Did I say that?

Memo: My computer is being retooled. (stupid virus).  That leaves me precious little time on the old machine.  Thus, you get a microwaved frozen leftover re-run from last summer. (Originally run on July 17, 2009). But, if you didn't read it last year, it's new to you. Enjoy!

“Don’t put stickers on the car door!”

“You shouldn’t play the piano with a toothbrush.”

“Please, give me the hammer back…Now!”

There are sentences that need no other explanation in the civilized world other than to say, “I am a parent.” Usually, they translate as imperatives that for all sentient beings, would never need be spoken.

Yet I have begun collecting them as samples of what my offspring require to survive 24 hours in my care. While on the phone with my brother, I heard similar utterances from him at his three children. “Put that down! Stop running into the window!” I started to laugh until I had to shout, “Don’t sit on the baby!” Now it was his turn, but we both recognized conversation was impossible and hung up.

My friends started giving me samples too. “What are you doing?” to a teenager stuffing an entire tortilla into his mouth in one swoop at ten minutes to six as she was serving dinner. “Who told you you could color your arm purple?” from a kindergarten mom. (It was picture day at school). “It’s a free dress day. I don’t have to wear my uniform.” was the child’s explanation. My personal favorite was “You made dinner?” from a third mother who said she’s still finding sauce stains in her kitchen from her fifth grader's experiment.

What is unsaid and unexplained about raising children often transcends what stories are told. Part of the omission is from personal shame. We can’t explain why our child had a three gallon water bottle in the middle of his room. We asked. He didn’t want to get up in the middle of the night to go the extra five feet to his bathroom sink to get a drink. We still don’t understand.

Part of it is the dim recognition that too much truth may be unbearable. Yes, she colored on the piano with a permanent black marker. Yes, he hid dirty clothes in a drawer until they fermented. Yes the toddler took a bite out of a tomato because she thought it was an apple and spiked the offending vegetable onto the newly clean floor. The amount of labor and property damage in those three sentences alone may be enough to doom the human race if universally disseminated.

When I asked my mom about these sorts of odd phrases that were coming out of my mouth as correctives of my children, she laughed and explained everything. “I told you about that when you were a kid...” “What was that? Mom? Hold on. Sweetie, stop squirting the instant mop on the wooden floor. Don’t pull your brother on a towel…”

“Mommmmm, we were playing sled.”

"What was that Mom?"

“See dear, you just weren’t listening.” My Mom answered over the phone.

It may be a dodge, but it’s a good dodge. I’m keeping it for when my kids have kids.

P.S. Today I said, and meant with all my heart, "Don't throw the cat at the chandelier." Son was tossing his beanie baby in the empty dining room and it got stuck. It's like they're secretly reading these posts!

Is This Thing On?

Ever have one of those days when you're quite certain the mute button has been selected and everyone else knows but you?  

"Could you shut the door?"  I ask as five children march out with the plan of playing soccer.  Not one hears.  Not wanting to make a big stink, I just shut the door.  I look out, it's hot, they've decided to start with Popsicles first.  I open the garage to remind them as they're passing out the pops, "Be sure and close the freezer and shut the garage door."  Five minutes later, after I've rodeoed the laundry along, I follow up and the freezer is slightly ajar and both doors to the garage are wide open, all the bikes having been taken out for inspection. 

"This is fine, but you need to put the bikes away when you're done."  I get nods in between sticky happy Popsicle licks. 

Thirty minutes later as I'm doing the dishes, I look out the window and spy three bikes, two trikes, a scooter and five skates along with 15 pieces of chalk abandoned and awaiting crushing by my van the moment I move the car. 

Like an Infomercial, I don't presume it's the message that's being rejected, it's just I'm  not using enough SHAM WOW volume.  So I summon the troops.  When they come, the commercial I planned is interrupted by a public safety message as all of the kiddos have red, green, blue or orange tints to their hands and faces.  I'm going to have to scald the doorknob to remove all the sugar and dye.  By the time I finish the cue of cleaning, they've settled by the TV.  Perfect.  

I turn off the TV and begin my pitch. "Hello Folks!  Are You Tired of Having Your House a Mess When All that's needed is for Kids to Put Their Things Away?  Have you been Asking and find that No One hears a word you say?  Well now, there's Momitis.  That's right, Momitis.  Momitis is the SIMPLE patented Method of Ensuring ALL Your TROUBLES are Over.  Use Momitis when you want the bikes put away.  When you want doors shut or lights turned off.  Momitis also works on excessive Television watching, getting homework done and solves pesky hunts for SOCKS."   The kids are giggling.
"HOW DOES IT WORK YOU ASK?" 

"IT's As Easy as MOM and APPLE PIE.  You state the desired chore.  "Turn off the Bathroom Light."  Point to the desired child.  I pointed to an eager and entranced six year old, and then say "Please." and watch that KID go!"  Sure enough, the six year old ran up the stairs and turned off the light.  When he comes back down the stairs.  "Wasn't that amazing." I clap.  The other kids clap.   "But, let's try it again.  Go Make your Beds. Please."  and this time three scramble to comply.   "What fabulous results but wait, there's still more!" 

Moms, you can use this effective product for the low low price of a few kisses and hugs.  Pay 2 now and give two more when you receive the desired effect.  MOMITIS is not sold in stores or online.  You CAN ONLY GET IT HERE.

MOMITIS works best when children listen and Moms give clear directions but what about a more complex task like putting all the bikes and skates and scooters away so we won't destroy them with the car?   The kids lined up for their prepaid hugs.   And returned for prompt payment in full.  

The thing is, one can only SHAM WOM mom for so long, it's exhausting.  But the bikes were cleared, the beds made and I hadn't yet used up kid good will in the process when we still had grocery shopping and a few errands later in the day.   While working on the computer, I heard kid versions of the infomercial being used to get books, snacks and trade chores. I heard one child trying to infomercial his way into getting his sister to part with her end of school year chocolate from a party.  The sister was feeling oppressed until I called out, "ACCEPT NO SUBSTITUTIONS or CHEAP KNOCK OFFS.  MOMITIS, ONLY Available BY MOMS FOR MOMS."

The Gifts of Mother's Day

Mother’s day is a type of emotional Rosharch test of a mom’s relationship with her kids. The children go to school and the teachers have them paint rocks, glue puzzle pieces, color charts and create prose and poetry to illustrate their love for the one who brought them into this world.

To date, I have three paperweights covered with old jewelry, a Popsicle trivet, a tie dye pot holder to go with the trivet, and two button covered heart pins. To avoid massive quantities of duplicate gifts which invariably trigger “Hey, that’s mine, I gave her that last year.” Or “Where’s mine that I gave you last year?” or worst of all, “Mine was better,” I’ve had to switch preschools…twice. Alternatively, I could have stayed with my first pick and eventually gathered enough glittery jigsaw puzzle piece pins to assemble a life size poster of the unfortunate blonde from the movie Goldfinger.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thoughts; the thoughts are lovely. It’s just sometimes Mother’s day reveals more about how little of the message we send every day seems to be getting through. For example, the teacher of my first born made a sheet with a yellow daffodil on it. Every child answered the question, “I Love my mom because…” and there were sweet things like she makes me pancakes, she lets me use bubble bath, she fixed my train set. And then, there was my son’s response, “She lets me do anything I want.”

As I stood there staring at the strange words he’d chosen, I thought of how I’d promised him I would never tie his shoes again if he quit trying. I considered how I’d demanded he make his bed daily and made him do extra math and English enrichment the summer BEFORE Kindergarten. I’d even refused to get him a Charizard Pokémon card that cost $60 for his birthday. Instead I’d bought him a shirt with the beloved but irritated orange flame-tailed dragon on it that was six sizes bigger than my son because it was the only one in the entire mall I could find. Then I thought about the fact that he currently drives me crazy because he still wears the orange shirt to bed and he’s a teenager!

But it isn’t just my first child with which I’ve had odd experiences owed to the second Sunday in May. I’ve had the same first grade teacher for three of my children. She has them assemble books about their Moms. The results from each Mother’s day have made me certain that whatever else is going on in my kids lives; they aren’t paying much attention to what I do. One page said, “My mom likes to …” I would have answered: write, bake fattening desserts and read. In the books thus far, the survey results indicated I do jazz, (haven’t since I was 17), another answer, play video games (Nyet, that’s Dad), and my personal favorite, watch TV. (No, I’m the person who turns off the machine).

They were consistent about where I like to vacation, the beach. But apparently I have voiced at some point, a loathing of California, France and Japan, as these are three places I’ve indicated I would never want to go. These books show me that what I am doing, even if I think I’m doing something else, isn’t what they perceive. I think I’m jumping up and down and saying, “Clean! I shouldn’t have to pick up your socks every day…” and they’re understanding something else. One thing’s for sure, they aren’t getting that they should pick up their socks! But the books make me grateful that perhaps, the reality I’ve created for them is not as hard as I think sometimes I can be.

The kids have given me glitter boxes and pipe clean flowers and I have loved the love conveyed in them all. Their hopeful eyes as they wait for me to open the presents are more lovely and more valuable than the beaded key chain or a CD sun catcher for the garden inside the tissue paper. The hope in their hearts is what every Mom all over the world hopes to grow and develop by the daily care they administer.

Sitting at the table over a leisurely bagel breakfast, my daughter yawned and asked “What do you want to do today Mom?” I could tell she was already not listening as she eyed her sister’s book, the fifth in a series that the older one had just finished. “I’d like to…” I started as I saw her pick the precious tome up from the table and curl up into a living room chair to disappear in a world of demi-gods fighting in New York. I went to the jewelry box to fish out a few button and jigsaw pins for accessories while I murmured to no one in particular, “I’d like this to happen, just as it’s happening.”

Maybe it is true that I do let them do anything they want. Happy Mother’s Day!

Let's Go to the Movies!

Back when I was merely in charge of five younglings, the Two Towers came out.
Man we wanted to see that movie. However, we were in between babysitters.

Sheer numbers required that we use adults at that point, I mean, who in this day and age had five kids? Most sentient beings over the age of 18 however, wanted extraordinary funding in return for doing what I did for free daily. Those who agreed, we used until they wizened up. I don’t think my kids were that difficult. She really wanted to go back home to Nepal. That's what she said in the letter anyway. The next babysitter who had lived in the town home across from us, suddenly enrolled in the community college and got very very busy. Then her phone stopped working altogether.

Our third sitter opted for a slightly less dramatic exit; she got married and had her own kids before moving out of the country. Having no grandparents within less than a six hour drive, we were going to miss out on Peter Jackson's second installment until it came out on DVD. Then we hit upon what seemed to us, a brilliant idea.

The late show. We'd wait an excruciating four weeks, when the crowds had significantly ebbed, and then, with the youngest dressed in sweatpants that could double as pj's, we'd take them to the movies and they'd fall asleep while we watched. Genius. Pure Genius!

The day arrived and willingly, we forked over what would have been the equivalent of a baby sitter's fee in kids’ tickets, and even more for the obligatory popcorn.

We were savvy enough to make sure no one got caffeine. We were punting on the parent screening of suitable material with respect to imaginary monsters, violence, scope, but we weren't so stupid as to pump them up with sugary guaranteed keep up until two o'clock am juice.

The last showing for the Two Towers was at 10:10. All of our ducklings tended to drop off at 8:30. They wouldn't last past the previews we told ourselves. Those couples who had managed to get a date night out sans kids looked slightly askance in our direction. We smiled weakly back and hoped our kids would be snoring silently soon.

Delusional. If NFL color commentators were able to screen our actions, they'd have explained to the audience what a mistake it was to start this project so late in the evening. The better play would have been to go to the movie at 8:30 proper, so natural fatigue would set in and do the job. Telling the kids they were going to a show and then postponing it past bed time by a good hour and half, we had missed the open window between natural sleepiness and getting that third wind.

The kids were actually reasonably good, only getting scared when say, there were lots of orcs in the scenes. One climbed into my lap and covered her eyes. Another made good use of his Dad's arm. The other three sat immersed in the film, including one I would have preferred to have seen a bit scared. I caught the eye of a woman sitting with her husband; she gave me a tsking look that said, "You should have known..." I resisted the urge to offer her the opportunity to babysit.

Since then, we haven't tried that plan. In fact, we've only made it to a few movies since the trilogy ended. One of them was Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I remember it vividly because sitting next to me was a family including four small kids and I spent much of the whole movie mentally wondering what possessed this mother to bring her young children on a Friday night to see a PG-13 movie and at the same time forcing myself not to give the tsking look. The woman must have sensed my struggle as she stopped to mention, "My babysitter quit on me and moved to France."

Now that I have teenagers, it's possible for us to return to the movies with a clean conscience, but I get text messages from my oldest two. "M& P had a fight. No one was hurt. When r u coming home?"

Paying my son for eating pizza with his friends and watching his siblings who had already gone to bed felt vaguely like extortion but my husband viewed it as an investment. "We're guaranteed if we keep having him babysit, he'll leave home."

He might even go abroad.
"Hey honey, what's showing this weekend?"

When Mom Was a Kid..

What it was like when I was a kid

On Sports and Games

Growing up, we strapped metal wheels to our shoes and fell on our knees on bumpy concrete until we learned to stop falling. Turns were tricky so you either held on, or in my brother's case, got down on your hands and knees and crawled through the turn, or you decided you knew what you were doing, tried to make the turn and fell at least 50 times before you got it.

When we played on swing sets, teeter totters and monkey bars, they were made of wood and steel and sometimes gave us splinters, particularly when we would ride with two or three at a time.

Tag and hide and seek, dodge ball and freeze tag had winners and losers. We played them often. In fact, we loved them. Even when we were mad about being picked last, it just meant we hoped next time, we’d be captains or picked first, or at least not last again.

Sports had b-teams and sometimes, you didn’t even make that one. You only got a trophy if you won, and sometimes, you got skunked. People kept score but the teams for grade school and the like, were not posted in the paper. It wasn’t important. These were kids’ games.

On School and Education…

There were three channels on television if you didn’t count the educational one, which we didn’t.

The library was a place to check out books, a week in advance of the science project that was mandatory.

The science project was a big deal, complete with a hand written four page report and five references, none from the web. Everyone had to make a poster and a project. People would know if your parents did the art work, and you wouldn’t win.

We’d get pop quizzes at school and worksheets that had been freshly run from the ditto machine, and smelled like ink. We loved those, and I think sometimes, the ink made us dizzy.

You got grades. You got grades every day. Most of the time, it was a number or a letter. The grades included C’s, D’s, F’s and the less common, C-, D+ and D-. Your parents got called if you got these grades. Every time. Forging your parent’s signature got you in bigger trouble.

If you didn’t do an assignment, you got to do it during recess while everyone else was outside playing, which stunk.

They made us memorize Kipling’s “If,” our multiplication tables and say the pledge. We often had to read aloud or do problems on the board for everyone else to watch.

They showed us videos of “The Red Balloon,” and “Chicken Soup with Rice” as treats. We saw each every year at least once.

At noon, We’d get kicked outside to play, we had recess. It was after lunch and lasted a decent amount of time. It didn’t matter if it was hot or cold, muggy or raining, we were on our own after lunch for that half hour. Recess lasted long enough to form cliques, to organize a kick ball game, to braid hair or play a no prisoners game of speed solitaire.

On Grown Ups…

People disagreed on politics, as they always have, but it wasn’t acceptable to insult someone just because they held a different political affiliation. No one was considered heartless or brainless for being a Republican or a Democrat; these were party denominations, not the solutions to every problem under the sun requiring absolute religious fealty.

Being kids, we didn’t even know what politics really were until Mom caught us one day having uprooted all the political signs and repositioned them in our front yard because we thought they were cool. These Vote for…posts seemed like some form of mushroom that had sprung up overnight. We were busy dismantling them to make swords when Mom found us.

Television had a family hour which was boring and grown-ups watched the news, which was boring to us, but then the alternative was bed.

There were uber parents out there who made their kids compete in every sport and activity, but most of the grown-ups knew that these people were wrong and encouraged all of us to pick what we loved and do that first.

Grown-ups drank things like beer and wine, ice tea, diet soda and coffee, all of which tasted terrible. They also had weird clothing rules like no shorts after Labor Day and no white in the winter. They ordered foods with dressings and sauces on them and used “Sweet and Low.” They would make us eat the crust on breads, the stumpy parts of broccoli and occasionally, liver.

For Fun…

Swimming lessons and camp took care of maybe two weeks. The rest of the time, we were on our own.

We’d troll the neighborhood to amass as many at home minors as possible. It didn’t matter who, if you were a kid and you were home, we were knocking on the door asking, “Can you come play?”

Then, we’d ride our bikes until dark, no helmets. We’d pin cards to our spokes with clothes pins to sound like motor cycles. On a dead end street, we’d hold races all afternoon until someone announced they were thirsty. There would be a run on the hose, with each person jockeying to be later in line, so as not to get the first swig of heated by the sun water that came out of the end.
Then the beep beep beep of the mosquito spraying truck would be heard and everyone would clear out to their homes as fast as possible. We didn’t know DEET was poisonous, but it sure smelled bad.

When it was too hot, we’d play monopoly in doors until someone won or was called home. We sometimes made card castles, trying to use all 52 cards before the thing fell. We loved fresh boxes of crayons and coloring books. The coloring books were almost always of animals and never had stickers.

Come fall, we’d gather pecans from every yard, filling up two trash cans. Then we’d offer to rake leaves for a dollar all over the block and try to sell the pecans.

Every Christmas, we’d have a Christmas program. They never had plots, just grade after grade, alternating between secular and religious music, with the grand finale, always, Silent Night. Then most parents would reconvene across the street at the Carnation Dairy restaurant to praise our performances and buy ice cream.

Why am I telling you this?

So my darlings, you will understand some of the why I tell you often to turn off the television and the DDS and the DVD’s and the IPods and the cell phones and the computers.

I will shrug sometimes when you are not 100% safe and even encourage you to jump off the high dive, draw until you run out of chalk and drink a soda outside while reading comics in a hammock.

I will not rush out to challenge other parents to a duel to the death because your feelings are hurt, though I will offer you a hug and say I love you.

Life is always unsafe and unfair but worth living. Sometimes, it is even unsafe and unfair in our favor.

Skinned knees and even bruised hearts heal. Memorization, pain from learning to learn is part of the process, and not what you will recall when you get to be nostalgic about childhood. Like giving birth, we don’t recall the labor pain itself, only that it hurt and then it was over, and we had this person, and everything was light and wonderful and still is.

Happy Thank You for Making me A Mother Day! And Happy Mother’s Day to everyone out there who has been so blessed.

Valentine EKG Vital signs

The kids came home from school February 14th.

I thought I was home free.

I had helped make four recycled cereal boxes into Valentine Mail bags.

I had artfully decorated 24 chocolate home made cup cakes.

The day before, I had purchased each child their favorite candy to tuck in their lunch box and assisted with over 120 cards to ensure everyone in every class got one.

Thursday, they would have a special assembly, where the Principal would willingly hug a monkey, as payment for the kids having collected 3,500 cans of food for the food pantry program run by the Church on the same grounds.


They would then have Valentine's parties with cake and goodie bags, cards from all their classmates and a running of the Peanuts special. I figured, all was right with the world.

I mean, nothing says Valentine's day like the Principal of a school hugging a monkey and enough chocolate to coat the entire school, all in one day.

Alas. I knew nothing of how the day should be celebrated. I only knew my kid heart...if I had been at school, would have been satisfied and then some.

Around six, I discovered one unhappy Valentine. My eight year old son sat sulking, unable to voice his great disappointment with the whole holiday. He had eaten his starburst, looked at the cards, completed the puzzle his teacher gave, and done his homework. His face was red and his eyes holding back tears. "I hate Valentine's Day! It's a stupid holiday!"

Utterly bewildered, and at that moment, feeling more pressed for dinner than my son's psychological state, I tried being rational. "But, you saw a monkey..."

"It's stupid." he sulked.

So I tried a different response.
"It's not really a holiday made for kids sweetie. It's really more for couples, like me and your Daddy." I showed him the roses I'd received.

"We didn't do enough." he humphed.

Letting aside the desire to scream about what? which took considerable love on my part, I asked, "What would you have us do?" Visions of the Principal having to walk a tight rope over live lions came to my head.

He wanted a fancy dinner. I happened to have a pot roast which, if sliced properly looked like steak --that's what he called it and that's what I said I was serving.

He wanted us to tell each person why we loved them.
The Mom in me approved. This did not seem impossible, so I pulled out the red tablecloth and the good china and he felt comforted.

So we tried to sit for dinner and each tell what we loved about another. One kid tried to be clever "I love her because she's not stupid." and it got her sister mad. And rightly so. I had a spoon I used as gavel. Judge Mom would solve this.

The toddler spilt her orange juice causing a giant mess and forcing me to call a brief recess, as I sponged up the floor and wiped her down. In the meantime, the other toddler wolfed down his food and ran off to change back into his dinosaur costume.

My oldest two, buzzing from chocolate and other sweets and a semi-non academic day complete with lower primates started fencing with air epees. The dinner had been eaten and the five year old was huffing as they hadn't gotten to her yet.

Reassembling the crowd with the promise of desserts, we tried again. But the karma was off and no one was listening and when one brother refused to say something nice about one of his sisters, the one who ate her valentine candy in front of him and it was his favorite, without sharing despite begging, he got ugly. It got ugly. I got tired. I yelled. I lost it. The Judge Mom had lost her judgement in that moment.

The sentimental one who wanted this whole deal started to cry and I knew I mistrialed in motherhood at that moment.

Now I felt so lost it was hard to speak. Here I had broken a holiday but good. There was a hard silence as all the children looked at their mother who was searching for words and feeling drained and frustrated. But the very same son pointed out this was why we needed Valentine's day --and with a hard hug, he reset the table mentally. He even brought me diet coke.

The older ones heard him and sat down. Even Dino boy came back.

So it wasn't perfect and it wasn't my finest, but it was his. And next year, we'll celebrate his style of Valentine's day.

I'll be funnier later. In the meantime, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/.

Driving Ms. Daisy Godzilla, the Killer Blue Kitten

We drive a Suburban.

No big deal, I grew up driving a Suburban…sometimes with a boat attached. For those not familiar with the dynamics required to haul a 17 foot sailboat on a trailer plus a six foot metal mast extending beyond the hull, it is like your vehicle is an 18 wheeler, with only six wheels. You can still take out a house if you turn wrong, you just have less grip on the road.

There have been stories about other Suburbans where the trailer spontaneously disengaged from the Suburban and then, due to forces heretofore unknown, passed said hauling car on the freeway, even making a turn signal before switching lanes.
“Look Dad, there goes someone’s Boat…”
“Look at that…HEY! THAT’S OUR BOAT!”

Even without a boat, the only word for a Suburban is XXXL.

If it was a sandwich, it would be a Wendy’s Baconator. Why? Because four patties of beef, six slices of bacon and three of cheese is probably sufficient caloric intake for seventeen days. Filling up the tank of this big blue monstrosity on a regular basis requires that we manage our investments wisely. Like eating a baconator You don’t want to do it very often… if ever.

The point of all this is that recently, I have had difficulty parking this big blue Beast. It all started when my five year old daughter’s friend decided our car was called Blue Kitten. She had already named her parent’s red suburban Kitten, so it seemed only natural to christen ours a similar moniker.

My sons were outraged and sought to soothe the should be mucking about in the swamps, hauling boats, SUV’s ego by coming up with alternative names, like Bulldog, Mastodon, and of course Godzilla. Each name increased in it's testosterone level and descriptive violent adjectives.

The car had an identity crisis.

Suddenly, it was nearly impossible to park this machine. Every spot was too narrow, too difficult to steer into, impossible to exit. I took to parking at the far end of the parking lot, but even there, I struggled to get the car within the two yellow lines. I could have sworn it was gaining weight. Maybe it was stress guzzling the ethanol I’d been putting in when I wasn’t looking.

When the girls would pile in for gymnastics or basketball, suddenly the car became spry and nimble, deftly maneuvering around any number of tiny double parked vehicles to secure a sweet parking place. My girls had taken to patting the car, “Good Kitty Blue.”

“Blue Kitten!” “BULLDOG!”
“I like mine version better! The Blue Death Star!”
“MOMMMMM!”

Being called to issue a ruling on what the Suburban shall hence forth be named was an issue fraught with peril. The kids waited as I considered whether I’d ever get my eight year old son in the vehicle again willingly if I allowed the girly nick name to stand. At the same time, dismissing her friend’s gesture would crush my five year old’s spirit.

Reaching back into biblical lore, I consulted Solomon.

We started talking about all the names in our family. How Dad gets called “Mr.” at the office and I don’t get called Mom by my friends. They knew I was preparing to give a ruling.

The Suburban, being a big car, could handle a bigger name. I presented my Hybrid solution, Godzilla Kitten.

Both sides were disgusted.

Me: “Fine! Get in the Car!” Case dismissed.

The Adventures of Contrary Boy and She Who Would Be Two

Warning: I have been toddlerized.

I have come to accept the inherent cereal and milk encrusted feeling of all my door knobs and the fact that no wall escapes a Zorro like calling card.

One can only hope to contain a toddler, not control. They have to consent to any ideas or activities. The moment one says something in imperative voice to a two year old, the answer is already decided. “We need to go.” “You need a diaper change.” “It’s time to play, eat ice cream and ride flying pink ponies while watching TV and jumping off the furniture.” The reflexive response to all three of these commands is NO! Not only no but hell no!

Time to get dressed.

Now usually I bring the clothes down when I get them up and tackle that task while they’re still groggy enough not to reflexively resist. Today I was slumming and it was ten o’clock when I attempted this feat. Going through the laundry to find fresh outfits, my children sensed what was coming and scattered.

I do have a trick or two though. I have found that if I practice the piano, even so much as a single plink on those ivories brings them to practice with me. This secret summoning spell remains 100% effective as long as they are unaware that I am manipulating them.

Plink! Plink! Plink! I want to be sure they come so I play a winner, “The Spinning Song.”

Up they run, my son shouting “I want to play. I want to play!” “Play!” my daughter who turns two in a week calls. She gets to me first.
I take the first comer and wrestle her to the ground to get dressed. “Now you can play the piano.” I explain. She happily plinks.

Now my son isn’t willing to get dressed and stays out of arm’s reach. “Can we go to the fitness center today?” he asks. (They have better toys I’m told at the gym).
“Fitness Center.” My daughter repeats.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. If people get dressed.” I say, acting casual, as though going to work out would be a major effort and inconvenience to me. He picks out his clothing and hands it to me in a flash.

“Thanks Contrary Boy.” I say as I help him into his shirt.

Make no mistake, toddlers do have super powers; they get sane educated adults to comply with an endless array of tasks through erosion of will.

Yesterday, I needed to make an appointment. The receptionist put me on hold. I witnessed Contrary boy, complete with blanket cape, amble through the kitchen. He found a magnet, a marble, the back of one of my earrings, a cell phone I had given up for dead and a lost bag of chips ahoy to share with his sister. When I cried “Wait!” He bolted out of the room. In the meantime, She Who Would be Two came in, found one shoe, put it on her foot and walked off. She took a marker with her. Returning five minutes later with an entirely purple arm, I hung up. I’d call from my cell with them in their car seats.

Both she and her brother asked for a second round of breakfast.

What did they want?

“Peanut butter and Jelly sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches.”

We were out of bread.

“Could I make it on hot dog buns?”

They thought this was funny and I pointed out it looked like a mouth. Impulsively, I added blue berries on top as eyes. My son wanted his to have a mustache. That took some doing but after two minutes of discussion and a smear of peanut butter, I served Groucho Marx PB&J on a bun.

I thought I might squeeze back in the call. The Receptionist put me on hold before I could tell her not to.

“Mom. You didn’t give us napkins.”
“Napkins.” She Who Would be Two repeats.

I find a roll of paper towels and pull off two. Still holding.

“Mom, you didn’t give us drinks.”
“Drinks.” She Who Would be Two repeats again.

“I know.” I responded. “Mommy’s on the phone. The service here is terrible.”

“Terrible.” He repeated.

I started making sippy cups of milk before She Who Would be Two could repeat Terrible as well.

Happiness lasted as long as the sandwiches. She Who Would be Two shredded her bun and got her hair covered in peanut butter and jelly.

“My hands are sticky.” He explained, visibly distressed.
“sticky.” She starts to say.
I grab a towel and sponge off her hands and face first.

As I turn to wipe his hands, Contrary boy frowns. “Mom, We haven’t had lunch.”

I hung up again.

Ordering Out

Going through a drive thru is rather like taking a leap of faith with my brood. Or at least, it used to be. I'd write the order as follows:

W: Big Mac, root beer
B: Ten Piece, Chocolate Shake
M: Mighty Kids Double Cheese, Chocolate Shake BOY Toy (even though she's a girl)
P: Mighty Kids Chicken Nug/BOY TOY ONLY, Chocolate Shake
F: Happy Meal Hamburger/GIRL TOY ONLY, Sprite
J: Happy Meal Cheeseburger/BOY TOY, Chocolate Milk, Apples
R: Happy Meal Hamburger, GIRL TOY, Chocolate Milk, Apples
Me: Diet Coke, resign self to eating whatever order got messed up.
Order four more hamburgers and two four pieces to cover the bases and sigh as oldest produces three dollars to buy six pies.

After writing things down and having errors, writing things down and handing it in and having errors, writing things down and having the kids change their minds, I placed an ultimatum, either cope with what comes or no more golden arches.

This quelled internal dissent at least publically, but getting people to hear the order took time. I considered running through the drive thru twice, as five seems to be the cut off at which the cashier assumes you're done. Instead, I've channeled my inner Julie Andrews.

It is fortunate for me that blogs have not yet progressed that you would hear my words in my own voice. Imagine I'm in tune and very musical.

"A flat please maestro."

They laugh and then they listen. And, I almost never get any mistakes anymore.

(Sung to the tune of twelve days of Christmas)

"For our drive up order please listen to me please

Three happy meals, 2 with hamburgers and one with just cheese.

We'd also like two chocolate milks and an apple juice for drink

and six apple pies!

One big mac meal. A ten piece too

And two Mighty Kids Meals.

One is Cheeseburger, the other chicken!

Three Medium Chocolate Shakes and One Root Beer

And for me a diet coke!

and four hamburgers and 2 chicken four piece

from the dollar menu.

And two girl and Three Boy Toys....."

My only issue is if the kids change the order.

Goodnight Everybody!