move to the speed round where we will play a sound. Your job is to identify the situation and whether it requires a run or no run parenting response. Remember, you must indicate the severity of the situation if there is any.”
“Slishhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Drip. Drip. Drip. Slisshhhhhhhhhhh. Drip. Drip. Drip.”
“Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.”
“Okay, we have a three way tie between the Veteran Mom, the New Dad and the Grandmother so I’ll have to ask each of you to write your responses, along with run or don’t run.”
“Okay, Grandmother, what was your response?”
“It’s a sink Bob, a child was brushing his teeth and turned off the sink when another child came in and did the same. No run.”
“Ooh. No. I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. New Dad, what was your answer, did you correctly identify the mystery sound and run/no run response?”
“That’s the ice machine in the kitchen, being used to pour drinks for the neighborhood by a five year old and a three year old. Run.”
“I’ll have to check with the judges to determine if they’re willing to give partial credit but in the meantime, let’s check with our final contestant.Veteran Mom?”
“Yes, Bob, that is the sound of a toddler getting a drink out of the toilet. Run and scream at the same time.”
“That is correct and congratulations to our winner Veteran Mom! She gets to move on to the bonus round, while we say good bye to Grandmother and New Dad, thank you both for playing.”
“Now Veteran Mom, you know how this game is played, we give you a sound and you identify the danger level and its origin. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Here is your mystery sound.”
………thirty seconds of silence pass.
“Bob, it is a code red emergency, there are three children upstairs trying to create a bridge out of a sleeping bag, two chairs and a toy box and the youngest has a hammer she is preparing to tap on the window. If an adult does not intervene in the next four seconds, someone will be hurt and something will be broken.“
“Congratulations, Mom is our grand champion!“ Balloons cascade onto the stage and credits begin to roll. A voice over is heard, “There are no prizes awarded in “Do You Hear What I Hear?” other than the peace of mind that comes from knowing what your children are up to all the time and being able to put a stop to it.”
Bob turns to the camera. “Tune in next time when contestants will be asked to speed round mate all white socks and assemble lunches with no white bread available.”
Friday, March 27, 2009
Growing Pains
Every parent has spent a lifetime of nagging children to eat their vegetables, to brush teeth, to read, to do homework, to watch less TV and exercise more. Every parent has hoped their children would be more manageable than they were as kids. Every kid as presumed they were more knowledgible about the world than their parents could ever be, and every parent has fretted that the current age is so very different and more difficult than all the ages past, that the world is much more oppressive and dangerous than they remember. Time is the great equalizer of all perceptions. Once you get to the later age, you have the authority of past experience to recognize those without that perspective; will not recognize your authority.
So I get the pain and awkwardness of teenagerhood. No one ever says “Man, if only I were 12 again.”
Having two teens and one tween and one perspective tween, I am having bad flashbacks.
Yesterday was a free dress day at school and I remembered. One of the biggest arguments I ever had with my Mom and I LOVED my Mom, (she was a safe haven and a refuge in those ugly high school years), was over a bathrobe sash.
I thought it looked great tied around my head.
It had a long flowing tapered end and it was fuchsia pink and made of terry cloth. It could not, could not have been more stylin’. I had on a mini skirt, tights, a flash dance cut sweat shirt, leg warmers and to complete the screaming 80’s fame wantabe ensemble, the fuchsia terry cloth bathrobe sash head band. Mom said no. I protested. Mom still said no. Somehow, the words “It’s a bathrobe sash.” Refused to sink into my adolescent brain. She tried mightily to convince me but undaunted, I marched to school, headband a swaying, euphoric.
That today, there is no physical evidence that I ever wore the thing to school is proof, not that anyone needed any, that Mom loves me.
Some kid at school, I forget the name, said, “Hey Sherry? Why are you wearing a bathrobe sash on your head?” The sash was off instantly and I was cured.
My daughter came up to show me her outfit for school. She had been in a great funk about what to wear but now joyfully modeled blue sports shorts, a striped pink and white top, a purple jacket and light blue ughs. Her hair was in deep curls and she twirled around with a twinkle in her eyes that mirrored her mother’s of 28 years ago.
“How do I look?” she'd asked.
I struggled. I knew she loved this, I knew I hated it but I knew she loved this. “You look happy.” I replied.
Off she bounced, her heart light.
Hopefully, no one took any pictures.
So I get the pain and awkwardness of teenagerhood. No one ever says “Man, if only I were 12 again.”
Having two teens and one tween and one perspective tween, I am having bad flashbacks.
Yesterday was a free dress day at school and I remembered. One of the biggest arguments I ever had with my Mom and I LOVED my Mom, (she was a safe haven and a refuge in those ugly high school years), was over a bathrobe sash.
I thought it looked great tied around my head.
It had a long flowing tapered end and it was fuchsia pink and made of terry cloth. It could not, could not have been more stylin’. I had on a mini skirt, tights, a flash dance cut sweat shirt, leg warmers and to complete the screaming 80’s fame wantabe ensemble, the fuchsia terry cloth bathrobe sash head band. Mom said no. I protested. Mom still said no. Somehow, the words “It’s a bathrobe sash.” Refused to sink into my adolescent brain. She tried mightily to convince me but undaunted, I marched to school, headband a swaying, euphoric.
That today, there is no physical evidence that I ever wore the thing to school is proof, not that anyone needed any, that Mom loves me.
Some kid at school, I forget the name, said, “Hey Sherry? Why are you wearing a bathrobe sash on your head?” The sash was off instantly and I was cured.
My daughter came up to show me her outfit for school. She had been in a great funk about what to wear but now joyfully modeled blue sports shorts, a striped pink and white top, a purple jacket and light blue ughs. Her hair was in deep curls and she twirled around with a twinkle in her eyes that mirrored her mother’s of 28 years ago.
“How do I look?” she'd asked.
I struggled. I knew she loved this, I knew I hated it but I knew she loved this. “You look happy.” I replied.
Off she bounced, her heart light.
Hopefully, no one took any pictures.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Real Impressionists at Work
Anyone who has ever taken an art class knows one of the most basic of teaching techniques is imitation. To learn how to paint, one copies the methods employed by the masters. Through the dabbing of dots of paint, one learns how technique influences form and how carpal tunnel syndrome existed long before portable computers became ubiquitous. The overarching idea is to gain an appreciation for method while forming one’s own judgments about how to best express one’s own concepts of motion, form, color and mood. “Wrapping a line around one’s think.” Sr. Betty used to say.
In the forming of an actual person’s personality, the approach is much the same. One of the jobs of parenting is to expose children to beauty. When driving, a father or mother must draw attention to the scenic vista, the historical marker or the local color shop that seems iconic to the geographic area one is passing through. The problem however, is that being shown beauty does not always have its intended effect. For instance, if I show my kids a mountain, they want to know if we can go skiing or hiking. If I show my kids a river, “When are we swimming?” or “Can we fish?” pops up. Farms trigger “When do we eat?” and “Can we pick our own?” responses. Animals alongside the road invoke clamors for pets, rides or visits to the local zoo.
With every attempt to enrich our children, the responses are immediate and beyond what was intended, resulting in the adults having to either ratchet back expectations or dim enthusiasm. We took the kids to a museum. The natural consequence “Can we paint?” made me shiver involuntarily. I could see my floor covered with blue spats, at least four outfits worth of laundry, three full baths with hair wash, seventeen muddy watercolors in my future that I must simply adore and possibly frame, and the very real possibility of my kitchen walls receiving the Jackson Pollack treatment. Yet the Mom gene in me always ignores these clarion cries and says “Yes.”
Things were going smoothly until one child decided her arm needed to be purple. This started a trend. I was now the proud parent of a Blue Man Group franchise. If I could have sold tickets to have people stare at my oddly hued offspring as they made caterwauling sounds while playing Wii’s Rock Band, this might have been okay. As it was, two hours of scrubbing later still left me with vaguely tinged children, like easter eggs in that PAAS dye that haven’t been allowed to sit. It was winter so long sleeved shirts and gloves mitigated what might have otherwise been an awkward moment at Sunday mass, though my three year old sported a skin tone that might have been considered jaundice if it hadn’t been so Trix cereal yellow in hue.
Now, the artists in my home seize every moment possible to cut paper, glue things and add little extras to our walls. I should buy stock in Mr. Clean, as he and I are constant companions, scrubbing the walls to erase what would be otherwise permanent murals paying homage to toddlerhood. I had come to an uneasy acceptance of this situation until one daughter brought me to see her art. “It’s you.” She beamed proudly, and I gulped at my moral dilemma. Erase the portrait offered with love or leave a scrawl of pencil and crayon clearly visible first thing when you walk in the house.
Wrapping a think around the lines, I grabbed a paint brush. Sure the work was untouchable before but that was when there wasn’t actual paint involved. Within minutes, I had a white door again and several pleased artists, including the revisionist who was now reveling in her “White period.” However, before they get too carried away with thinking that they can redecorate the house, I think I’ll take them out in the car and maybe point out a mountain or a farm or a river.
It will give my husband a fighting chance to clear out all the crayons.
In the forming of an actual person’s personality, the approach is much the same. One of the jobs of parenting is to expose children to beauty. When driving, a father or mother must draw attention to the scenic vista, the historical marker or the local color shop that seems iconic to the geographic area one is passing through. The problem however, is that being shown beauty does not always have its intended effect. For instance, if I show my kids a mountain, they want to know if we can go skiing or hiking. If I show my kids a river, “When are we swimming?” or “Can we fish?” pops up. Farms trigger “When do we eat?” and “Can we pick our own?” responses. Animals alongside the road invoke clamors for pets, rides or visits to the local zoo.
With every attempt to enrich our children, the responses are immediate and beyond what was intended, resulting in the adults having to either ratchet back expectations or dim enthusiasm. We took the kids to a museum. The natural consequence “Can we paint?” made me shiver involuntarily. I could see my floor covered with blue spats, at least four outfits worth of laundry, three full baths with hair wash, seventeen muddy watercolors in my future that I must simply adore and possibly frame, and the very real possibility of my kitchen walls receiving the Jackson Pollack treatment. Yet the Mom gene in me always ignores these clarion cries and says “Yes.”
Things were going smoothly until one child decided her arm needed to be purple. This started a trend. I was now the proud parent of a Blue Man Group franchise. If I could have sold tickets to have people stare at my oddly hued offspring as they made caterwauling sounds while playing Wii’s Rock Band, this might have been okay. As it was, two hours of scrubbing later still left me with vaguely tinged children, like easter eggs in that PAAS dye that haven’t been allowed to sit. It was winter so long sleeved shirts and gloves mitigated what might have otherwise been an awkward moment at Sunday mass, though my three year old sported a skin tone that might have been considered jaundice if it hadn’t been so Trix cereal yellow in hue.
Now, the artists in my home seize every moment possible to cut paper, glue things and add little extras to our walls. I should buy stock in Mr. Clean, as he and I are constant companions, scrubbing the walls to erase what would be otherwise permanent murals paying homage to toddlerhood. I had come to an uneasy acceptance of this situation until one daughter brought me to see her art. “It’s you.” She beamed proudly, and I gulped at my moral dilemma. Erase the portrait offered with love or leave a scrawl of pencil and crayon clearly visible first thing when you walk in the house.
Wrapping a think around the lines, I grabbed a paint brush. Sure the work was untouchable before but that was when there wasn’t actual paint involved. Within minutes, I had a white door again and several pleased artists, including the revisionist who was now reveling in her “White period.” However, before they get too carried away with thinking that they can redecorate the house, I think I’ll take them out in the car and maybe point out a mountain or a farm or a river.
It will give my husband a fighting chance to clear out all the crayons.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Christmas Ham is Served
The following piece ran in the Island Park News, December 19, 2008
Leftovers are seldom an issue at my home, except at Christmas when my husband in a fit of gastronomic nostalgia, always wants to serve ham. I don’t mind traditions, but there are some logistical issues with this one. 1) My husband buys a very large piece of meat. 2) Our children don’t like ham.
Christmas day is never the issue. Emotionally softened by the glow of the day and the pile of freshly acquired loot, the kids are willing to indulge their father by trying his favorite Yuletide meal. Knowing that there is fresh pumpkin or apple pie waiting for dessert probably helps too. The next day, leftover ham served with eggs will still get eaten. By day three, some of the older ones still consent to consume ham sandwiches if I serve them with chips. Day four, sounds of open revolt are beginning to be heard when dinner is served.
Seeking to avoid a revolution over Virginia ham, my beloved husband proposed playing a board game our daughter received for Christmas during dinner. The kids were keen to play. Setting out the game “Operation,” their father explained the “special” meal time rules.
Everyone had to play. Everyone was served a plate of pasta with the now offending Christmas ham mixed amongst the Fettuccini noodles. If you took on a job in the Operation game and touched the sides, not only would you lose your turn, you had to eat a bite of ham. If you refused to take a job, you had to eat two bites of ham. If you got the ham bone out successfully, you were exonerated from eating anymore of the ham at this meal and could move straight to pie. If you won the game, you could opt out of ham for the remaining duration of the ham’s existence.
The next day, when I offered to play operation, my daughter said, “How much ham do I have to eat?” Kids were offering to do chores to avoid the other white meat. By day six, positive reinforcement in the form of cold hard cash was insufficient to guarantee compliant consumption. A week into eating, it was no longer worth the emotional effort for any sentient adult to consider serving ham to a non ham eater.
Day twelve, the UPS truck pulled up. A large package had come from our family’s gift exchange with a note that said, “Sorry this is late. Merry Christmas! Love…” from one of those fancy gift mail food order catalogs.
“This special Virginia Ham was sent to you…” I read.
I called my husband. “Oh man, we’ve been eating ham for weeks.” He said. The kids grinned. Over the phone, my beloved heard the sounds of ham induce karma from his daughter. “Hey Dad, let’s play Operation.”
Leftovers are seldom an issue at my home, except at Christmas when my husband in a fit of gastronomic nostalgia, always wants to serve ham. I don’t mind traditions, but there are some logistical issues with this one. 1) My husband buys a very large piece of meat. 2) Our children don’t like ham.
Christmas day is never the issue. Emotionally softened by the glow of the day and the pile of freshly acquired loot, the kids are willing to indulge their father by trying his favorite Yuletide meal. Knowing that there is fresh pumpkin or apple pie waiting for dessert probably helps too. The next day, leftover ham served with eggs will still get eaten. By day three, some of the older ones still consent to consume ham sandwiches if I serve them with chips. Day four, sounds of open revolt are beginning to be heard when dinner is served.
Seeking to avoid a revolution over Virginia ham, my beloved husband proposed playing a board game our daughter received for Christmas during dinner. The kids were keen to play. Setting out the game “Operation,” their father explained the “special” meal time rules.
Everyone had to play. Everyone was served a plate of pasta with the now offending Christmas ham mixed amongst the Fettuccini noodles. If you took on a job in the Operation game and touched the sides, not only would you lose your turn, you had to eat a bite of ham. If you refused to take a job, you had to eat two bites of ham. If you got the ham bone out successfully, you were exonerated from eating anymore of the ham at this meal and could move straight to pie. If you won the game, you could opt out of ham for the remaining duration of the ham’s existence.
The next day, when I offered to play operation, my daughter said, “How much ham do I have to eat?” Kids were offering to do chores to avoid the other white meat. By day six, positive reinforcement in the form of cold hard cash was insufficient to guarantee compliant consumption. A week into eating, it was no longer worth the emotional effort for any sentient adult to consider serving ham to a non ham eater.
Day twelve, the UPS truck pulled up. A large package had come from our family’s gift exchange with a note that said, “Sorry this is late. Merry Christmas! Love…” from one of those fancy gift mail food order catalogs.
“This special Virginia Ham was sent to you…” I read.
I called my husband. “Oh man, we’ve been eating ham for weeks.” He said. The kids grinned. Over the phone, my beloved heard the sounds of ham induce karma from his daughter. “Hey Dad, let’s play Operation.”
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Debug System Failure
My son, being nine, has honed driving his older sister absolutely crazy into an art form. Button pushing isn’t a choice for him, it’s a way of life.
“Ignore him.” I explained when her brother was playing Safari and kept shooting her with his fake gun and saying, “I bagged a hippo, I got bonus points…I got an elephant…extra bonus points…you know why you get bonus points don’t you?”
She sighed, “Mom? Don't I get credit for not punching him?”
"Yes." But this was insufficient praise for not having the satisfying smack of hitting her brother, so I tried diversion. “Help me make breakfast.” I was making muffins. She considered the prospect and agreed. There was a momentary cease fire in the fight.
Teasing only works if the victim is being actively tormented. His other older sister simply put on her MP3 player. His younger sister wasn't outside and his younger brother wasn't a big enough target, so the safari king came in to hunt his favorite quarry.
I tried a preemptive disarmament strategy. Handing him breakfast with the added point, “Your sister made it.” Didn’t garner a positive response, simply an affirmative grunt, but the teasing had been momentarily suspended by the presence of food.
Now it was lecture time. Mom spoke in her Mom lecture tone…and I saw the brains tune out. I felt like the UN. I needed a more effective model for obedience than my home persona so I pulled out the teacher voice and became Mrs. Antonetti.
“What do they teach you at school about teasing?” I asked my son.
“The Debug system. We need to ignore the teasing. Then we need to walk away. Then if it continues, we say in a nice firm voice, “Please stop.” If that doesn’t work, we get a teacher.”
“Okay. I want you two to Debug each other from now on, instead of running straight to me. Pretend I'm a teacher. I used to be. I have the degree.”
“Can’t.”
“Won’t work.” My daughter added. Both of them were agreeing.
“Why not? You both know it. You both understand it. I could give detentions if that would help.”
“Mom! You can't give detentions. If they're done at home, they're just time outs."
"Fine, I'll drive to school. You can stand in a corner there."
"Mom, you're not going to load up the car to drive us to school to stand in time out. Besides, if it happens after 7pm..."
"Then you'll just go to bed."
"Teachers don't do that."
"Look, just don't listen to him when he's being rude...and you....Stop Being Rude!"
"I can’t ignore him.”
“Yeah, and she bugs me.”
“Look,” I said, giving them both my undivided attention, “Just pretend it’s me talking. Pretend it’s me saying, “Clean your room. Hang up your coat. Put away your shoes, clear the table. Read. Do your homework.”
“But those are boring things to do.”
“Exactly. Whenever your brother teases you, pretend it’s me. Whenever your sister annoys you, pretend it’s me.”
They blinked, as if they hadn’t heard. One was digging his elbow into the other’s as they stood at the kitchen island not hearing my lecture. “Just like that.” I explained.
At this point, my husband walked by, “I’m not sure that’s the lesson we want taught.”
“Don’t worry love,” I answered, “they weren’t listening.”
“Ignore him.” I explained when her brother was playing Safari and kept shooting her with his fake gun and saying, “I bagged a hippo, I got bonus points…I got an elephant…extra bonus points…you know why you get bonus points don’t you?”
She sighed, “Mom? Don't I get credit for not punching him?”
"Yes." But this was insufficient praise for not having the satisfying smack of hitting her brother, so I tried diversion. “Help me make breakfast.” I was making muffins. She considered the prospect and agreed. There was a momentary cease fire in the fight.
Teasing only works if the victim is being actively tormented. His other older sister simply put on her MP3 player. His younger sister wasn't outside and his younger brother wasn't a big enough target, so the safari king came in to hunt his favorite quarry.
I tried a preemptive disarmament strategy. Handing him breakfast with the added point, “Your sister made it.” Didn’t garner a positive response, simply an affirmative grunt, but the teasing had been momentarily suspended by the presence of food.
Now it was lecture time. Mom spoke in her Mom lecture tone…and I saw the brains tune out. I felt like the UN. I needed a more effective model for obedience than my home persona so I pulled out the teacher voice and became Mrs. Antonetti.
“What do they teach you at school about teasing?” I asked my son.
“The Debug system. We need to ignore the teasing. Then we need to walk away. Then if it continues, we say in a nice firm voice, “Please stop.” If that doesn’t work, we get a teacher.”
“Okay. I want you two to Debug each other from now on, instead of running straight to me. Pretend I'm a teacher. I used to be. I have the degree.”
“Can’t.”
“Won’t work.” My daughter added. Both of them were agreeing.
“Why not? You both know it. You both understand it. I could give detentions if that would help.”
“Mom! You can't give detentions. If they're done at home, they're just time outs."
"Fine, I'll drive to school. You can stand in a corner there."
"Mom, you're not going to load up the car to drive us to school to stand in time out. Besides, if it happens after 7pm..."
"Then you'll just go to bed."
"Teachers don't do that."
"Look, just don't listen to him when he's being rude...and you....Stop Being Rude!"
"I can’t ignore him.”
“Yeah, and she bugs me.”
“Look,” I said, giving them both my undivided attention, “Just pretend it’s me talking. Pretend it’s me saying, “Clean your room. Hang up your coat. Put away your shoes, clear the table. Read. Do your homework.”
“But those are boring things to do.”
“Exactly. Whenever your brother teases you, pretend it’s me. Whenever your sister annoys you, pretend it’s me.”
They blinked, as if they hadn’t heard. One was digging his elbow into the other’s as they stood at the kitchen island not hearing my lecture. “Just like that.” I explained.
At this point, my husband walked by, “I’m not sure that’s the lesson we want taught.”
“Don’t worry love,” I answered, “they weren’t listening.”
Friday, August 29, 2008
Mommy Feeling Energy
A friend of mine was stuck at a dinner where a woman espoused that she planned on purchasing a poodle so she could experience that “Mommy Feeling Energy.”
Now I know that pets are members of the family. They provide comfort, companionship and require good care. I don’t doubt the depth of feeling of owners of dogs, cats, ferrets, horses and all things furry; it’s just that the comparisons themselves are wrong; apples and oranges, kids and dogs, fish and bicycles. The emotional connection between the cared for and the caring is not something I wish to mock, it’s the intellectual argument of equal footing. Any pet owner can leave a dish of water and a dish of food and walk out the door to work, even if the dog is six months old. There is still some questioning of parental judgment if a sixteen year old with a fully stocked refrigerator is left unsupervised for more than two hours.
You can teach a dog to sit. “Stay. Come. Heel. Quiet. Fetch.” All can be taught within the first year. Kids, you have to latch into a car seat and hope they sit, stay, and keep the noise below public ordinance levels. After ten years, they still need daily reminders to put shoes in the closet, not leave milk glasses on top of the piano, and empty garbage cans before they cascade onto the floor. Dogs don’t have homework or relive fights they had with their litter mates that happened three days ago with full emotional vigor. As expensive a breed of dog, cat or whatever as you can find, as gourmet as pet food comes, and as many medical needs as they might have, pets still won’t require a new clothes each year for school, a college education, extra trips for soccer games or a cell phone. At some point, a dog is still a dog, even if it’s a Chihuahua.
Kids demand more from day one. They take over your body, your brain, your house, your life, your whole heart. The stretchmarks they leave on one’s soul are wider and more permanent than any one might find on the abdomen or one’s pocketbook. They connect us to our parents, and to the future and demand via their very own neediness that we become more the people we were always supposed to be.
Finally, no one has ever uttered the words, “I’m going to have a kid so I can experience what it’s like to own a pet. It will give me that Pet Owning Emotional connection.”
Feeling good today, only 30 or less days until Paul arrives so expect the postings to drop off sometime near the end of September. So when that happens, try Humor-Blogs.com!
Now I know that pets are members of the family. They provide comfort, companionship and require good care. I don’t doubt the depth of feeling of owners of dogs, cats, ferrets, horses and all things furry; it’s just that the comparisons themselves are wrong; apples and oranges, kids and dogs, fish and bicycles. The emotional connection between the cared for and the caring is not something I wish to mock, it’s the intellectual argument of equal footing. Any pet owner can leave a dish of water and a dish of food and walk out the door to work, even if the dog is six months old. There is still some questioning of parental judgment if a sixteen year old with a fully stocked refrigerator is left unsupervised for more than two hours.
You can teach a dog to sit. “Stay. Come. Heel. Quiet. Fetch.” All can be taught within the first year. Kids, you have to latch into a car seat and hope they sit, stay, and keep the noise below public ordinance levels. After ten years, they still need daily reminders to put shoes in the closet, not leave milk glasses on top of the piano, and empty garbage cans before they cascade onto the floor. Dogs don’t have homework or relive fights they had with their litter mates that happened three days ago with full emotional vigor. As expensive a breed of dog, cat or whatever as you can find, as gourmet as pet food comes, and as many medical needs as they might have, pets still won’t require a new clothes each year for school, a college education, extra trips for soccer games or a cell phone. At some point, a dog is still a dog, even if it’s a Chihuahua.
Kids demand more from day one. They take over your body, your brain, your house, your life, your whole heart. The stretchmarks they leave on one’s soul are wider and more permanent than any one might find on the abdomen or one’s pocketbook. They connect us to our parents, and to the future and demand via their very own neediness that we become more the people we were always supposed to be.
Finally, no one has ever uttered the words, “I’m going to have a kid so I can experience what it’s like to own a pet. It will give me that Pet Owning Emotional connection.”
Feeling good today, only 30 or less days until Paul arrives so expect the postings to drop off sometime near the end of September. So when that happens, try Humor-Blogs.com!
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Game Masters of the House
Summer unstructured time had gotten out of hand. Kids would get up and begin foraging immediately in the morning for ice cream, turn on the computer or the Nintendo and promptly become utterly inert except for the twitching of their thumbs. Occasionally, I had been able to bribe/coax/threaten them into engaging in summer reading or going swimming or even, (gasp) picking up their clothing, but the general rhythm of the day was sloth, followed by furious bouts of eating, followed by more sloth and occasional sojourns into fighting. Radical discipline and creative parenting was required to reign in these children that had become wild in the weeks between the end of school and summer camp.
Day One Intervention: Discipline by setting limits. “You may stare at any screen for an hour each day. But only for one hour.” Gaming the system was rampant…I was walking by…I’m not watching, I’m holding the baby…I got up during commercials so I still have fifteen minutes…I traded with my brother for making his bed so I get another hour. By the end of the day, while actual viewing time had been reduced measurably from non-stop to still wretchedly excessive, I felt exhausted from the effort. There had to be an easier way.
Day Two Intervention: Carrot and Stick. I took away the remotes, the cable connectors and changed the passwords on the computers. “If you want these things, the following things must occur.” I had thoughtfully written out index cards with 3-5 things depending upon child and level of competency. Passing them out, I instructed, “You must have me inspect or verify that each item on the list has been done.” Here, speed became the incentive, and as such, the children raced through two pages of math, made their beds and each did their individual chore and practiced their trombone/piano/saxophone the allotted amount of time. I should have felt euphoric, but at ten in the morning, the kids were all again parked at machines and I felt like if I fussed, it would seem I was reneging on the deal. The house looked great but the kids were tuned out. They were missing summer. The method needed refinement. I made the addendum of no trading, commercials counted, and ”if you were caught watching, it counted!” to the next day’s index cards.
Day Three: Now I had them. I could play crafty too. I had collected all electronic devices, demanded the one hour limit and included in each card “Play a game with your siblings that does not involve a screen.” The subsequent number of times I had to take on the role of Judge Mom to manage the competitive and vaguely hostile Monopoly game meant that this too, was as of yet, an unperfected means to my desired end, children entertaining themselves with something other than a computer, Nintendo or gaming system.
Day Four: Feeling tired, I had become sarcastic. I summoned the top five children, the main culprits and gamers of my attempt at a system. I had them sit at the table. I set the timer.
“Everyone will punch their fingers on the table for the next five minutes. Punch as hard as you like. Punch as often as you can. You may alternate fingers and hands but must not stop. Go.”
“This is hard Mom.”
“My hands are cramping up.”
“This is boring!”
“Why are we doing this?”
“No! No. No. Keep going. Five minutes is all I’m asking. This should be easy. Everyone, start cheering for each other to keep at it.”
I got a few half hearted Mom-is-nuts cheers before the questions started up again.
“Come on guys, you do this all the time. Your thumbs must be up to the challenge now.”
“Mom. What are we doing?”
“Virtual gaming. See, this way, each of you can play the game you want. Each of you has a controller and is in charge. It’s just like playing the actual game right?”
Disgust does not begin to describe the looks I got, but it did make each child feel modestly sheepish when they sat down to play gamecube.
Day 5: The Power went out from a thunderstorm. “God is on my side. See?” I pointed to the lifeless screens that now seemed only to take up space. I passed out flashlights and summer reading books. Not seeing an alternative, they grudgingly marched away with tomes I just knew would capture their imaginations and delight their brains. I felt so potent as a parent at moment, I went around unplugging every device that might accidentally give away when the power was restored, just in case it happened too soon.
Day 6: Rapture. Power is still out. The kids are reading their books and the oldest comes to me to ask if they can go on a group bike ride. Joyous at the creative leadership being exercised by my son, I agree. He makes sure everyone has helmets that fit, that they all have water bottles and that he has his cell phone. They are going to ride to a friend’s house that is about a mile away. Feeling like a supermom as I watch them ride off. The phone rings.
“Do you need me to store anything like milk or eggs? If so, send them with your kids. We still have power. They’re coming over because Ben and Jake just got a Wii and can’t wait to show it off.”
Victory this time around, was theirs…it’s going to be a long summer.
Day One Intervention: Discipline by setting limits. “You may stare at any screen for an hour each day. But only for one hour.” Gaming the system was rampant…I was walking by…I’m not watching, I’m holding the baby…I got up during commercials so I still have fifteen minutes…I traded with my brother for making his bed so I get another hour. By the end of the day, while actual viewing time had been reduced measurably from non-stop to still wretchedly excessive, I felt exhausted from the effort. There had to be an easier way.
Day Two Intervention: Carrot and Stick. I took away the remotes, the cable connectors and changed the passwords on the computers. “If you want these things, the following things must occur.” I had thoughtfully written out index cards with 3-5 things depending upon child and level of competency. Passing them out, I instructed, “You must have me inspect or verify that each item on the list has been done.” Here, speed became the incentive, and as such, the children raced through two pages of math, made their beds and each did their individual chore and practiced their trombone/piano/saxophone the allotted amount of time. I should have felt euphoric, but at ten in the morning, the kids were all again parked at machines and I felt like if I fussed, it would seem I was reneging on the deal. The house looked great but the kids were tuned out. They were missing summer. The method needed refinement. I made the addendum of no trading, commercials counted, and ”if you were caught watching, it counted!” to the next day’s index cards.
Day Three: Now I had them. I could play crafty too. I had collected all electronic devices, demanded the one hour limit and included in each card “Play a game with your siblings that does not involve a screen.” The subsequent number of times I had to take on the role of Judge Mom to manage the competitive and vaguely hostile Monopoly game meant that this too, was as of yet, an unperfected means to my desired end, children entertaining themselves with something other than a computer, Nintendo or gaming system.
Day Four: Feeling tired, I had become sarcastic. I summoned the top five children, the main culprits and gamers of my attempt at a system. I had them sit at the table. I set the timer.
“Everyone will punch their fingers on the table for the next five minutes. Punch as hard as you like. Punch as often as you can. You may alternate fingers and hands but must not stop. Go.”
“This is hard Mom.”
“My hands are cramping up.”
“This is boring!”
“Why are we doing this?”
“No! No. No. Keep going. Five minutes is all I’m asking. This should be easy. Everyone, start cheering for each other to keep at it.”
I got a few half hearted Mom-is-nuts cheers before the questions started up again.
“Come on guys, you do this all the time. Your thumbs must be up to the challenge now.”
“Mom. What are we doing?”
“Virtual gaming. See, this way, each of you can play the game you want. Each of you has a controller and is in charge. It’s just like playing the actual game right?”
Disgust does not begin to describe the looks I got, but it did make each child feel modestly sheepish when they sat down to play gamecube.
Day 5: The Power went out from a thunderstorm. “God is on my side. See?” I pointed to the lifeless screens that now seemed only to take up space. I passed out flashlights and summer reading books. Not seeing an alternative, they grudgingly marched away with tomes I just knew would capture their imaginations and delight their brains. I felt so potent as a parent at moment, I went around unplugging every device that might accidentally give away when the power was restored, just in case it happened too soon.
Day 6: Rapture. Power is still out. The kids are reading their books and the oldest comes to me to ask if they can go on a group bike ride. Joyous at the creative leadership being exercised by my son, I agree. He makes sure everyone has helmets that fit, that they all have water bottles and that he has his cell phone. They are going to ride to a friend’s house that is about a mile away. Feeling like a supermom as I watch them ride off. The phone rings.
“Do you need me to store anything like milk or eggs? If so, send them with your kids. We still have power. They’re coming over because Ben and Jake just got a Wii and can’t wait to show it off.”
Victory this time around, was theirs…it’s going to be a long summer.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
A Few Easter Thoughts
Every Sunday, we go to mass and some days, mass is easier than others. Knowing there were chocolate bunnies and eggs to find made some of our crew a bit squirrely for the 8:30. My oldest was in Florida, my two oldest girls altar serving, and my husband and I were left to deal with our eight year old --not a morning son, our sentimental fiver and what are affectionately referred to as the "non sentient" crowd.
The Non Sentients began by entering the pew and announcing to anyone within earshot --the entire church, that the Easter Bunny had brought Chocolate. The four year old began then flapping like a bird for joy.
Then the organ played a practice Alleluia, he felt the need to flap and say the word, "Flap. Flap. Flap."
Still, his joy was infectious and I soon had a flock of would be flamingos.
Faced with flapping toddlers in a crowded church, I tried to suggest that this wasn't the time. Looking around, the other toddlers stuck in stiff Easter dresses followed my son's cue and began their own immitations of a faithful flock.
The opening music fortunately stopped the toddlers from taking flight but I was struck by their response to Easter for the rest of mass.
Happy Easter. May we all be so happy we could fly.
The Non Sentients began by entering the pew and announcing to anyone within earshot --the entire church, that the Easter Bunny had brought Chocolate. The four year old began then flapping like a bird for joy.
Then the organ played a practice Alleluia, he felt the need to flap and say the word, "Flap. Flap. Flap."
Still, his joy was infectious and I soon had a flock of would be flamingos.
Faced with flapping toddlers in a crowded church, I tried to suggest that this wasn't the time. Looking around, the other toddlers stuck in stiff Easter dresses followed my son's cue and began their own immitations of a faithful flock.
The opening music fortunately stopped the toddlers from taking flight but I was struck by their response to Easter for the rest of mass.
Happy Easter. May we all be so happy we could fly.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Relative Math
God had proclaimed a snow day.
The County had declared a two hour delay.
The Jesuits apparently have a chronological system all unto themselves. A two hour delay means school starts at 9:20 a.m. So my son arrived via bus and Metro at school forty minutes late. He was assigned JUG. (Justice Under God, detention for all those non S.J. educated).
My argument that 2 hours+an 8 o’clock starting time equals ten could not defeat the emotionally indifferent “Did you read the parent’s handbook?”
I don't read instruction manuals either but usally, in English, 2 hour delays mean 2 hour delays.
My other kids got the day off in its entirety.
Why?
I lost my car keys.
Seven children fed, dressed, coated, mittened, scarfed and hatted even! Seven children loaded into the car with lunches packed for four. Seven children sitting waiting for Mom to drive them…and she can’t find her keys.
Even worse, Mom thinks she knows where the keys are…somewhere under the snow from shoveling the night before to clear the walk.
Now I could have just called and said, “Car trouble,” but with four children at the same school, odds were the truth would have come out anyway. I could just see my five year old brightly marching into her classroom to explain she got the day off because Mommy couldn’t find her car keys. So I ‘fessed up to the school. The secretary was still laughing when she hung up.
Exponents…
So the kids pile out of the car and explode into the home. By the time I unload my stuff and the baby, they have scattered to the four corners of the world, one on computer, two playing Nintendo, two are raiding the refrigerator for a second breakfast and one has buried herself back in the blankets with a book. Blowing my whistle (a’la Captain Von Trap), I summoned the horde.
Do any of you know what exponents are?
The two oldest raise their hands, eager to show off to the others what they know.
“Good.” I thrust a calculator in one child’s hands and a pencil and paper in the other’s.
“ You. Add this up. You. Check her math.”
You, all six of you come in the door. You drop your coats –those of you that can, (6), and gloves (12), scarves (6), hats (6), lunch boxes (4), backpacks (5), shoes (14), socks (13) how does that happen? and the baby comes in with her car seat, blanket, baby bag and then you add my purse and bag and coat and I have…seventy two things to put away. Add to that five beds to make…, the eight meals already served, the spoons, cups, plates and napkins, (32 items) and you’re lucky we even got in the car!
They are all looking at me blinking, waiting for the grande finale.
If you would like to eat before nine o’clock tonight…message received before she’s even finished pushing buttons to give me a grand total…they began scrambling.
Lessons learned…The Miracle of Compound Interest
I still haven’t found my keys. I've reshoveled the walk and walked the yard where I might have dropped them. I remember losing my student id and keys in the snow in Southbend Freshman year in early October. In April, I found them thawing by the sidewalk. At least it isn't as long a wait.
We’ll be able to drive tomorrow regardless, I’ll cannibalize my husband’s keys, but I have offered a ten dollar reward after offering a two dollar award and having no takers even for a cursory search. When I asked my son why he wasn’t interested in the new bounty being offered, he smiled, “Well, I have a lot of shopping to do for Birthday month.”
“And?”
“I figure if I wait a few more hours, you’ll raise the reward to $20.00.”
"Fink!" I'm thinking. "Fat chance." I say. "I could buy a whole new set of keys for that."
Birthday month is the season from March 8 to April 13th, when one cousin, two sons and two daughters have celebrations honoring the days they first started making their needs publically known. Usually Easter is sandwiched somewhere in there too, so it is a time overflowing with cake and celebration despite Lent.
We suffer our sack cloths and ashes in other ways…
Any parent who has ever accidentally won at Candy Land knows the game was designed by someone who either really hated kids or loved punishing grown-ups. Being a snow day and unable to go anywhere, I couldn’t weasel out of playing it by giving the adult excuse of “Have to run errands.”
So we played. It just doesn’t satisfy a three year old or a two to say “Good game.” So I go in planning to throw the game. On more than one occasion, I have deliberately miscounted to avoid the great slide of doom for my offspring, or self sacrificed and sent my own piece careening down so I could endure another 15 minutes of spinning the dial and moving the little happy people up the ladder.
It is a tedious experience, such that I have considered adding numbers to the number wheel like 20 and 15 to speed up the pace. Then it hit me. Those Jesuits used Candyland Math to get through the day.
So What Have I Learned?
Thinking of creating a Parent Manual with the option of an Evening two hour delay which would require that bed time be moved up 80 minutes in the event of a snow day or a mental emergency on the part of an adult.
I summoned the kids. "I'm setting the timer." I push 30 minutes. "The bounty for the keys is 10 dollars. If the keys are found in the next 30 minutes, you will get the ten bucks. After that, you get nothing but thanks."
Candyland toddler girl found the keys in five minutes. Wonder if I can swap the ten spot for another round of Candyland.
Moral: There is none, except don't lose your keys and try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
The County had declared a two hour delay.
The Jesuits apparently have a chronological system all unto themselves. A two hour delay means school starts at 9:20 a.m. So my son arrived via bus and Metro at school forty minutes late. He was assigned JUG. (Justice Under God, detention for all those non S.J. educated).
My argument that 2 hours+an 8 o’clock starting time equals ten could not defeat the emotionally indifferent “Did you read the parent’s handbook?”
I don't read instruction manuals either but usally, in English, 2 hour delays mean 2 hour delays.
My other kids got the day off in its entirety.
Why?
I lost my car keys.
Seven children fed, dressed, coated, mittened, scarfed and hatted even! Seven children loaded into the car with lunches packed for four. Seven children sitting waiting for Mom to drive them…and she can’t find her keys.
Even worse, Mom thinks she knows where the keys are…somewhere under the snow from shoveling the night before to clear the walk.
Now I could have just called and said, “Car trouble,” but with four children at the same school, odds were the truth would have come out anyway. I could just see my five year old brightly marching into her classroom to explain she got the day off because Mommy couldn’t find her car keys. So I ‘fessed up to the school. The secretary was still laughing when she hung up.
Exponents…
So the kids pile out of the car and explode into the home. By the time I unload my stuff and the baby, they have scattered to the four corners of the world, one on computer, two playing Nintendo, two are raiding the refrigerator for a second breakfast and one has buried herself back in the blankets with a book. Blowing my whistle (a’la Captain Von Trap), I summoned the horde.
Do any of you know what exponents are?
The two oldest raise their hands, eager to show off to the others what they know.
“Good.” I thrust a calculator in one child’s hands and a pencil and paper in the other’s.
“ You. Add this up. You. Check her math.”
You, all six of you come in the door. You drop your coats –those of you that can, (6), and gloves (12), scarves (6), hats (6), lunch boxes (4), backpacks (5), shoes (14), socks (13) how does that happen? and the baby comes in with her car seat, blanket, baby bag and then you add my purse and bag and coat and I have…seventy two things to put away. Add to that five beds to make…, the eight meals already served, the spoons, cups, plates and napkins, (32 items) and you’re lucky we even got in the car!
They are all looking at me blinking, waiting for the grande finale.
If you would like to eat before nine o’clock tonight…message received before she’s even finished pushing buttons to give me a grand total…they began scrambling.
Lessons learned…The Miracle of Compound Interest
I still haven’t found my keys. I've reshoveled the walk and walked the yard where I might have dropped them. I remember losing my student id and keys in the snow in Southbend Freshman year in early October. In April, I found them thawing by the sidewalk. At least it isn't as long a wait.
We’ll be able to drive tomorrow regardless, I’ll cannibalize my husband’s keys, but I have offered a ten dollar reward after offering a two dollar award and having no takers even for a cursory search. When I asked my son why he wasn’t interested in the new bounty being offered, he smiled, “Well, I have a lot of shopping to do for Birthday month.”
“And?”
“I figure if I wait a few more hours, you’ll raise the reward to $20.00.”
"Fink!" I'm thinking. "Fat chance." I say. "I could buy a whole new set of keys for that."
Birthday month is the season from March 8 to April 13th, when one cousin, two sons and two daughters have celebrations honoring the days they first started making their needs publically known. Usually Easter is sandwiched somewhere in there too, so it is a time overflowing with cake and celebration despite Lent.
We suffer our sack cloths and ashes in other ways…
Any parent who has ever accidentally won at Candy Land knows the game was designed by someone who either really hated kids or loved punishing grown-ups. Being a snow day and unable to go anywhere, I couldn’t weasel out of playing it by giving the adult excuse of “Have to run errands.”
So we played. It just doesn’t satisfy a three year old or a two to say “Good game.” So I go in planning to throw the game. On more than one occasion, I have deliberately miscounted to avoid the great slide of doom for my offspring, or self sacrificed and sent my own piece careening down so I could endure another 15 minutes of spinning the dial and moving the little happy people up the ladder.
It is a tedious experience, such that I have considered adding numbers to the number wheel like 20 and 15 to speed up the pace. Then it hit me. Those Jesuits used Candyland Math to get through the day.
So What Have I Learned?
Thinking of creating a Parent Manual with the option of an Evening two hour delay which would require that bed time be moved up 80 minutes in the event of a snow day or a mental emergency on the part of an adult.
I summoned the kids. "I'm setting the timer." I push 30 minutes. "The bounty for the keys is 10 dollars. If the keys are found in the next 30 minutes, you will get the ten bucks. After that, you get nothing but thanks."
Candyland toddler girl found the keys in five minutes. Wonder if I can swap the ten spot for another round of Candyland.
Moral: There is none, except don't lose your keys and try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Latin Class
This is an older piece I wrote and since this week has been demanding, I'm digging into my folder of unpublished pieces. Enjoy.
My parents made me take Latin. They explained it would help with writing, with my understanding of the English language, and look really good on a high school transcript.
They also took it when they were teens.
Most people who took Latin lament that the language is dying and few high schools offer it as an option. Most people who took Latin secretly enjoy the fact that they know something that most of the world does not, but used to in the good old days. Most people who Take Latin, do so because of the Most People who Took Latin.
My father said to me as I protested, “Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.” translated "perhaps this will be a pleasure to look back on one day."
I’m still waiting.
Latin I was a one hour class after lunch a posteriori: "from what comes after" when my teen age brain was at its most stupefied. It also was in the old building that seldom had working air-conditioning, which in Southeast Texas meant you had to funnel through the fog of a full belly and sleep inducing heat and humidity to conjugate the most basic of verbs, amo (to love).
My argumentum ab inconvenienti: an appeal based upon the hardship or inconvenience involved, never seemed to move the teacher to exonerate me for falling asleep or failing to do my assignments. Highlights from that first year of classes include the mass evacuation three days in a row because of prank phone calls to the principal’s office about loose poisonous snakes in the hallways, Roger’s exploding coke –he put alka-seltzer in the can, and the break up of Carol and Chris mid way through the semester.
Most of the girls really liked Carol and hated Chris. Chris was one of those insufferable types that would argue with the teacher about whether to use the past perfect or the past when translating a particular sentence. My teacher had a phrase for those students who argued that level of nuance, they liked de asini umbra disceptare: "to argue about the shadow of an ass."
The lowlights of Latin class included my attempt to translate sentences from the Aeneid without the aid of a dictionary in a fluency quiz. Halfway through the thirty minute test, I stopped trying to write sentences and just translated each word individually so that the teacher would at least know I knew what the words were. Her comments back to me on the paper: parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus: "mountains will be in labor, and an absurd mouse will be born.” meant she knew I was sorta trying, but the results were less than impressive.
When I translated it, I thought mus was moose. Aparently my knowledge of the flauna of Ancient Rome was as accurate as my knowledge of the language itself.
Like most of the participants in this chosen course, I was a draftee, a victim of a prior generation’s infatuation with inflicting the same pain on the future as had been done in the past. (Now because I’ve had Latin I can tell you that the prior sentence would be put in the Future Perfect if you were expected to translate). I was just hoping to make it through the two required years with a B. When I tried to shorten the sentence to one year, Dad said, “quae nocent docent: "things that hurt teach." I translated that to mean “No.”
The Second year of Latin, one gets to tackle Julius Caesar’s Gallic Wars. It was a significant educational moment when I finally understood what our teacher had been yelling at us during role call each afternoon was, loosely translated “Sit up straight and spit out your gum!” She would also say, olet lucernam: "it smells of the lamp,” meaning I had done the work in a hurry and last minute. It’s hard to object when 1) you know what she said and therefore know she’s right or 2) if you don’t know what she said, it also proves she’s right.
Fast forward to today and my son is in high school and here I am in the role of the parent, thinking, “You know son, Latin looks really good on a high school transcript.” But so far, I have restrained myself from actually making the suggestion that any of my children consider this course of study. I’m afraid they’ll ask me for help. If so, they’ll come away from my tutorial thinking, ne Aesopum quidem trivit: "he has not even thumbed through Aesop." If any of them do decide to take on this subject, I hope and I pray, they does it in loco parentis.
Oh, and just in case my Latin teacher is reading this, “Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamus, Amatis, Amant.”
for fresher takes on humor than a riff on an Ancient Language, http://www.humor-blogs.com!
My parents made me take Latin. They explained it would help with writing, with my understanding of the English language, and look really good on a high school transcript.
They also took it when they were teens.
Most people who took Latin lament that the language is dying and few high schools offer it as an option. Most people who took Latin secretly enjoy the fact that they know something that most of the world does not, but used to in the good old days. Most people who Take Latin, do so because of the Most People who Took Latin.
My father said to me as I protested, “Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.” translated "perhaps this will be a pleasure to look back on one day."
I’m still waiting.
Latin I was a one hour class after lunch a posteriori: "from what comes after" when my teen age brain was at its most stupefied. It also was in the old building that seldom had working air-conditioning, which in Southeast Texas meant you had to funnel through the fog of a full belly and sleep inducing heat and humidity to conjugate the most basic of verbs, amo (to love).
My argumentum ab inconvenienti: an appeal based upon the hardship or inconvenience involved, never seemed to move the teacher to exonerate me for falling asleep or failing to do my assignments. Highlights from that first year of classes include the mass evacuation three days in a row because of prank phone calls to the principal’s office about loose poisonous snakes in the hallways, Roger’s exploding coke –he put alka-seltzer in the can, and the break up of Carol and Chris mid way through the semester.
Most of the girls really liked Carol and hated Chris. Chris was one of those insufferable types that would argue with the teacher about whether to use the past perfect or the past when translating a particular sentence. My teacher had a phrase for those students who argued that level of nuance, they liked de asini umbra disceptare: "to argue about the shadow of an ass."
The lowlights of Latin class included my attempt to translate sentences from the Aeneid without the aid of a dictionary in a fluency quiz. Halfway through the thirty minute test, I stopped trying to write sentences and just translated each word individually so that the teacher would at least know I knew what the words were. Her comments back to me on the paper: parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus: "mountains will be in labor, and an absurd mouse will be born.” meant she knew I was sorta trying, but the results were less than impressive.
When I translated it, I thought mus was moose. Aparently my knowledge of the flauna of Ancient Rome was as accurate as my knowledge of the language itself.
Like most of the participants in this chosen course, I was a draftee, a victim of a prior generation’s infatuation with inflicting the same pain on the future as had been done in the past. (Now because I’ve had Latin I can tell you that the prior sentence would be put in the Future Perfect if you were expected to translate). I was just hoping to make it through the two required years with a B. When I tried to shorten the sentence to one year, Dad said, “quae nocent docent: "things that hurt teach." I translated that to mean “No.”
The Second year of Latin, one gets to tackle Julius Caesar’s Gallic Wars. It was a significant educational moment when I finally understood what our teacher had been yelling at us during role call each afternoon was, loosely translated “Sit up straight and spit out your gum!” She would also say, olet lucernam: "it smells of the lamp,” meaning I had done the work in a hurry and last minute. It’s hard to object when 1) you know what she said and therefore know she’s right or 2) if you don’t know what she said, it also proves she’s right.
Fast forward to today and my son is in high school and here I am in the role of the parent, thinking, “You know son, Latin looks really good on a high school transcript.” But so far, I have restrained myself from actually making the suggestion that any of my children consider this course of study. I’m afraid they’ll ask me for help. If so, they’ll come away from my tutorial thinking, ne Aesopum quidem trivit: "he has not even thumbed through Aesop." If any of them do decide to take on this subject, I hope and I pray, they does it in loco parentis.
Oh, and just in case my Latin teacher is reading this, “Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamus, Amatis, Amant.”
for fresher takes on humor than a riff on an Ancient Language, http://www.humor-blogs.com!
Friday, February 1, 2008
The Lost Story of Meeting Tony
Names have been changed to protect the young –not necessarily the innocent, a true story, warts and all.
Last week I took Jeane, Grace and Thomas to see Tony Melendez, the musician who plays guitar with his feet, as he has no hands. It was in the church at my kids' school. My girlfriends Claire and Susan had brought along their preschool aged children as well, Kobe and Greg.
Claire is a savy mom, way cooler than me and thought to bring tootsie pops for all the children to keep them quiet during the performance. We were all feeling very good, like “proper mothers,” because we were exposing our children to diversity and culture and music and all of that on an ordinary Tuesday and it was free.
Thomas happily sucked on his third tootsie pop five minutes before the concert started. He was strapped in his stroller and I was praying he’d fall asleep. Grace and Kobe were having a bit of a theological argument in the pew, books should be shut and put in the book holder, books should be opened and thumbed through. It was a quiet three year old skirmish, mitigated by tootsie pops.
The microphones were turned on. All eyes were on the small stage that had been set up on the altar, as the classes from the school filed in to take their seats. Members of Tony’s band and family have arrived. The crowd hushes.
Tony comes out and introduces himself. Jeane looks at Tony as he starts to speak. She immediately begins to suck her finger hard and twirl her hair. She does this when she gets stressed. The music starts. People are clapping, singing along and I think, “She’ll get into it, she loves singing.” Jeane continues to stare hard at Tony. We are ¾ of the way back in the Church but she is on the end and has a clear view. She sucks harder. A blister is starting to form. I try to get her to sing like her sister, Grace or her friend, Greg. Kobe is dancing, even Thomas is humming. My girl friends chime in with additional maternal pressure, trying to encourage her to engage.
She violently shakes her head “No.” and I know, in my head, I can feel the tsunami of feeling coming towards me, “It’s going to get worse.” My mom voice whispers.
The first song ends and Jeane begins poking me. “Where are his hands?” she demands. I explain about the same time Tony does to the audience. “He doesn’t have hands.”
“Why not?”
“He was born without them.” I explain.
“Will our baby have hands?” she asks, pointing at my pregnant belly.
“Yes.”
She begins holding her hair and sucking harder. A mean thought crosses my mind, to mention she could lose her hand by sucking and twirling but I just pat her back. Jeane puts on her coat. She never wears her coat. She stamps her feet. I ignore it. Knowing we are not leaving, she slumps next to me, still sucking her finger. I stroke her hair. By mid song, my attention has wandered to Thomas, to Grace, to the music, to Tony, and then I look over.
Jeane is in the fetal position on the pew, with her coat over her, covering every inch of her body. I peek under, she has her eyes shut, her finger in her mouth, her hair is a knotted mess and she is shaking. She opens one angry eye at me and pulls the jacket back over her face.
Feeling annoyed and embarrassed, like she is way overdoing it for someone who is five, I pull the jacket off her, stuff it behind me and explain, she is going to sit. She is going to sit up and she is going to stay for the rest of the concert. Clare sends me a concerned mother look and offers to take her out of the building. But I have my back up. I have decided, she needs to be stretched a little and this won’t hurt her.
Jeane sits stiffly for the next thirty minutes, her fingers are red and several knots will have to be cut out of her hair. I don’t care. I feel mad at me and her because the concert has been lost on both of us in the process and I wonder what if anything did Grace get out of this, let alone Jeane. I know Thomas got three lollipops and a nap.
That night, I search the kids’ library for something to help, and find Shriver’s “What’s Wrong with Timmy,” Jeane hangs on every word and seems to be better so I start to relax about the whole thing. I still worry about how to help her with the next encounter.
That weekend, Tony played at the 10 am mass, and Jeane sees him. She does not flinch or even suck her finger, but after she knows it is him, she just stands like a statue for the duration of his meditation song. My older son buys a cassette of the music.
Moving on the next week, I am cleaning up after Thomas has ransacked the girl’s room. Grace is on the bed, playing with her baby dolls and some cardboard musical instruments she made at school. She has a drum, (coffee can), a horn (paper tube with tape and streamers) and a guitar with rubber band strings.
She explains to me as I go about cleaning up, “My baby is playing like in the church.” She moves the doll’s feet to pluck the rubber bands. “I can do it too.” She plucks the strings with her toes. And somehow, everything was better.
Thought you would like to see what I learned today, don’t get so worked up, and everything will work out.
Postscript, this morning, "Jeane" went nuts this morning as only a young adolescent can at the fact that her sister "Grace" took her shirt. Today is a mass day and they have to wear button downs, which Jeane hates to the point of wearing a sour face whenever she must endure such a garment. Having to opt for a long sleeved button shirt as versus a short was beyond her coping ability. She refused to get dressed. A cat fight ensued.
As I am laying down the law about such tizzies in the morning to one, the other slips into the closet and comes back with a short sleeved button down to replace the unbearable long one. All is right with the world and I start looking for her to twirl her hair into knots or a blister on her finger.
for more amusing stories and thoughts that don't get your hair full of knots, try www.humor-blogs.com!
Last week I took Jeane, Grace and Thomas to see Tony Melendez, the musician who plays guitar with his feet, as he has no hands. It was in the church at my kids' school. My girlfriends Claire and Susan had brought along their preschool aged children as well, Kobe and Greg.
Claire is a savy mom, way cooler than me and thought to bring tootsie pops for all the children to keep them quiet during the performance. We were all feeling very good, like “proper mothers,” because we were exposing our children to diversity and culture and music and all of that on an ordinary Tuesday and it was free.
Thomas happily sucked on his third tootsie pop five minutes before the concert started. He was strapped in his stroller and I was praying he’d fall asleep. Grace and Kobe were having a bit of a theological argument in the pew, books should be shut and put in the book holder, books should be opened and thumbed through. It was a quiet three year old skirmish, mitigated by tootsie pops.
The microphones were turned on. All eyes were on the small stage that had been set up on the altar, as the classes from the school filed in to take their seats. Members of Tony’s band and family have arrived. The crowd hushes.
Tony comes out and introduces himself. Jeane looks at Tony as he starts to speak. She immediately begins to suck her finger hard and twirl her hair. She does this when she gets stressed. The music starts. People are clapping, singing along and I think, “She’ll get into it, she loves singing.” Jeane continues to stare hard at Tony. We are ¾ of the way back in the Church but she is on the end and has a clear view. She sucks harder. A blister is starting to form. I try to get her to sing like her sister, Grace or her friend, Greg. Kobe is dancing, even Thomas is humming. My girl friends chime in with additional maternal pressure, trying to encourage her to engage.
She violently shakes her head “No.” and I know, in my head, I can feel the tsunami of feeling coming towards me, “It’s going to get worse.” My mom voice whispers.
The first song ends and Jeane begins poking me. “Where are his hands?” she demands. I explain about the same time Tony does to the audience. “He doesn’t have hands.”
“Why not?”
“He was born without them.” I explain.
“Will our baby have hands?” she asks, pointing at my pregnant belly.
“Yes.”
She begins holding her hair and sucking harder. A mean thought crosses my mind, to mention she could lose her hand by sucking and twirling but I just pat her back. Jeane puts on her coat. She never wears her coat. She stamps her feet. I ignore it. Knowing we are not leaving, she slumps next to me, still sucking her finger. I stroke her hair. By mid song, my attention has wandered to Thomas, to Grace, to the music, to Tony, and then I look over.
Jeane is in the fetal position on the pew, with her coat over her, covering every inch of her body. I peek under, she has her eyes shut, her finger in her mouth, her hair is a knotted mess and she is shaking. She opens one angry eye at me and pulls the jacket back over her face.
Feeling annoyed and embarrassed, like she is way overdoing it for someone who is five, I pull the jacket off her, stuff it behind me and explain, she is going to sit. She is going to sit up and she is going to stay for the rest of the concert. Clare sends me a concerned mother look and offers to take her out of the building. But I have my back up. I have decided, she needs to be stretched a little and this won’t hurt her.
Jeane sits stiffly for the next thirty minutes, her fingers are red and several knots will have to be cut out of her hair. I don’t care. I feel mad at me and her because the concert has been lost on both of us in the process and I wonder what if anything did Grace get out of this, let alone Jeane. I know Thomas got three lollipops and a nap.
That night, I search the kids’ library for something to help, and find Shriver’s “What’s Wrong with Timmy,” Jeane hangs on every word and seems to be better so I start to relax about the whole thing. I still worry about how to help her with the next encounter.
That weekend, Tony played at the 10 am mass, and Jeane sees him. She does not flinch or even suck her finger, but after she knows it is him, she just stands like a statue for the duration of his meditation song. My older son buys a cassette of the music.
Moving on the next week, I am cleaning up after Thomas has ransacked the girl’s room. Grace is on the bed, playing with her baby dolls and some cardboard musical instruments she made at school. She has a drum, (coffee can), a horn (paper tube with tape and streamers) and a guitar with rubber band strings.
She explains to me as I go about cleaning up, “My baby is playing like in the church.” She moves the doll’s feet to pluck the rubber bands. “I can do it too.” She plucks the strings with her toes. And somehow, everything was better.
Thought you would like to see what I learned today, don’t get so worked up, and everything will work out.
Postscript, this morning, "Jeane" went nuts this morning as only a young adolescent can at the fact that her sister "Grace" took her shirt. Today is a mass day and they have to wear button downs, which Jeane hates to the point of wearing a sour face whenever she must endure such a garment. Having to opt for a long sleeved button shirt as versus a short was beyond her coping ability. She refused to get dressed. A cat fight ensued.
As I am laying down the law about such tizzies in the morning to one, the other slips into the closet and comes back with a short sleeved button down to replace the unbearable long one. All is right with the world and I start looking for her to twirl her hair into knots or a blister on her finger.
for more amusing stories and thoughts that don't get your hair full of knots, try www.humor-blogs.com!
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Why Can't the Parents Teach Their Children How to Speak?
I finally cracked the code.
I can speak my five year old daughter’s language.
Oh, I know we taught her English, but communication has always been an issue with her. I assumed it was part and parcel of being the fifth child out of eight. I thought she ignored directives on the theory that I wasn’t talking to her. I thought she pouted to be sure she got attention. Now I know better.
My daughter uses purple prose expressions. She likes sugar frosted cereals and pink fairy princesses and over the top sentiment. Moreover, she can be persuaded by use of the same exuberant broad brush painting with words.
How did I discover her dialect?
It was 32 degrees outside.
“Put on your coat. It’s cold.” I said.
“NO!” She crossed her arms and rolled her tongue, making her “ugly face” in response.
Normally I would simply assert my authority and the coat would be on her body. Today, in a moment of maternal weakness, I try to address her actual needs writ large in her defiance. “Look outside. See the frost? I’ve been outside, it’s very cold. Put your coat on.” I thrust the coat in her hands.
“NO!” she repeats and throws the coat on the floor and stomps off.
Torn between, “Oh yes you will wear this coat and I’m putting it on your stomping self right now!” and “Something must be wrong, this makes no sense!” I stall for time and my temper by asking “Why?”
“I don’t want to wear a coat on the playground.” She sobs. She repeats it three times, each subsequent statement becoming more sorrowful and full of deep breaths.
“I’m wearing my coat. It’s cold outside and I want to stay healthy.” My son volunteers, adopting his “virtue boy” voice.
“Thank you son.” I smile and wave him off to the car.
Recognizing he’s not going to get the additional credit at her expense he’d hoped, he sulks off to the car, taking off his coat as he does and pausing by the window to be sure I see him. I rap on the window. “I thought you wanted to stay healthy!” His own words force the coat back on, the cold helps too.
“I don’t want to…”she’s still sobbing.
“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” I rub her arms gently to calm her down and try to make eye contact. “I want you to wear your coat so you can be all toasty warm during play time at kindergarten.” She gives me a small smile. I push my apparent advantage.
“I love my daughter and I don’t want her arms cold or for her to not be able to play because she feels uncomfortable. That would be terrible. I want her warm, toasty, ready to go…” The coat goes on in a flash, as do the mittens and the hat, though an older one marches in to switch hats since this daughter is accidentally wearing hers. I wait for the melt down that doesn’t happen and we get in the car.
Something just happened. I asked her to do something and she agreed. Can I do it again? I wonder.
“Hey Precious. Would you do me a great favor to help take care of your brother and sister? It’s a pretty big job…”
“What what what?” She’s all in. I feel vague guilt asking except she’d have to do these things anyway, so I’m just manipulating the mood in which she receives these tasks, I tell myself. “Can you sit in the far back and give the baby her juice? She’s too little.”
“Yes.”
Now my brain is abuz with other prospects –doing homework, chores…the whole world suddenly seems open to me via talking to my dauther.
I start looking at the whole incident for what it truly reveals. Each of my kids speaks English, just with a different dialect. Mulling the whole thing over, the next day I try to say the same command to each child. The following are field tested results from a confirmed child whisperer.
Oldest comes down in short sleeved shirt. He’s fourteen so telling him what to wear other than to say “You’re out of uniform, or that doesn’t fit or is dirty,” is out of bounds. I ask him to take out the garbage. He goes to do the job and immediately comes back in for a coat, hat and mittens.
The next comes in to the kitchen. I’m ready for her. “I stuck your coat and hat and mittens In the dryer…” is all I get out. She’s gone to fetch them in a flash.
My middle girl is a bit of a mystery, compliant in many things but always for her own reasons. She loves cold, so the indirect way won’t work. “Which coat are you wearing today? I don’t want a note from the nurse about not wearing proper attire for playground.” She goes to get her stuff.
Virtue boy sees everyone else and tests me. “I don’t want to wear a coat!” “Fine, then you have to wear a sweater. I hold up the sweater.” He hates sweaters. Batting 1000! I think.
Purple prose still works today and I begin thinking I’ve got it down when it all crashes.
Contrary boy has dressed himself. He is wearing shorts. It is 32 degrees outside and he is wearing shorts. He is bragging about dressing himself. We have to get in the car.
I punt. I dress the baby and load her in the car with the others.
She who would be two loves her coat and willingly complies. Still wondering how I’ll do the last one, I'm considering using parental fiat power but don’t want to ruin my average. I’m in the zone, I think, there has to be another way. I get his socks and shoes on and he is singing about superheroes he’d like to be.
“Thank you Son!” I kiss his forehead and run to the linen closet.
Wrapping him in a polar fleece blanket won’t allow me to go anywhere but back home, but it does get us out the door. Super son and I get in the car. Twenty minutes ‘till school. Buckled and bundled, we’re gonna make it. I feel high on parenting…
“Mom!”
The urgency in her voice tells me I’m about to crash.
“What?”
I’m in freefall.
“You forgot to make us lunches!” There are universal cries of pure despair.
Crash.
“I’ll bring your food before lunch.”
“Before snack?”
Roll, tumble, hit a tree and flip into a ditch and crash again.
“Before snack.”
Mollified, we set out onto the road.
Well, I may have learned the dialect but the universal language is still food.
I can speak my five year old daughter’s language.
Oh, I know we taught her English, but communication has always been an issue with her. I assumed it was part and parcel of being the fifth child out of eight. I thought she ignored directives on the theory that I wasn’t talking to her. I thought she pouted to be sure she got attention. Now I know better.
My daughter uses purple prose expressions. She likes sugar frosted cereals and pink fairy princesses and over the top sentiment. Moreover, she can be persuaded by use of the same exuberant broad brush painting with words.
How did I discover her dialect?
It was 32 degrees outside.
“Put on your coat. It’s cold.” I said.
“NO!” She crossed her arms and rolled her tongue, making her “ugly face” in response.
Normally I would simply assert my authority and the coat would be on her body. Today, in a moment of maternal weakness, I try to address her actual needs writ large in her defiance. “Look outside. See the frost? I’ve been outside, it’s very cold. Put your coat on.” I thrust the coat in her hands.
“NO!” she repeats and throws the coat on the floor and stomps off.
Torn between, “Oh yes you will wear this coat and I’m putting it on your stomping self right now!” and “Something must be wrong, this makes no sense!” I stall for time and my temper by asking “Why?”
“I don’t want to wear a coat on the playground.” She sobs. She repeats it three times, each subsequent statement becoming more sorrowful and full of deep breaths.
“I’m wearing my coat. It’s cold outside and I want to stay healthy.” My son volunteers, adopting his “virtue boy” voice.
“Thank you son.” I smile and wave him off to the car.
Recognizing he’s not going to get the additional credit at her expense he’d hoped, he sulks off to the car, taking off his coat as he does and pausing by the window to be sure I see him. I rap on the window. “I thought you wanted to stay healthy!” His own words force the coat back on, the cold helps too.
“I don’t want to…”she’s still sobbing.
“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” I rub her arms gently to calm her down and try to make eye contact. “I want you to wear your coat so you can be all toasty warm during play time at kindergarten.” She gives me a small smile. I push my apparent advantage.
“I love my daughter and I don’t want her arms cold or for her to not be able to play because she feels uncomfortable. That would be terrible. I want her warm, toasty, ready to go…” The coat goes on in a flash, as do the mittens and the hat, though an older one marches in to switch hats since this daughter is accidentally wearing hers. I wait for the melt down that doesn’t happen and we get in the car.
Something just happened. I asked her to do something and she agreed. Can I do it again? I wonder.
“Hey Precious. Would you do me a great favor to help take care of your brother and sister? It’s a pretty big job…”
“What what what?” She’s all in. I feel vague guilt asking except she’d have to do these things anyway, so I’m just manipulating the mood in which she receives these tasks, I tell myself. “Can you sit in the far back and give the baby her juice? She’s too little.”
“Yes.”
Now my brain is abuz with other prospects –doing homework, chores…the whole world suddenly seems open to me via talking to my dauther.
I start looking at the whole incident for what it truly reveals. Each of my kids speaks English, just with a different dialect. Mulling the whole thing over, the next day I try to say the same command to each child. The following are field tested results from a confirmed child whisperer.
Oldest comes down in short sleeved shirt. He’s fourteen so telling him what to wear other than to say “You’re out of uniform, or that doesn’t fit or is dirty,” is out of bounds. I ask him to take out the garbage. He goes to do the job and immediately comes back in for a coat, hat and mittens.
The next comes in to the kitchen. I’m ready for her. “I stuck your coat and hat and mittens In the dryer…” is all I get out. She’s gone to fetch them in a flash.
My middle girl is a bit of a mystery, compliant in many things but always for her own reasons. She loves cold, so the indirect way won’t work. “Which coat are you wearing today? I don’t want a note from the nurse about not wearing proper attire for playground.” She goes to get her stuff.
Virtue boy sees everyone else and tests me. “I don’t want to wear a coat!” “Fine, then you have to wear a sweater. I hold up the sweater.” He hates sweaters. Batting 1000! I think.
Purple prose still works today and I begin thinking I’ve got it down when it all crashes.
Contrary boy has dressed himself. He is wearing shorts. It is 32 degrees outside and he is wearing shorts. He is bragging about dressing himself. We have to get in the car.
I punt. I dress the baby and load her in the car with the others.
She who would be two loves her coat and willingly complies. Still wondering how I’ll do the last one, I'm considering using parental fiat power but don’t want to ruin my average. I’m in the zone, I think, there has to be another way. I get his socks and shoes on and he is singing about superheroes he’d like to be.
“Thank you Son!” I kiss his forehead and run to the linen closet.
Wrapping him in a polar fleece blanket won’t allow me to go anywhere but back home, but it does get us out the door. Super son and I get in the car. Twenty minutes ‘till school. Buckled and bundled, we’re gonna make it. I feel high on parenting…
“Mom!”
The urgency in her voice tells me I’m about to crash.
“What?”
I’m in freefall.
“You forgot to make us lunches!” There are universal cries of pure despair.
Crash.
“I’ll bring your food before lunch.”
“Before snack?”
Roll, tumble, hit a tree and flip into a ditch and crash again.
“Before snack.”
Mollified, we set out onto the road.
Well, I may have learned the dialect but the universal language is still food.
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