My middle daughter has a birthday two days from Christmas so she's had to suffer sometimes having her birthday observed, and by that I mean some time in the following calendar year before the next solstice but not by much. Thankfully, she is a tolerant soul and has learned counter techniques to short circuit her mother's tendency not to plan ahead.
Like this past weekend when she came to me with the computer, a calendar and a notepad. "My birthday is coming up."
"Yes..."
"So I want to have a party on Friday." She then opened my calendar to reveal that it was in fact, blank on December 17th other than "Last day of school for 2010." She then explained, "I want to take four friends to see a movie." and googled Fandango to look up the time for "Tangled" at the theatre she thought would be best. "Then we're going to Lilly McGilly's for cupcakes so you don't have to cook." It was hard to argue anything with such a well thought out plan so I agreed. She typed up the invitations instantly and marked it on the dry erase board, on my calendar and showed me the extra invitation she had printed just for me so I'd have all the details. I couldn't help feeling unnecessary except as the chauffeur and financier, a sugar mommy so to speak for her social life.
But I appreciated her attention to detail. I didn't realize how far her lack of faith in my ability to get things done in a timely manner extended until I found her changing the clocks to allow an additional ten minutes in the morning for error. When I protested, she pointed out, "We're never late anymore are we?"
Today, she had a free dress day and could bring a treat to share with her class. Naturally, this had not been done prior to breakfast and so I was preparing to propose my standard go to treat, Krispe Kreme. I drive through, I order, I drop off. It is very convenient and nearly every child gets this; but she was once again ready for me, she had promised brownies she explained. I gave her a "Don't have an expectation...it might not happen." look and set about loading the car with the other kids for the morning commute. Normally, she helps buckle the littles in place. Today, I was marshaling the folks and persuading the two boys to bring down the trash for pick up when I realized she still wasn't in the car. I went back inside to discover her putting dishes in the sink. On the counter was a 9x11 tray of brownie batter just waiting to be popped in the oven which she was also preheating. She'd written a note 30 minutes, 1 hour cooling; powdered sugar, no frosting, bring by 12:15. I'd have no excuse.
Her older sister watched all of this with an arched eyebrow. "How is it that you always get what you want?" she asked. She'd been lobbying for four months to get a Facebook account. I'd deferred that we would "discuss" it when her father and I had time. She'd countered that whenever she brought it up, Dad or I would get terribly busy and not have time. My younger daughter whispered something to her sister. She texted her father, "Can we talk about me getting a Facebook account when you get home?" He responded "Yes." and she followed up, "Swear by the River Styx." as her sister smiled and nodded approvingly.
We are in such trouble. They're colluding.
Showing posts with label strategies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strategies. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
The Longest Five Miles in the World
I know science and math demand precision, and that a mile is a mile is a mile in terms of distance. However, a mile is not a mile if the mile is uphill; it is a hard fought slogging war against anyone with shins, and a mile is more than a mile if the altitude is a mile up; it is an asthma attack waiting to happen. So it is that the five miles from the school to our home is in the afternoon, more than a mere 8,800 yards from point A to point B; it is a parental death march fraught with emotional landmines that wound, maim and cripple the spirit of even the most dedicated mother.
The other day included a squabble over who sat where, a dispute resolved abnormally quickly because the one who wanted to sit in the front who was still outside the car at the time (mercifully), threw up. Suddenly the back seat was extremely popular.
Then there was the time when two children thought it might be a good idea to use a soccer ball as if at a beach volley ball tournament when Mom pulled up to the railroad crossing. I'd like to say I used my inside voice but that would be....incorrect.
Having a ring side seat view through the rear mirror of raised fists between the six and five year old over the Christmas carol on the radio nearly got the station banned for the entire season.
In short, I am a chauffeur who longs for a button to push which would send a partition glass between me and those I shuttle; or alternatively, I promise to buy the first true family vehicle that creates cubicles for each seat, creating effective barriers between warring nations. Good fences make good...as they say.
Some days, the battles are physical. Other days, a more subtle form of combat takes place. On that rare excursion when the planets are aligned such that no one is fighting, somehow something sabotages the route no matter which road I take.
There was the premature aging day when my phone got a text message from my son, "Call me." No explanation, no context. I called at the first chance. No answer. I handed my daughter the phone and let her repeatedly phone trying to get ahold of him. No answer. I fretted as only a parent in the dark can. Two blocks from home, I finally heard back and discovered said child wanted a ride home. Call me heartless if you wish but my new grey hairs and I took some solace in saying, "Take the bus."
Now no errand is so brief that it cannot be made more difficult by multi-tasking. "Mom? I need...."
These sorts of sentences are always uttered just after we've passed the last strip mall en route home such that I will either have to turn around or make a second trip. So in the interest of self preservation, I always ask before we even start the journey if anyone needs anything. Then I put the desired item on my list for the next time I'm already out and can get to it. But this strategy only works if the item isn't needed that day and so you can guess how often the kids preemptively give me a heads up about what they need prior to the actual deadline.
Finally, no matter what time it is, no matter how recently they ate, the very act of getting into the van turns normal elementary and middle school students into ravenous beasts. I've learned to keep food in the car to buy myself a few minutes. The downside of this seemingly simple solution is three fold:
1) I forget to bring snack. Calls will go out for a stop to get one.
2) If I fail to stop, the children will descend upon all food in the house like locusts.
3) Whether I remember snack or stop to get one, that does not preclude the children won't burst into the house seeking to snack again. (See two).
The thing is, other people have driven my children from school and always remark on how polite and well behaved they are en route home. I'll admit I'm pleased they put up a good company front. It proves it can be done. I just wish they'd try it out on me sometime.
The other day included a squabble over who sat where, a dispute resolved abnormally quickly because the one who wanted to sit in the front who was still outside the car at the time (mercifully), threw up. Suddenly the back seat was extremely popular.
Then there was the time when two children thought it might be a good idea to use a soccer ball as if at a beach volley ball tournament when Mom pulled up to the railroad crossing. I'd like to say I used my inside voice but that would be....incorrect.
Having a ring side seat view through the rear mirror of raised fists between the six and five year old over the Christmas carol on the radio nearly got the station banned for the entire season.
In short, I am a chauffeur who longs for a button to push which would send a partition glass between me and those I shuttle; or alternatively, I promise to buy the first true family vehicle that creates cubicles for each seat, creating effective barriers between warring nations. Good fences make good...as they say.
Some days, the battles are physical. Other days, a more subtle form of combat takes place. On that rare excursion when the planets are aligned such that no one is fighting, somehow something sabotages the route no matter which road I take.
There was the premature aging day when my phone got a text message from my son, "Call me." No explanation, no context. I called at the first chance. No answer. I handed my daughter the phone and let her repeatedly phone trying to get ahold of him. No answer. I fretted as only a parent in the dark can. Two blocks from home, I finally heard back and discovered said child wanted a ride home. Call me heartless if you wish but my new grey hairs and I took some solace in saying, "Take the bus."
Now no errand is so brief that it cannot be made more difficult by multi-tasking. "Mom? I need...."
These sorts of sentences are always uttered just after we've passed the last strip mall en route home such that I will either have to turn around or make a second trip. So in the interest of self preservation, I always ask before we even start the journey if anyone needs anything. Then I put the desired item on my list for the next time I'm already out and can get to it. But this strategy only works if the item isn't needed that day and so you can guess how often the kids preemptively give me a heads up about what they need prior to the actual deadline.
Finally, no matter what time it is, no matter how recently they ate, the very act of getting into the van turns normal elementary and middle school students into ravenous beasts. I've learned to keep food in the car to buy myself a few minutes. The downside of this seemingly simple solution is three fold:
1) I forget to bring snack. Calls will go out for a stop to get one.
2) If I fail to stop, the children will descend upon all food in the house like locusts.
3) Whether I remember snack or stop to get one, that does not preclude the children won't burst into the house seeking to snack again. (See two).
The thing is, other people have driven my children from school and always remark on how polite and well behaved they are en route home. I'll admit I'm pleased they put up a good company front. It proves it can be done. I just wish they'd try it out on me sometime.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Raising a Stink....er....
There are nights when bedtime is like playing Whack-a-Mole and there are nights when people go to sleep willingly. This week, we've been pushing hard so bedtime was almost...almost a relief for most of them.
Then I heard the scream. The Don't-stop-run-up-the-stairs-something-is-wrong-take-the-steps-two-at-a-time scream. I'm thinking Mouse...snake...blood...as I shout "I'm coming!" My oldest son and daughter are hot on my heels to provide assistance. Then we hear, "STOP IT!" and know that this just requires me. My oldest two roll their eyes and march back down to their computers.
In the boy's all lights on bedroom, I find my middle son holding the railing normally used for his brother's bed. He is positioning it to hit something underneath his brother's bed. There is a voice under the bed. "STOP IT." and more screams.
A thousand questions explode in my head but all I can get out is "Why?"
A timorous shaking hand points from under the bed at a toy barn that the other brother has been hitting with the edge of the railing. I don't get it.
"Mom!" my older son says with a bit of impatience, "There's a stink bug." He then angles the railing and tries again to squish the insect against the plastic toy barn. That he doesn't hit the fan with the other end is a minor miracle. He only succeeds in pushing the barn with the bug further under the bed where his brother is hiding, resulting in still more ear splitting screams.
"There's a bug so I'm under the bed." is the breathless reply.
First I disarmed the exterminator, then I grabbed the barn. "Get out from under the bed." I ordered. He crawled out, his eyes are wide and fearful. "What are you going to do?" "Get rid of it." I answered. My son frowned. "My cars are in that barn." he said with the air of being both sad and resigned to losing the barn and the cars as the price for the destruction of the bug.
"I'm just....going to get rid....of the insect." I explain as I march out to the bathroom to send the creature to it's untimely demise. He asks as I'm trying to tuck him back in bed if he needs to change the sheets. I promise there are no bugs or bug parts on his bed. He accepts this although the other child is puzzling it over and I can see his brain starting to ask questions about whether or not I've thoroughly inspected the room sufficienty to make such a promise. Quickly suggesting that maybe he can come downstairs and get both of them some water, I turn off the lights and bid a hasty retreat. The prospect of getting to leave the room is sufficent distraction.
Going back downstairs, I find my son who was getting the water armed with the shop vac. He's angling the tube to suck up a few stray stink bugs in the kitchen. "It's after 9. Bed. I'll get the bugs." and he gives me a "But you might miss one look." I smush one with my bare hands. "See. I'll handle it." and grab a napkin. "Be sure to wash your hands." my son warns, and takes the two drinks off to bed.
Tossing the body of the bug, I wonder how I get these guys not to be paralyzed by anything with six legs. I've seen this happen before. As silent war between two of my daughters who favor the front seat was put off by one of these critters. One always tries to beat the other to the chair, but with a little stink bug crawling on the window on the outside, both opted to sit in the back peacefully. One of the other creatures successfully kept my four year old from deciding to get out of her room after I put her to bed the other night. And it wasn't even in the house, it was the shadow of a bug on the outside of her window reflecting on the wall from the moon.
....I caught myself considering whether or not to catch one of these bugs and just keep it for emergency purposes; then I heard millions are headed this way next week from Pennsylvania. I think I'm going to remove all the railings and bats and blunt objects from the house.
Then I heard the scream. The Don't-stop-run-up-the-stairs-something-is-wrong-take-the-steps-two-at-a-time scream. I'm thinking Mouse...snake...blood...as I shout "I'm coming!" My oldest son and daughter are hot on my heels to provide assistance. Then we hear, "STOP IT!" and know that this just requires me. My oldest two roll their eyes and march back down to their computers.
In the boy's all lights on bedroom, I find my middle son holding the railing normally used for his brother's bed. He is positioning it to hit something underneath his brother's bed. There is a voice under the bed. "STOP IT." and more screams.
A thousand questions explode in my head but all I can get out is "Why?"
A timorous shaking hand points from under the bed at a toy barn that the other brother has been hitting with the edge of the railing. I don't get it.
"Mom!" my older son says with a bit of impatience, "There's a stink bug." He then angles the railing and tries again to squish the insect against the plastic toy barn. That he doesn't hit the fan with the other end is a minor miracle. He only succeeds in pushing the barn with the bug further under the bed where his brother is hiding, resulting in still more ear splitting screams.
"There's a bug so I'm under the bed." is the breathless reply.
First I disarmed the exterminator, then I grabbed the barn. "Get out from under the bed." I ordered. He crawled out, his eyes are wide and fearful. "What are you going to do?" "Get rid of it." I answered. My son frowned. "My cars are in that barn." he said with the air of being both sad and resigned to losing the barn and the cars as the price for the destruction of the bug.
"I'm just....going to get rid....of the insect." I explain as I march out to the bathroom to send the creature to it's untimely demise. He asks as I'm trying to tuck him back in bed if he needs to change the sheets. I promise there are no bugs or bug parts on his bed. He accepts this although the other child is puzzling it over and I can see his brain starting to ask questions about whether or not I've thoroughly inspected the room sufficienty to make such a promise. Quickly suggesting that maybe he can come downstairs and get both of them some water, I turn off the lights and bid a hasty retreat. The prospect of getting to leave the room is sufficent distraction.
Going back downstairs, I find my son who was getting the water armed with the shop vac. He's angling the tube to suck up a few stray stink bugs in the kitchen. "It's after 9. Bed. I'll get the bugs." and he gives me a "But you might miss one look." I smush one with my bare hands. "See. I'll handle it." and grab a napkin. "Be sure to wash your hands." my son warns, and takes the two drinks off to bed.
Tossing the body of the bug, I wonder how I get these guys not to be paralyzed by anything with six legs. I've seen this happen before. As silent war between two of my daughters who favor the front seat was put off by one of these critters. One always tries to beat the other to the chair, but with a little stink bug crawling on the window on the outside, both opted to sit in the back peacefully. One of the other creatures successfully kept my four year old from deciding to get out of her room after I put her to bed the other night. And it wasn't even in the house, it was the shadow of a bug on the outside of her window reflecting on the wall from the moon.
....I caught myself considering whether or not to catch one of these bugs and just keep it for emergency purposes; then I heard millions are headed this way next week from Pennsylvania. I think I'm going to remove all the railings and bats and blunt objects from the house.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Mom's Middle Name is Icarus
Motherhood is a lifelong lesson in humility. In the beginning, you surrender your body. When you first see the child face to face, any part of your heart still your own gets engulfed. But the ego takes a while to whittle down to nothingness, and that comes with the long haul of raising a human being.
I’ve lost two pounds of pride in the past week.
Monday, I was supposed to feel smart. After all, I had an article in the Washington Post. It was my second ever.
Then my nine year old son asked me to play Stratego.
He schooled me.
I didn’t get even close.
The first game, he found my flag in three easy moves using scouts.
The second game, I snapped at him for watching as I arranged my pieces, certain I was telegraphing the location of my flag with every flick of a hand. I tried doing a shell game as I shuffled pieces but then I got confused. He mowed down one row and just flooded the back side, destroying my carefully laid defenses. I believe my casualty rate was 80% and 20% for him. Maybe General Custard had it worse, but few can chalk up such appalling numbers on a field of battle in such consistent play and not be removed from command.
My son tried to console me. “Maybe next time, you’ll do better.” He smiled. “It’s the first two times I’ve won.” He grinned again. He had been playing his dad and older brother. I wondered if the Stratego skill was on the Y chromosome. My son eagerly set up the game again.
“How about chess?” I offered.
No.
“Scrabble?”
Nyet.
“Go Fish?”
He gave me a pittying look and shook his head.
The phone rang. Desperate for a reprieve from another beating, I pounced on the receiver. I would have consented to hear a sales pitch for timeshares at that point but as luck had it, it was my husband. “Hey Honey, I got you several papers. The article looks good.” I temporarily basked in glory again. “She was smart once.” I thought.
My son jumped on the phone. “Dad! Dad! I crushed Mom! It was beautiful! She never had a clue where my flag was and I Won!” Back to Earth.
My other son came into the room, looked at my reactive set up to the prior game’s obliteration and started giving me pointers. Proof that it really had been as bad as I thought; my victorious son did not protest my getting help. He even offered some strategic tips. Fifteen minutes of tutorial on feints and defenses, strategic losses and the effective use of the spy and I still lost splendidly. Again. And Again. And Again. Now I know there are games where you have to lose multiple times to grasp the concept, games like Chess and Go, Hearts and Spades, but after a perfect record of 0 and 6, my son must have felt bad, as he didn’t ask for another game.
Maybe I wasn’t enough of a challenge. He disappeared for a while. Just when I was starting to feel perky again about my piece in the Post, my son returned with a new game board under his arm. “You need to work on strategy Mom. So I thought maybe we should play checkers instead.”
I’m not telling who won, but the scale says I lost another pound.
For healthy servings of Humble Pie, try
Humor-Blogs.com
I’ve lost two pounds of pride in the past week.
Monday, I was supposed to feel smart. After all, I had an article in the Washington Post. It was my second ever.
Then my nine year old son asked me to play Stratego.
He schooled me.
I didn’t get even close.
The first game, he found my flag in three easy moves using scouts.
The second game, I snapped at him for watching as I arranged my pieces, certain I was telegraphing the location of my flag with every flick of a hand. I tried doing a shell game as I shuffled pieces but then I got confused. He mowed down one row and just flooded the back side, destroying my carefully laid defenses. I believe my casualty rate was 80% and 20% for him. Maybe General Custard had it worse, but few can chalk up such appalling numbers on a field of battle in such consistent play and not be removed from command.
My son tried to console me. “Maybe next time, you’ll do better.” He smiled. “It’s the first two times I’ve won.” He grinned again. He had been playing his dad and older brother. I wondered if the Stratego skill was on the Y chromosome. My son eagerly set up the game again.
“How about chess?” I offered.
No.
“Scrabble?”
Nyet.
“Go Fish?”
He gave me a pittying look and shook his head.
The phone rang. Desperate for a reprieve from another beating, I pounced on the receiver. I would have consented to hear a sales pitch for timeshares at that point but as luck had it, it was my husband. “Hey Honey, I got you several papers. The article looks good.” I temporarily basked in glory again. “She was smart once.” I thought.
My son jumped on the phone. “Dad! Dad! I crushed Mom! It was beautiful! She never had a clue where my flag was and I Won!” Back to Earth.
My other son came into the room, looked at my reactive set up to the prior game’s obliteration and started giving me pointers. Proof that it really had been as bad as I thought; my victorious son did not protest my getting help. He even offered some strategic tips. Fifteen minutes of tutorial on feints and defenses, strategic losses and the effective use of the spy and I still lost splendidly. Again. And Again. And Again. Now I know there are games where you have to lose multiple times to grasp the concept, games like Chess and Go, Hearts and Spades, but after a perfect record of 0 and 6, my son must have felt bad, as he didn’t ask for another game.
Maybe I wasn’t enough of a challenge. He disappeared for a while. Just when I was starting to feel perky again about my piece in the Post, my son returned with a new game board under his arm. “You need to work on strategy Mom. So I thought maybe we should play checkers instead.”
I’m not telling who won, but the scale says I lost another pound.
For healthy servings of Humble Pie, try
Humor-Blogs.com
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Ensuring Proper Credit
When is the proper time to wash a baby?
Let me be perfectly clear. I am not some wet behind the ears rookie of a parent that requires others give standing ovations at the mere sight of my progeny being pushed forward in an immaculate state of the art, J-lo would be jealous type pram. No. I am a veteran of the 24/7 mess cycle known as motherhood.
I am quite serious in my inquiry.
Why?
There seems to be no viable reason to bathe a baby during the day, as the baby only gets more orange goo following the next nap, wets, poops and spits up orange goo and therefore requires a complete change before being seen in public. On the other hand, bathing the baby at night seems rather pointless other than from a cleanliness standpoint, as the kid will be tucked in bed and again, the orange or green goo consumed, will soil the sheets and the outfit and the hair.
My daughter still gets a bath, don’t get me wrong. It’s just, I want some credit and don’t know how to time my care of her such that there is a higher percentage chance of her being seen in public and someone not thinking, “Well, you know, she has so many children, she can’t have time to dress her baby up cute.”
I know it’s vanity, but I’m proud of my children and think they’re adorable and would like to not feel like I’m campaigning for Bumpus parent of the year by virtue of my daughter’s appearance. Finally, I’ve taken to placing the baby in her bunting blanket as a way of providing pretty cover for her spitting up tendencies.
That leaves the toddlers, who have recently taken to dressing themselves. This would be great except they both think it is July when it’s winter and winter when it’s July. I’ve tried squirreling away all the wrong season attire. It would have worked except my toddlers are terribly verbal. One asked his brother where his shorts were. I hadn’t briefed the teenager that this information was classified, so the shorts turned up in abundance the morning after I had stored all the stuff. The other just raided her sister’s wardrobe until she found something she deemed suitable.
Lacking the emotional energy to repack the clothing, I finally decided that reality is a good teacher. In March, he came down in shorts. I help him with the socks and he was good to go. He put on his shoes and coat and went outside to ride his bike. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “It’s really cold out there Mom.”
“Why don’t you try long pants, I bet they’re warmer.”“I bet you’re right Mom.” And off he marched to change. While we repeated this routine three times, he then got in the habit of checking the weather.
Now I have a toddler who won’t consider the idea of climate change during the day…it’s cold now, so it will be cold later, or it’s hot now…so it won’t possibly rain later.
Still, it beats the alternative my other darling came up with; she now strips whenever she thinks it is too hot, down to a pull up. She strips in secret, so I find piles of barely used outfits hidden all around the house, under couches, behind doors, once in the refrigerator…don’t know the story behind that one but then I’m not sure I should. I now keep an outfit in spare stashed in my gym bag for just such an occasion in an effort to keep everyone dressed for the day.
Maybe I’ll start draping her in the baby blanket bunting too.
Let me be perfectly clear. I am not some wet behind the ears rookie of a parent that requires others give standing ovations at the mere sight of my progeny being pushed forward in an immaculate state of the art, J-lo would be jealous type pram. No. I am a veteran of the 24/7 mess cycle known as motherhood.
I am quite serious in my inquiry.
Why?
There seems to be no viable reason to bathe a baby during the day, as the baby only gets more orange goo following the next nap, wets, poops and spits up orange goo and therefore requires a complete change before being seen in public. On the other hand, bathing the baby at night seems rather pointless other than from a cleanliness standpoint, as the kid will be tucked in bed and again, the orange or green goo consumed, will soil the sheets and the outfit and the hair.
My daughter still gets a bath, don’t get me wrong. It’s just, I want some credit and don’t know how to time my care of her such that there is a higher percentage chance of her being seen in public and someone not thinking, “Well, you know, she has so many children, she can’t have time to dress her baby up cute.”
I know it’s vanity, but I’m proud of my children and think they’re adorable and would like to not feel like I’m campaigning for Bumpus parent of the year by virtue of my daughter’s appearance. Finally, I’ve taken to placing the baby in her bunting blanket as a way of providing pretty cover for her spitting up tendencies.
That leaves the toddlers, who have recently taken to dressing themselves. This would be great except they both think it is July when it’s winter and winter when it’s July. I’ve tried squirreling away all the wrong season attire. It would have worked except my toddlers are terribly verbal. One asked his brother where his shorts were. I hadn’t briefed the teenager that this information was classified, so the shorts turned up in abundance the morning after I had stored all the stuff. The other just raided her sister’s wardrobe until she found something she deemed suitable.
Lacking the emotional energy to repack the clothing, I finally decided that reality is a good teacher. In March, he came down in shorts. I help him with the socks and he was good to go. He put on his shoes and coat and went outside to ride his bike. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “It’s really cold out there Mom.”
“Why don’t you try long pants, I bet they’re warmer.”“I bet you’re right Mom.” And off he marched to change. While we repeated this routine three times, he then got in the habit of checking the weather.
Now I have a toddler who won’t consider the idea of climate change during the day…it’s cold now, so it will be cold later, or it’s hot now…so it won’t possibly rain later.
Still, it beats the alternative my other darling came up with; she now strips whenever she thinks it is too hot, down to a pull up. She strips in secret, so I find piles of barely used outfits hidden all around the house, under couches, behind doors, once in the refrigerator…don’t know the story behind that one but then I’m not sure I should. I now keep an outfit in spare stashed in my gym bag for just such an occasion in an effort to keep everyone dressed for the day.
Maybe I’ll start draping her in the baby blanket bunting too.
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