Better Parenting via Science Theory**

There are several scientific theories that would have been discovered faster if only the world of science had allowed for mothers to be part of the discussion much earlier in history.

Nature seeks homeostasis: This is a truism. Every time I wash my floor, a child attempts to reassert the natural sticky feeling their feet have become accustomed to, by spilling something impossibly hard to clean up within ten minutes of the floor actually drying. Olive oil, maple syrup, and salt are amongst three of the most memorable illustrations of this theory in practice.

Opposites Attract: Clean white wall. Permanent Black Marker. Any questions? I mean, other than from my own mother asking why in heaven’s name do I even own a permanent black marker, or from my mother-in-law, where is this clean white wall you speak of?

Chaos Theory: Some individuals would stipulate that a child's very essence illustrates Chaos Theory's validity, independent of space, time or setting. Some individuals don't yet know the untrammeled power of a hungry child. For those who are still confused by chaos theory, perhaps a live demonstration is in order.  Please come on over to my house at five o'clock and try to fix dinner.  I will take a nap. 

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

Exhibit A: my son’s laundry.
Exhibit B: An orange oversized tee he got in 3rd grade that defies all maternal efforts to transform or destroy. Handing it down has not stopped the older child from retrieving it for his wardrobe. Purchasing new shirts has produced no measurable effect. Now that it is, arguably, a bit tight around the arms, he still resents the fact that his mom has twice attempted to give it to goodwill. The shirt in question is currently stored in a secret bunker under his bed and heavily guarded by legos, books, smelly socks and other items that if discovered, would lead his mother to despair.

Time is relative theory: The simple errand of driving to school normally takes twenty minutes. Starting at 8:39 a.m. after Mom has whisked away breakfast materials and begun the getting dressed routine for all occupants still home, there is a tearful phone call from her third grade son. “Today is bake sale day and I didn’t bring any cookies.” Thinking about the frozen cookie dough in the freezer, Mom stupidly agrees to bring something by 10:30, as the bake sale starts at 11.

While in the process of getting the toddlers dressed, Mom throws the cookies in the oven, locates shoes, puts three unmatched socks in the laundry basket, flushes an abandoned toilet, puts milk away, turns off the lights, removes four bikes and two whiffle ball bats from the driveway, takes the cookies out of the oven, straps the two toddlers (who both want cookies) in their car seats and the baby and then signs a form for a package being delivered before starting the car.

Once in the car, Mom remembers that the aforementioned cookies are still in the kitchen. Retrieving the cookies, the phone will ring; it will be the same child asking if you are bringing the cookies. While inside, Mom will spot permission slip that needs to be dropped off and feel so virtuous for multi-tasking, she will run to her closet to gather the dry cleaning. Leaving for the second time, Mom gets half way down the driveway before realizing; she brought her purse in, but not out. In the few seconds Mom is in the house, the phone rings again, she forces herself to ignore it. Grabbing a prescription bottle on the counter that is about to run out, Mom returns to the car with her purse, cell phone and a diet coke. Triple checking to make sure she has all her children, her errands, and all required equipment for those errands, she drives.

It is part of the law of nature that she will then hit every red light plus have to navigate one traffic jam owing to a cop issuing a ticket and a second at a train crossing. She arrives around 12:15. The bake sale is over, and the volunteer has several dozen frozen dough baked cookies left over. When she checks the message on her answering machine at home from the phone call she ignored, it was her son saying “Never mind, third grade isn’t doing the bake sale this week, it’s fourth grade.”

Theory of Gravity: How annoyed your mother will be after enduring the above mentioned scenario versus. how much she loves you.

Next week: Scientific Law in Relationships:

Theory of Constancy: The level of stress in a marriage is constant, the level felt by the individuals within the marriage, is fluid.
** Originally ran on January 20, 2008, back when I only had 8 children. What a piker! 

Surviving Summer Projects Assigned by the School

*Saturday will be rerun blog classic day.  This first saw daylight July 8, 2008.

Every parent’s favorite game with children in the summer is "Time to do your summer enrichment program." and the subsequent corollary, "What's My Motivation?" When the time honored and irrefutable “Because I said So…” doesn’t work and that summer reading list looks more daunting than the latest 360 Vertical Drop Over 55 mph Double Loop Roller Coaster at the park, what’s a parent to do?

1) Assess your child' learning style. Physical? Kinetic? I admit it’s drastic but with eight books left and only six weeks of summer, radical solutions may be necessary. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I have bartered 30 minutes of reading for an hour at the pool as a standard deal.

2) Re-evaluate communication methods. By mid-summer, the parent voice is on permanent mute status with kids unless key words are tagged –ice cream, park, movies, mall and swimming. Verbal exchanges should no longer be considered an effective medium for letting offspring know what needs to be done on a given day. The following techniques are offered as viable alternatives to speaking aloud.

a) Post-it notes with a task on each post it. Special Tip: Color code by child. Every three notes or so, put a treat or prize or compliment. Quarters, Klondike Bars and bubbles for outside work well.

b) Mystery Mom Madness Game: Want your kids to listen? Declare yourself silent. Respond to every request and need as usual, but say nothing. See how long it can endure. Gestures to get in the car did not work well, but loading the car with the babies and honking the horn was emotionally satisfying. By not listing the errands, one avoids the caterwauls of protest for the usual stand-by need to dos, dry cleaning, pharmacy, bank and grocery store. Handing out worksheets and holding up pencils in one hand and chocolate bars in the other got the job done for the day. Sure it was passive aggressive, but exceptionally therapeutic.

c) Contracts: Posted sheets on the fridge. Wanted: Room Cleaned, vacuumed, laundry placed in bag and beds made, will pay top $$$. Call 301-Clean ME! For more details. Also wanted: summer book reports completed, typed double spaced and proof read. Unrestricted access to Wii obo. My teen aged son called on his and his sister’s behalf to negotiate prices. We settled on a trip to the book store where they could use their gift cards. Negotiations for homework remain an unresolved issue of dispute.

3) Family dynamics don’t matter. Power and authority are insufficient to guarantee obedience or competency. The problem remains that parents consider summer projects to be like homework, status quo behaviors that require neither rewards, nor reminders, like not fighting with one’s sibling more than once in any given three hour period. Parents are unreasonable this way, as kids view any time spent studying as ruining the entire purpose and spirit of summer, and fighting with sisters, a protected right under the constitution.

Rational explanations do not fly in such a situation. Showing a chart of fights with the time, duration, nature of the offense and participants do not move said recalcitrant children to alter patterns of behavior. Documenting that the same time would have been sufficient to finish two chapters or four workbook lessons does not work, as it reveals why the parent wants the job done, not why the kid should or must.

Emotional appeals also fall flat. Suggesting major carnage will occur if the bad behavior (determined sloth) does not stop must be backed up with sufficient force to ensure compliance and that's hot hard work in the dog days of August. Again, the maximum labor is foisted on the parent. One must remember this is the child's responsibility, not the parents. Ours is but to nag and remind and supply the opportunity.

So what does work?

POLICY WONK APPROACH: Take the curriculum rationale stated for summer projects and enrichment from the school/district web site, and thrust it in front of the children to read, or read aloud if the offspring in question is not yet literate. If it doesn’t motivate, it might induce sleep, giving the parent 2 to 3 hours of peace.

KID SWAP: Explain that you love summer projects as much as they do, then, offer to switch. You can clean their rooms and do their math. They can change the diapers, do the dishes, fold the laundry, make all the beds of children not able to do so, clean the bathrooms and cook the meals. No backsies for 48 hours. Be sure to tell them, you’ll do as good a job as they do.

NASCAR approach: Point out that they can finish the 60 pages of math in 30 days doing 2 a day each or make it drag out all summer. Offer a big prize for finishing first. Stand back and have plenty of sharpened pencils.

Play Kid Chicken. Post the number of days left of summer to finish the projects publically. Keep the countdown to school prominently displayed at all times. Do not mention projects again. If it comes up, shrug and say something along the lines, “Your project, your grade, your problem. If you want help...” Warning, this takes a firm belief that the kid cares more than you do.

Should the summer program studies still loom unfinished, unloved and untouched…push the Nuclear Red button of parenting.

“You’re right. This is dumb. Tell you what, I’ll home school you this year. We’ll start today.”

The Dream We Have May Not Be Ours to Realize

Today I was busy trying to be busy, trying to be a good mom by making it to mass to see my son read for three seconds of petitions. My four year old daughter always needs to use the facilities at mass. Today was no exception.

A friend offered to watch Paul and Regina so I could take Rita by myself and I stopped to watch the class of students aiding the set up of the soup kitchen. These were children with moderate disabilities, some of them non verbal. They were serving those who would come to eat because they had no other place to eat. They were doing meaningful work despite their disabilities, or perhaps because of their disabilities. If they had not been handicapped, they would be in regular classes learning history or algebra or wondering why they had to learn history or algebra and when was lunch?

Instead, they were setting the tables, adding napkins and flowers and notecards. I watched a young man pushing a cart. This could one day be my son, feeding the hungry. I thanked the teachers overseeing the students. Today, a dream I'd harbored was fulfilled not by me, but for me.

You see, when I was a doctoral student, I wanted to run a soup kitchen where the students with developmental delays served and cooked the food. I wanted the kids to do meaningful work that served others. I had served as a supervisor in graduate school at a "simulated workshop" where simulated work was done and hated it. I had watched students grow angry at not the menial nature of the work but the menial nature of their lives, of expectations.

"Who wants to grow up to be a maid?" a student Christina had said one day as she slapped down her book bag. I found I could only agree. Who wants to be a servant? It was then that I started pondering how to make vocational training as it was called, vocational learning (my term). “Who wants to serve?” was a much more compelling question in my mind.

Going back to the mass, we made it to hear my son say his part and I sat there feeling my heart plucked by the readings and the Mass and the ashes and the reality that the meek were feeding the hungry and how great it was, that even little ones like my son Paul might one day be able to act as Christ to others in the little way of setting a table or adding flowers.

The degree didn't happen and neither did the school I'd planned, but the vision of what I hoped did, without me. I just was blessed to see it and to recognize it realized today.

All I know, I Learned from the Internet

The older I get, the more I wish I’d paid more attention when I was in school.

That’s not because I wish my life had turned out differently, no. It’s just I would have preferred to not have my ignorance revealed on a daily basis when my children sit down to do their homework. Before I had kids, I figured I was all set. I’d passed through college and even graduate school with nary more than two “C's.” But there were subjects I avoided studiously, so as to avoid studying; like science and math.

Now a days, as a conscientious parent, I try to be a resource for all my children when they come home from school. But I’ve learned, you can’t bluff your way through the periodic table or quadratic equations.

When my science oriented children were engaged in a game of mental catch over the dinner table about the various properties and distinctions between solutions and compounds, I foolishly attempted to join in the fray.

But chemistry is a subject I ignored even while in the classroom with Coach Keister explaining that a mole was not an unwanted growth on one’s skin. Not to worry I thought, I’ve got wireless internet. I wikipedia’d the subject “Chemistry” while in the kitchen while getting the milk and cookies for snack. I returned to toss off a pithy reference inserting myself into the conversation while pouring.

My attempts garnered a “Where’d you learn that?” and “Mom, that site is completely bogus…” plus a snort of milk requiring me to return to the kitchen for towels followed. It got me wondering why Wikipedia’s so popular if it’s so inaccurate. Why aren’t real encyclopedia companies creating giant conglomerates of actual accurate information so parents across the fruited plains can understand what their children’s homework assignments are?

But those sorts of questions aren’t answered by “Ask Jeeves” or “Dogpile” or any of the other handy search engines out there that promise to open the flood gates of information to the world. I know, I checked while getting the paper towels.

“You have to go to trusted sites.” And of course they rattled off a few. I listed a few of my current favorite places to visit and got “tsked.” According to my children, these haunts of mine were the equivalent of “The Earth is flat” in their chosen fields. Now maybe others out there are more tech savvy than me and Lord knows I hope so, but the way my kids spoke about it, I felt as if the whole World Wide Web suddenly collapsed into a three volume compendium.

Listening to my children’s recommendations, it occurred to me that finding info on the World Wide Web was rather like dating. One had to make sure the page in question was honorable, accurate and not just playing with your mind. Playing the field was useful for discovering which ones would be worth going steady with, but blind dates were mostly scary and unworthy. If one wanted to be certain about the accuracy of information, one had to hold true to a properly vetted place with the fidelity owed a spouse, or in these days, a political party. My daughter offered to show me her fave spots that were best for tutoring in science. "That way, you can help my sister with sixth grade lab." she explained.

Having to do research on the classes I’d skipped twenty-seven years ago to comprehend a dinner conversation seemed like a bit much so I turned my attention to my other children who might have subjects of interest that didn’t require independent study. Alas, the high schooler started his German assignment which left me with my two years of Latin and three years of French useless unless he just needed the phrases from the song “Cabaret.”

The 4th grader started to tackle his social studies. Now I am social and I do study so here, I thought I could be of some use, but he didn’t want a 43 year old’s perspective on anything, not that that was any different from any other time of the day. Turning to the younger children, hoping to prove my mettle as a resource, I looked over their homework assignment sheets and asked, “Do you need any help?”

One child was working on a project concerning dinosaurs. I got excited. “We have books on that, and you can make a model with clay or paint something.” I began scanning the shelves for a few I knew had in depth articles on the Jurassic period with great color illustrations. “Mom, I’m just going to go on the website.” My son patiently explained. “But why assign it if everyone will look at the same page?” I asked. He shrugged. “The paper says to go to this page and read this article.”

I’d already pulled three tomes for his report. “Don’t you want any of this?” I asked? But he was already typing in www. And I wondered if we discovered aliens and wanted to share technology, would we need to change the internet to be the igww, the intergalactic wide web. Then I wondered if I should buy the domain name or see if the government would offer me money to devise it as part of the stimulus plan. I was flunking the motherhood “help with homework” section of the day. My attempts to provide aid and comfort were being ignored or rebuffed or bombing absolutely. I felt like the UN.

The second grader sat at the table writing her spelling words. She has a kinder heart than most and seeing me flailing at every front, she took pity. “You can help me.” She said softly. “What do you need sweetie?” I asked as I hugged her. She handed me a pencil. “You can sharpen this one for me in case the one I’m using breaks.”

My oldest finished his German. “It’s not that you aren’t helpful Mom.” He explained.

“It’s that we’d have to bring you up to speed and that would take more time than actually studying.” My teen-aged daughter chimed in.

I sharpened the pencils wondering if I had the mental will to go and secretly master everything about ionic compounds or learn the irregular conjugations of verbs in Deustche before the next evening. I decided I could live with my reputation as an ignorant adult. So, I’m educated enough to assist through third grade. After that, they’re on their own.

And when they’re grown, they’ll say “Mom, she was as sharp as the pencils she provided,” until we hit third grade.

My PR problem

I found this piece as I was looking through my records. It was a draft that never saw daylight. Since I've been a bit heavy lately, I thought some lightness might be in order. It is supposed to be a humor blog after all.

Back when my oldest was a mere four years old, we were visiting my husband's parents over Christmas vacation. While enjoying dinner, my son turned to me and asked out of the blue, "Do you remember that time when I got hit by a car at McDonald's?"

The clinking of silverware and audible gasps were everywhere, including from me. "What?" I stammered, "That NEVER happened." I explained firmly.

All eyes were on me as he insisted. "Yes it did. I remember." Thank goodness my husband stepped in to quash the false rumor before it hit the internet.

A few years later, family was coming into town and I had spent the week cleaning. My children, having long ago grown weary of trying to help their mother get the home "Relative clean" as versus everyday tolerable, watched with bored expressions. I did not consider their observations of my work to be a potential hazard to my reputation or at least the reputation I was attempting to cultivate as I wiped down the refrigerator and washed out the drawers.

Then, my family arrived. My daughter brought my family to the kitchen and proudly opened the ice box. "See...that tray there had green and black stuff in it but Mommy cleaned it out because you were coming."

"Ahhhhhhhhh. Why don't you come into the living room and I'll bring out some pastries and coffee?" I scrambled but the damage had been done.

A decade later, while the older children have mastered the social rules of not DELIBERATELY putting forth a poor showing when company arrives, they lack nuance.

This morning, my oldest daughter was put out because her father was doing a double run to shuttle children to school, first the oldest to the Metro by 7 a.m., then doubling back to pick up all those in tow for school. "I want to go with Dad." she humphed.

"Why?" her grandmother asked.

"Because when Mom and Dad do a double run, they always wind up talking and if they talk then we're late!" She folded her arms. "I hate being late." she added for emphasis.

"Excuse me sweetie." I felt a mild torque of annoyance at her announcement. "How many times have you been late this year?"

"Twice." She said with a smugness born of pure adolescence.

I considered the two incidents. Once was because the fish pond had nearly drained and if their father and I hadn't worked together, the fish would have died. And the other time was because she could not find her shoes. Pointing these facts out privately, she unfolded her arms but still looked annoyed at being left behind.

"Well...you won't be late today." I answered.

Sure enough, her father pulled in a few moments later and I made a point of saying, "Can't talk, you don't want the kids to be late." He nodded.

Then I went inside to wipe down the refrigerator drawers, just in case they got in an accident at McDonalds on the way to school that day.

And Sometimes Why

Kids require one to consider the imponderables of life.

Is shampoo edible?

How long can I let them watch cartoons before it becomes bad parenting?

Should I worry that my daughter plans to write about her childhood when she's an adult?

Why does my oldest insist on wearing a faded Hawaiian shirt every Friday? Can I burn it?

Why does my three year old need so little sleep?

Do the candy wrappers of Hershey's kisses add fiber to the diet?

What is the proper response to two children fighting over one blue block when there are fifty identical blocks in the box next to them? Is it legal?

How come the shirts I buy for the one kid who needs new clothing, shrink to fit the kid who has the most?

Why does my twelve year old have a fetish against buttons? Ditto for the ten year old on sweaters?

When did my son decide he would only use plastic silverware? Is his fetish an insult or a serious editorial comment to me?

Why can I think of all the things I need to do if I make a list but none of them if I don't?

Outside of helping the next generation with high school math, when is algebra needed in the real world?

Why are most works of literature, theatre and movies considered great, depressing?

Should my oldest feel concern that he gets Greek tragedies like King Oedipus better than "coming of age" works like Things Fall Apart? Should I?

Why can my kids memorize all the pokemon and their attack powers, weaknesses, and evolutionary traits, but not the state capitals, 43 presidents or the periodic table?

Why do I know all the pokemon and their attack powers, weaknesses and evolutionary traits but not the state capitals, 43 presidents or the periodic table?

Why if I think knowing things like the periodic table are important, can I not summon the mental will to memorize the state capitals, 43 presidents or periodic table myself?

How is it that every grade seems to be getting more complicated, the more children I send through it? Was I just not paying attention the first three times?

When is Spring Break?

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/!

Two Diet Cokes and a ride on the Potty Train….

Having already used my children’s proclivities towards lavatory use for two occasions of quick laughs, perhaps I am in danger of becoming precious and a broken record. After 14 years in the diaper trenches, one develops a sense of entitlement to broach the subject yet again.

Consider my own experience the equivalent of Wikipedia on parenting skills: lots of info, none of it necessarily relevant or accurate or the result of applied working knowledge.
___________________________________________________________________
We have two that are of age for this change in the diapering regimen. The older one has staunchly refused to even consider the matter, the younger thought she’d be experimental.

“HEY! That’s MY POTTY.” The older one said with his not so inside voice.

“I’m going potty.” She responded, making “Shssss.” Noises as she sat.

“That’s MY potty. My DADDY GAVE IT TO ME.” A fight was brewing.

“Then why don’t you use it?” I intervened.

“Then I’d get it all dirty.” He explained simply.

Sigh. No promise from on high has been able to move him off this sincerely held conviction that using said potty chair for its created purposes would destroy the essence, the beauty of the potty itself.
___________________________________________________________________

On the first day of Christmas there was a two hour delay which turned into a secret snow day because I lost my keys! I begged for their help in finding the things that make the car go.

Being sensible children, they went outside to play in the snow.

Four hours later and still no luck, I summoned the children again. “Think like Mom. Think like a tired Mom, because that’s when I lost them.” I suggested.

My daughters saw the opportunity and ran with it. Putting their arms out like zombies, they said, “NEED...DIET...COKE!” A parade of zombies crying out for chocolate and diet soda fanned out searching for my lost keys. The parody got more zombie like a'la Scoobie doo monster type as more children joined in the general mocking of Mom.

“It is unwise to mock your mother.” Still, for all the times I'd been the finder of others things, I took the deserved abuse in good humor and sipped a cold dc.

That afternoon I found my keys and where were they? Next to an abandoned now luke warm half drunk diet caffeinated beverage.

I may have to switch to coffee just to throw them off.

The Potty Wars

I hate potty training. Really. I hate it. Why? Despite having five children out of diapers, I cannot point to any one of them as being a success because of my efforts. None of them have ever willingly embraced the idea of wearing underwear over diapers. None of them have been easy. None of the diaper set still pending looks to be easy on this point either.

I love my kids.
I love being a parent.

I hate potty training.
______________________________________
Potty Training with Child #1
Behavior management doesn’t work.

We went to the store.
We bought a small potty.
We bought stickers.
We bought “M&Ms.”
We brought it home.
We set it up.
We started the week with high hopes.
I made a chart.
I put the chart on the bathroom door.
I put the “M&M’s” in the freezer.
I put the stickers in an envelope next to the chart.
I explained to my son the idea.
He would try to go potty.
He would earn stickers (happy faces).
If he was successful, he got “M&M’s.”

Within a week,
my son drew a picture of himself.
He explained, he’s unhappy because he just had an accident.
He then began to cry. I looked at the picture.
The unhappy face stick figure burned into my brain.
Horrified,
I threw away the chart, gave him the stickers and then,
I ate the “M&M’s.”
Four months later, we were still changing diapers at 3 and nearly 8 months.
_____________________________________
Potty Training with Child #2
Bribes don’t work either.

We cut out a picture of a ballerina and taped it on the fridge.

The deal was simple enough, if she went potty and could wear underwear, she could do ballet.
We bought the underwear in advance.
We went to watch the ballet class.
We even bought the slippers and tutu and put them in her closet.

Our daughter sensed that this was worth even more than we were offering.

Within two months, a picture of a bike was added, at her request. She also wanted to go to school.

I stupidly agreed to it all, anything to get the job done.

Four long months later, she demanded payment in full,
for her very first success.

We explained (rationally) that she had to do this more than once.

She grew angry.

Four more months later, diapers were still on our grocery list, and she was 3 years and 7 months old.
__________________________________
Potty Training with Child #3
A watched child never potties.

Every 25 minutes, we took her.
That got old fast.
You can’t go anywhere or do much of anything.
Our lives revolved around the attempt to keep that commitment of every 25 minutes.
After a weekend of that, I was ready to be committed.

So we tried a combined approach of what had sort of worked before.
The chart was back.
The stickers were back.
The bribes were back,

None of it worked.

A friend recommended the Couch Potato technique.
It sounded promising.
We should stick a tv in the bathroom with her.
We’ll turn it on and she’ll sit. She’ll relax, and bingo! She’ll go.
She got hours of cartoons out of that deal.

Four months later, we were still trying for our first success at 3 1/2.

___________________________________________
Potty Training with Child #4
It’s his potty and he’ll cry if he wants to.

This time, we tell ourselves, it will be different.

We have read the books.
We have looked at magazines.
We have learned from our mistakes.
And, we are starting earlier.

Our son is newly two.

Our son likes his new underwear.
He likes his stickers.
He sits on the potty.
We praise him often, just for thinking about sitting.

Somewhere in the process,
something breaks down.
He decides, he doesn’t want to.

We take him any way.
I don’t want to!
He sobs.
We make him sit.
I don’t want to!
He screams!

We drag him to the bathroom.
He cries when he sits on the potty.
I …..gasp!..... hate…..gasp!....the….gasp!....potty!
One day, I see him clutching his body
and sprint him to the bathroom.
I sit him down, saying as calmly as I can,
“I know you need to go.”
“NO! You! Don’t!” he sulks back.
I sit in there with him, reading books.
I clean the bathroom while I wait.
I organize the towels,
And the sheets,
And the medicine cabinet.
I know I can’t spend the whole day in the bathroom, and
I can’t leave him there forever,
But nothing happens until I diaper him up.

Then he comes to me immediately
“I need a diaper change.”
sweetness in his voice and innocent eyes.

Our son held out until he was nearly four.

Our bathroom looked very nice for those two years.

_____________________________________
Potty Training with Child #5
Seek Professional Help.

Okay, we are getting desperate.

Yes, four children have managed to potty train, but not one before the age of 31/2! I have been driven nearly insane by the process. I remain doubtful about my prospects for success with my daughter. As I have a toddler and am expecting my seventh, the idea of three in diapers makes me literally faint of heart.

It is summer. All the books say that is the best time to do this.
We consult friends. The collective advice is to go Cold Turkey.
No Diapers. Not even at night. The theory is that within one week,
she will train herself.

A week passes, two, three. By the fourth week, I have washed every item of clothing and all of her bedding at least eleven times, the carpet has spots and smells faintly of carpet cleaner. Not one success.

Summer passes. We try pull-ups. These are simply more expensive diapers that prey upon parents’ hopes and create laundry at the same time.

We’ve had no success and we’ve been at it since April. I quit for a time and resign myself to changing three different sized diapers multiple times daily.

Then, one day, I crack.

She gets up and is dry.
I take off the diaper and explain that today, she will potty.
I sit her down. I bring her a book. I set the timer.
Twenty minutes pass, nothing.

I change her baby brother and the baby. Checking on her,
she is still looking at the book. I fix breakfast. Determined, I bring breakfast in on a step stool for her, and set it up next to her potty. “Thanks Mom.” She says with a beautiful smile. I go away feeling like Super Mommy.

I fix her brother breakfast and nurse the baby. After getting them dressed, I pick out clothing for my new big girl, my heart full of hope. Going to check on her, the phone rings. The call takes about five minutes, and then I do the dishes, absent mindedly forgetting to check. The baby needs nursing and changing again. My son needs his face washed and socks and shoes.

When I remember my daughter is still in the bathroom, I run upstairs, and there she is, sitting on her potty, fast asleep.

There is nothing in the toilet.

__________________________________
Potty Training with Child #6
Global Warming

This kid has seen potty training at its ugliest. He knows what is expected and is old enough to take care of business. He also has a sense of humor.

His favorite joke is to sit on the portable potty and then announce, “I did it Mom.”

When I go over to check, he laughs and says, “It’s a trick Mom. I tricked you.”

One day I said, “It’s time to potty now.” He looked outside at the weather and said, “Today isn’t a good day for pottying.”

The M&M’s are still in the freezer waiting.

______________________________________
The Last Word

I saw in a magazine that the average mom changes 3,175 diapers by the time a child is 2 &3/4 years old. I know that I have been changing diapers since 1993. Using that figure and accounting for the fact that none of my children have made it out of diapers before the age of 3&1/2, I have done the math. No one should ever know these sorts of stats, but from these calculations, I estimate I am responsible for a land fill the size of Rhode Island.

I still have a chance to have an easy pottying experience, our two youngest are still in diapers. Their father has a standing offer to any child who potty trains before the age of 3, he will buy them a car.

And once it does happen finally for our youngest child, once I am finally diaper free…..

the kids want a dog.

Higher Concepts of Math and Me

“Why do I have to learn these things?”the familiar lament uttered by my daughter resonated with my own grade school experience.

“No one has ever asked me to recite the opening to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales either but I had to learn it."

My daughter gave me a look.

"Okay, I haven’t had to use the quadratic equation in my adult life…yet.” I admitted.

“Will I ever need this?”

“You never know, there might be some math mugger out there who will tell you give me all your money or explain the transitive property. If a=b and b=c then a=c.”

“Mommmm!”

“Okay, let me think and try this again.”

Higher math skills have never been my strong suit. In college, I got through the required core calculus class on a good calculator, prayer and several all nighters of cramming formulas into my liberal arts based brain.

When my oldest first needed assistance in seventh grade, I cagily suggested he teach the material to me, as that would indicate how much of the stuff he really knew.

After considering the possibility for all of ten seconds, he went upstairs to his room to study.

Using a similar approach with subsequent children, I had managed to avoid solving for “X” since my own eleventh grade. It’s not that I was a poor student. I always did the homework; I never skipped class. I even liked my teacher. I always thought knew the stuff. Then the test would come, and somehow, all the theorems in my brain became more secret and less accessible than Coca-cola’s formula.

I think the whole problem with math for me started back in eighth grade with an unsolvable math problem.

“If a train travels east at sixty miles an hour…and a man travels west by foot at six miles an hour and they pass in six seconds, how long is the train?”

I got it wrong.

The teacher explained the formula and drew out the solution on the black board. I wrote it down. Then I tried doing the problem again.

I got it wrong.

I restudied the formula and tried a third time on a clean sheet of paper.

Wrong.

I brought it home to my mom and dad.

Wrong.

Thus far I had plugged in the facts over six times and arrived at six separate incorrect answers. Having the problem, the solution, the formula and still being unable to find the one correct answer from the endless infinity of wrong ones, I mollified my adolescent ego. It was justified if I wasn’t able to beat the odds.

Since then, I’ve studiously avoided higher math skills the way Willie Nelson avoids taxes. I have not missed them. They have not missed me. It has been a good arrangement. In college, I was thrilled when I could abandon math all together in favor of being an English Major. Oddly enough, the first eighteen lines of Chaucer's prologue still stick with me in ways math theorems never could.

Last week, I pulled my time tested stunt on my daughter when she asked for help in studying for a test. However, as my algebra teacher taught me, I shouldn’t compare apples to oranges. She took me up on my offer. They were studying formulas like distance equals rate times time.

“Now Mommy. If a train is traveling at sixty miles going East and a man is traveling…”

I’m still getting it wrong. I may have to go find the math mugger and demand, "Explain the theorem of d=rt so I can get it right or I'll make you recite Canterbury Tales in Middle English. "Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote..."