Sometimes the Blog Writes Itself

Kids sometimes fall into habits.  Bad habits.  One of the most annoying/frequent type of habits I deal with, is tattlitis.  Tattlitis for the uninitiated, is the compulsion to tell a parent (usually Mom) on everything that another person or possibly every other person does, even when it is not an offense or the parent is standing right there.

There is a presumption that is two-fold in tattlitis: 1) Mom is asleep on the job and 2) has left the tattler in charge.  While it is true that if I had left the tattler in charge, it would only be because Mom is asleep on the job, rest assured, I have never done this, even when very very tired. 

So yesterday, when we were loading the car for mass, I said, "Everyone who can, get in the van."  My six year old was finishing a drawing by signing her name but she was dressed and ready to go.  I was still getting younger people shod.  Some of the older children began ushering younger ones out when a middle child fresh of the end of my sentence, before the last waves of sound that came forth from my vocal cords had stilled, said, "MOM! She's NOT GETTING IN THE CAR!" 

Mind you, I was across the table from said child not getting in the car and could see all that was happening, and it was within the window of compliance with a parental request, i.e. in this case, less than ten seconds from the actual request when the offense was reported.  I pointed out to tattler in question. "You don't have to tell me.  I'm right here." 

"But I can." was her response.  She then gave me a meaningful look that could be roughly translated as "Why don't you pounce like a crazed rabid Bengal Tiger? I said Sic 'em."

"Out.  Out to the car now."  I ended the discussion and thanked the six year old for her artwork where she had been laboring to write her full name and I love you Mom.  I resolved to make sure she didn't sit too close to the tattler en route to mass, as my lack of discipline of the artist would surely be a source of disappointment to the child in question. 

Sure enough, when I got in the car.  "MOM, she's sitting in my spot. I claimed that spot when I got in the car."

"You got in the car before her."
"But I claimed that spot."
"Then why are you sitting where you are sitting?"
"I just wanted to look around first."

Now that our oldest is home, we need the second car to go anywhere as a whole family, so I opted for the divide and conquer approach.  "Dad needs passengers.  You (tattler) and you (offending non offensive child) and you (bigger child who would appreciate the leg room), to the other car.  They sat next to Dad in mass. With the catalyst kid on one side, and the tattler on the other, we made it through the feast of Pentecost with relative peace.  No "She's not singing. She's still kneeling. She didn't say all the words of the prayer. She squeezed my hand too hard at peace..." though I'm fairly certain my daughter kept a mental list for later use.

So this morning, I woke to the same dulcet sounds of tattles.  "MOM....She's taking..." and she held up her hand to show four fingers,"whole minutes to brush her teeth." 

This was my Good Morning.  

"You timed her?"
"No.  I counted to sixty.  FOUR TIMES."
"You need a new hobby."
"MOM! She's taking the bathroom.  She's using it for FOUR WHOLE Minutes. You're NOT DOING YOUR JOB."
"Which is to time the time your sister spends in the bathroom before I get up?"  Clearly I needed to read the fine print of my job description as Mom.

"No but..."
 "Is she's done now?"
"Yes."

"So the bathroom is free for your use?"
"Yes."

"Well, I'll tell you how you can really show her. You can waste even more time.  Brush for FIVE whole minutes. Then you win."
"But she doesn't need to use the bathroom now."

"But you do need to brush your teeth."
"Do I HAVE to do FIVE minutes?"
"No. You can do two if that would make you happy."

"It won't make me happy."
"Well, I'm sorry it will make you sad, but you still have to brush your teeth."
Mentally praying for the willingness not to grit my teeth and for wisdom from the Holy Spirit on this one as she started to stomp her foot in protest of my again, not striking with vengeful Mom holy wrath on her sister, I remembered Sunday.

"If you would like a different ruling on the issue of time in the bathroom, you can always try DAD. He's already up and outside working on the garden and I'm sure would love to hear all about the problems with how much time your sister spends brushing her teeth." and with that, she's off and back upstairs in a flash.

I completely attribute that inspiration to the Holy Spirit.  Thank God for Dad....and Pentecost.

Tattle Free Zone

Last week at breakfast, my daughter began tattling to me about her brother who also happened to be sitting across from me.  Naturally, her brother reciprocated.  "She's putting on too much butter."  "He poured chocolate syrup in his milk." "She took an extra piece of toast.  You're only supposed to have two."  "He's telling on me." "She kicked her foot under the table." "He made a mean look." No one actually waited for me to respond.  I thought I'd nipped it in the bud with a classic Mom glare over my cheerios but no, as soon as breakfast was over it started up again.  

"Mommmmmm, I wanted to play the Wii and he took the remote."
"Mommmmmm, she wants to play the Wii and we're supposed to do our math before we have screen time."  
"Mommmmmm, he's trying to pretend he's the parent."
"Mommmmmm, tell her I'm right."

Now I hate tattling.  It's tiresome.  But it's a fine line parents have to tread because kids are your first best early warning system (see last week's post on skateboarding) of seriously dangerous epic experiments that might be happening outside of your knowledge. 

So I appreciate having a mole network amongst the kids to keep tabs on what everyone is doing.  However, I got tired of being used as the nuclear threat in the perpetual sibling cold war.You know the drill.  Not so innocent random sibling comes to the room and says with breathless excitement and no small dash of drama, "Mommmmmmmm!"  There's an important element of syntax here.  The word Mom has been transformed into a two sylable phrase with two stresses, not to be confused with MoM! MOM! or MaOMMM, all of which indicate something far more expensive and/or dire. Once they have caught my eye, the tattle begins. 

It doesn't matter what the tattle actually is about, the tone is always the same.  "There's a disobedient child. Sic em!"  and I'm supposed to pounce like a rabid dog while they sit back smugly and enjoy the show while quoting lines from Ricardo Montalban in Startrek II about revenge.

If the child tattling is older, the approach is a slight bit more smooth.   I am suddenly the Judge. "Your honor, this miscreant was caught red handed by me engaging in behavior deemed improper by me. What say you? Be sure it's a nasty long sentencing."  Mind you, if I have any words for the prosecutor about his or her conduct in the proceedings, that is soundly ignored.  

So I banned tattling for the day unless it was on yourself.   For at least the first six hours, the kids struggled as good lawyers will, to discern a way to get around the ban.  One of them finally opted for the everyone loses approach.  "We were all downstairs watching TV even though you said we should do our reading first."  "No tattlesnakes.  Are you tattling?"  "Yes, but on myself too."  "So I should take away the TV from everyone for the rest of the day?" I asked.  "Well no but..." Suddenly, the apocalyptic approach to winning the sibling war took on a new seriousness.  I thought I'd made a breakthrough until her brother came up and said, "Mommmm, she broke the rule about tattling by tattling on us."  

That evening I racked my brain.  I needed a solution that hit them where they lived.  I couldn't take another day of being Judge Mom.  Then it came to me;  if they want me as a court, we'll have court fees.   I posted a sign next to the coin jar in the kitchen.  Tattles: 25 cents each.  With luck, the fines will make the habit price out of range in a day or two.    In the meantime tattlesnakes, "Don't tread on me." 

The Apple Doesn't Fall

Our five month old said “Mom” today. It was my daughter that heard it. I’d heard the sound and ascribed it to random chance but today, he looked at me and said it again.

No doubt. None.

She then asked, “Why do you think that was his first word?”

“Oh,” I replied as I stripped a toddler for bath time, “He probably picked it up because it’s said so often around here.” And as if to underscore the point, from somewhere, the siren call “Mom, mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…” which translates to “I’ve got a juicy tattle just waiting to be told and oh boy is my brother gonna get it once you hear I hope I hope I hope.”

“Hmmm.” My daughter looked at me skeptically. “So you’re saying kids are like parrots when they learn speech?”

“Not exactly, no.” I started the bath and started stripping the second toddler who was trying to get into the tub, shoes and all. “But kids learn what they hear.”

“If that’s the case then why wasn’t his first word, “Pick up your shoes!” “Turn off that TV!” “Get in the car!” “Stop that right now!”

“Nice.”

The tattler Mom cry now came in breathless and certain that this sort of breaking news couldn’t wait. Mom, mom, mom, somebody started eating the pie that’s for dessert and I thought we couldn’t so I think he might be in trouble but if he’s not can I have a piece?” I mollified the tattler, explaining that I had actually taken my piece of pie first. I started soaping the girls' hair.

Being an adolescent, my first daughter wasn't finished with me. Once the tattler left, she couldn’t resist adding on, “Am I the only one who sees the trash around here? Would it kill you to put your shoes in the closet?”

“I might remind you that I cleaned your room today.” It was time for the rinse.

She smiled and offered to help, getting out the towels, still shouting choice imitations of me, “This room is a mess! I’m going to count to five…or three if you make me mad. Did you do your homework? This is a benevolent dictatorship. The benevolence is my option.”

“Don’t you have saxophone to practice or something?”

“Oh, good one Mom.” She smiled as she got the first girl out and began drying her off.

I got the second toddler out and another cry came out, “MOMMMMMMMM. MOMMMMMMMM. MOMMMMMMM?” Each with higher and louder intonations. This tattle was about a mess. My older daughter finished dressing her sister and they left to allow the tattle to continue in relative privacy.

“What’s up?” I diapered up my little girl and she ran away while I was fumbling with her pajamas.

“We spilt some of the pie when we were serving it but it’s okay because we gave it to the little ones who don’t care if their pie has been on the floor or not and so they’re eating…and we wiped up the mess with towels.”

“Paper or cloth?”

“Cloth.”

Running to the kitchen, I find the first once and future clean toddler with pie on her face and in her clean hair. On the floor was a terry cloth towel that had been used to dutifully blot the mess of apple pie and ice cream.

The Diaper toddler had also found an abandoned paper bowl of ice cream and was wearing it as a hat.

I don’t mind parenting.
It’s the Lather, Rinse, Repeat.