Showing posts with label Kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kids. Show all posts
Sharing a Mike Feeny Moment.
When I was in the fifth grade, I pushed Mike Feeny down a flight a stairs.
Our class was heading up from gym class when he grabbed the back of my bra strap and gave it a tug, snapping it across my back.
This was not the first time he snapped my strap, but it was the last.
He'd snapped it good -- a rubber band-meets-skin kind of pop that both stung and caught the attention of several classmates. Embarrassed, angry, and without hesitation; I shoved that boy and I shoved him hard.
Luckily, he fell backwards only a few steps before steadying himself with the railing and being caught by another kid. It could've been a bad fall. Thank God it wasn't.
I can still see that surprised look on his face when I'd turned on him. I'd been an easy target up until that point. Until I'd finally had enough. That was the last time Mike Feeny, or anyone else for that matter, snapped my strap.
I tell you this story because I think we parents need to remember what it was like growing up. We need to, as much as we can, remember what it like to endure playground politics, teachers who seemed out to get us, and parents who didn't understand.
And while it's not wrong to hold our kids to high standards, we can't expect more of them than we could possibly expect of ourselves back then.
My philosophy was put to the test this past weekend, when at a school event, Mad Dog had her own Mike Feeny Moment. This one didn't involve a bra strap plucking, but it did end with a shove.
A fellow fifth grader had been antagonizing Mad Dog. The girl's behavior had been more obnoxious than threatening. According to the adult on duty, the girl was just about to get reprimanded when Mad Dog, after telling her several times to back off, retaliated.
Without thinking, Mad Dog shoved the girl, knocking her down onto the ground. Luckily, like Mike, she was stunned, but not hurt. But in Mad Dog's case, the whole thing went down in front of a teacher who then came down on my daughter.
Clearly, Mad Dog should've handled the situation differently. She shouldn't have gotten physical. She should've asked an adult to intervene. But she didn't. And neither did I, nearly 30 years earlier.
And so I feel a bit conflicted.
Of course I need to encourage making good decisions, even if it makes me feel hypocritical. After all, this isn't about me; it's about Mad Dog. But I also feel the need to support my daughter and encourage her to stand up for herself. To protect her personal space. To not be a victim.
When we got home that night, I told Mad Dog that I was happy she stood up for herself, but that she has to find a different way to do it -- preferably a way that won't get her in trouble. We also talked about how before The Big Shove, the girl was just about to get it, but that an impulsive reaction landed Mad Dog in the hot seat instead.
Even though shoving the girl had clearly been wrong, I decided to not punish Mad Dog. It'd be different had she started the whole thing or had a history of pushing around her classmates. She'd simply had enough of somebody messing with her and had acted out of instinct.
So, while I wag my finger and outwardly discourage The Big Shove, deep down, I'm secretly proud. Proud of Mad Dog's spirit. Her moxie. Her willingness to stand up for herself.
And a part of me is proud that my little apple didn't fall too far.
Oh, and Mike, if you ever read this... sorry.
Our class was heading up from gym class when he grabbed the back of my bra strap and gave it a tug, snapping it across my back.
This was not the first time he snapped my strap, but it was the last.
He'd snapped it good -- a rubber band-meets-skin kind of pop that both stung and caught the attention of several classmates. Embarrassed, angry, and without hesitation; I shoved that boy and I shoved him hard.
Luckily, he fell backwards only a few steps before steadying himself with the railing and being caught by another kid. It could've been a bad fall. Thank God it wasn't.
I can still see that surprised look on his face when I'd turned on him. I'd been an easy target up until that point. Until I'd finally had enough. That was the last time Mike Feeny, or anyone else for that matter, snapped my strap.
I tell you this story because I think we parents need to remember what it was like growing up. We need to, as much as we can, remember what it like to endure playground politics, teachers who seemed out to get us, and parents who didn't understand.
And while it's not wrong to hold our kids to high standards, we can't expect more of them than we could possibly expect of ourselves back then.
My philosophy was put to the test this past weekend, when at a school event, Mad Dog had her own Mike Feeny Moment. This one didn't involve a bra strap plucking, but it did end with a shove.
A fellow fifth grader had been antagonizing Mad Dog. The girl's behavior had been more obnoxious than threatening. According to the adult on duty, the girl was just about to get reprimanded when Mad Dog, after telling her several times to back off, retaliated.
Without thinking, Mad Dog shoved the girl, knocking her down onto the ground. Luckily, like Mike, she was stunned, but not hurt. But in Mad Dog's case, the whole thing went down in front of a teacher who then came down on my daughter.
Clearly, Mad Dog should've handled the situation differently. She shouldn't have gotten physical. She should've asked an adult to intervene. But she didn't. And neither did I, nearly 30 years earlier.
And so I feel a bit conflicted.
Of course I need to encourage making good decisions, even if it makes me feel hypocritical. After all, this isn't about me; it's about Mad Dog. But I also feel the need to support my daughter and encourage her to stand up for herself. To protect her personal space. To not be a victim.
When we got home that night, I told Mad Dog that I was happy she stood up for herself, but that she has to find a different way to do it -- preferably a way that won't get her in trouble. We also talked about how before The Big Shove, the girl was just about to get it, but that an impulsive reaction landed Mad Dog in the hot seat instead.
Even though shoving the girl had clearly been wrong, I decided to not punish Mad Dog. It'd be different had she started the whole thing or had a history of pushing around her classmates. She'd simply had enough of somebody messing with her and had acted out of instinct.
So, while I wag my finger and outwardly discourage The Big Shove, deep down, I'm secretly proud. Proud of Mad Dog's spirit. Her moxie. Her willingness to stand up for herself.
And a part of me is proud that my little apple didn't fall too far.
Oh, and Mike, if you ever read this... sorry.
The Tween Trip
The twins, Mad Dog and The Deuce, are smack in the middle of tweenhood. They teeter between little girl interests like Barbies and Build-a-Bears and older, more mature interests like make-up and trips to the mall.
Because I don't want them to grow up too soon (and because we actually own a little BBW stock), I encourage the doll playing, but strictly prohibit cosmetics.
But after a particularly long stretch of declining the girls' requests to have friends over (first the baby, then The Big Sick that overtook the house last month), I agreed to take the twins and three of their friends to the mall.
They squealed. They jumped up and down. They hugged me and told me I was the Best Mom Ever.
And then they hit me up for $50. Each.
I explained to them that going to the mall isn't necessarily about buying things. It's about spending time with your friends, sipping an Orange Julius and window shopping.
To that, The Deuce rolled her eyes and asked why would they possibly want to shop for windows.
$20 each. That was my offer. Take it or leave it. Despite the realization they would not get the shopping spree they envisioned, they accepted and we were on our way.
One by one, the girls' tweenie-bopper friends hopped into my van. And one by one, my jaw dropped a little more.
The first wore eye liner.
The second had her own cell phone.
And the third had talked her dad into letting her bring $50.
Being a conscientious, protective mom, I told them they could go wherever they wanted, but they had to follow these two simple rules:
Watching them at the crane game, I realized how young these little tweenie-boppers still are. Despite the make-up and the cell phones, they're still little girls at heart.
They groaned when I told them it was time to go. They begged for more time. For more quarters.
And as I dropped them off, one, by one. I was thanked profusely for taking them to the mall.
"Thank you, Mrs. W. Thank you so much!"
Their expression of gratitude also was a sign of their age. Going to the mall wasn't an expectation yet. For them, it was a treat. There had been no teen drama -- they hadn't even minded being tailed by a mom, hovering 10 feet away.
I know this will change in a few short years, but for now, I'll take it.
Because I don't want them to grow up too soon (and because we actually own a little BBW stock), I encourage the doll playing, but strictly prohibit cosmetics.
But after a particularly long stretch of declining the girls' requests to have friends over (first the baby, then The Big Sick that overtook the house last month), I agreed to take the twins and three of their friends to the mall.
They squealed. They jumped up and down. They hugged me and told me I was the Best Mom Ever.
And then they hit me up for $50. Each.
I explained to them that going to the mall isn't necessarily about buying things. It's about spending time with your friends, sipping an Orange Julius and window shopping.
To that, The Deuce rolled her eyes and asked why would they possibly want to shop for windows.
$20 each. That was my offer. Take it or leave it. Despite the realization they would not get the shopping spree they envisioned, they accepted and we were on our way.
One by one, the girls' tweenie-bopper friends hopped into my van. And one by one, my jaw dropped a little more.
The first wore eye liner.
The second had her own cell phone.
And the third had talked her dad into letting her bring $50.
Being a conscientious, protective mom, I told them they could go wherever they wanted, but they had to follow these two simple rules:
- Stay together. No breaking off into groups of twos or threes. Travel as a pack.
- No major purchases. I introduced them to the correct definition of 'window shopping' and told them they were only to browse the coolest fashions -- not to go all Julia Roberts Pretty Woman on me. (This was statement was met with blank expressions.)
And so I tailed them, walking several feet behind and letting them go wherever they wanted. They meandered in and out of a few stores, then headed to the food court. They looked back and asked me what they could have for lunch.
"Whatever you want. You're buying," I said.
They huddled up and developed a plan: One of them would buy the 50 chicken nuggets for $10 deal at McDonald's, another would head to Mrs. Field's for a half dozen chocolate chip cookies. Another would spring for Icees. And yet another would get a double order of curly fries from Arby's.
The fifth one, and I forget who it was, was to get all the necessary straws and napkins and would find suitable seating. (Somehow she didn't have to buy any food. Go figure.)
They laid out the food court feast like it was Thanksgiving dinner. They complimented each other on their delicious lunch and inhaled it like a swarm of locusts.
After lunch, they wandered around, but stopped dead in their tracks when they saw a collection of coin-operated games. For the next 30 minutes, they dumped quarter after quarter into the machines, trying desperately to win a bunch of cheap crap.
The mesmerizing, powerful effect of The Claw.
Watching them at the crane game, I realized how young these little tweenie-boppers still are. Despite the make-up and the cell phones, they're still little girls at heart.
They groaned when I told them it was time to go. They begged for more time. For more quarters.
And as I dropped them off, one, by one. I was thanked profusely for taking them to the mall.
"Thank you, Mrs. W. Thank you so much!"
Their expression of gratitude also was a sign of their age. Going to the mall wasn't an expectation yet. For them, it was a treat. There had been no teen drama -- they hadn't even minded being tailed by a mom, hovering 10 feet away.
I know this will change in a few short years, but for now, I'll take it.
The Art of Reason.
Last week as I made dinner, I could hear Mad Dog throwing Crowbar around in the family room.
They weren't fighting, but they were wrestling, which is basically the same thing since they both typically end with tears and finger-pointing.
Oh, and neither are allowed. Period.
I summoned Mad Dog, who was clearly the antagonist in the altercation.
"Mad Dog?"
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"Uh, wrestling," she confessed, bowing her head.
"Is wrestling allowed?"
"I forgot!"
"You didn't answer my question. For as long as you can remember, has wrestling ever been allowed in this house?" I asked.
"No."
"So, is it fair to say we've had a 'No Wrestling Rule' in effect for more than ten years?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Uh-huh." I paused a good twenty seconds, letting the moment sink in.
"I'll just be in my room until supper's ready," she said.
"Perhaps that's best."
- - -
The beauty of the exchange is that I didn't have to raise my voice -- not even once -- to get my point across.
God, I'm good.
They weren't fighting, but they were wrestling, which is basically the same thing since they both typically end with tears and finger-pointing.
Oh, and neither are allowed. Period.
I summoned Mad Dog, who was clearly the antagonist in the altercation.
"Mad Dog?"
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"Uh, wrestling," she confessed, bowing her head.
"Is wrestling allowed?"
"I forgot!"
"You didn't answer my question. For as long as you can remember, has wrestling ever been allowed in this house?" I asked.
"No."
"So, is it fair to say we've had a 'No Wrestling Rule' in effect for more than ten years?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Uh-huh." I paused a good twenty seconds, letting the moment sink in.
"I'll just be in my room until supper's ready," she said.
"Perhaps that's best."
- - -
The beauty of the exchange is that I didn't have to raise my voice -- not even once -- to get my point across.
God, I'm good.
Mini-Me.
How's the baby? She's great, thanks for asking!
Seriously. She's an awesome baby. She's pretty easy-going (gets that from me), is super smiley (again, from me), and is cute as hell (well, obviously).
See for yourself:
Seriously. She's an awesome baby. She's pretty easy-going (gets that from me), is super smiley (again, from me), and is cute as hell (well, obviously).
See for yourself:
Sweet Pea, 3 mos.
Thankfully, the big kids have a good sense of humor (which they totally get from me too).
Lessons from Mad Dog
Several years ago, when Mad Dog was six years old or so, she popped a few quarters into one of those grocery store prize machines and got a shiny silver necklace. After wearing it for a few days, she developed a raised red, itchy rash around the back of her neck.
It was clear that the cheap, trinkety necklace was to blame so she took it off and after a few treatments with hydrocortisone, the rash disappeared.
When she asked why the necklace gave her a rash, I said it was because it was cheap, costume jewelery and it irritated her sensitive skin.
So, for the past four years, Mad Dog has avoided wearing coin-dispensed jewelery and the rash has yet to return.
- - -
Fast forward to The Worst Day of My Life EVER...
- - -
One day last December, I was out doing some last-minute holiday shopping while the kids were at school when my cell phone rang. It was the elementary school office.
"Your daughter fell during recess and she can't move her legs. We've called 9-1-1 and the ambulance is on its way."
My heart stopped and my mind raced. Was she paralyzed? Was she conscious? Was she crying for me?
Over the receiver, I could hear the school secretary talking by walkie-talkie to the nurse who was out on the playground with Mad Dog. I could hear the nurse comforting her, telling her that help was on the way.
I began to sob.
The secretary shared what she knew: Mad Dog had fallen off a huge mound of snow and landed on her tailbone. She was conscious and coherent, but didn't have any feeling in her legs. The nurse, who volunteers for our local rescue squad, was with her and was telling her what to expect during the ambulance ride.
She advised me the paramedics were en route (I could hear the siren over the phone) and that I should head straight to the hospital to meet them.
I don't remember much of my drive to the hospital other than repeating, "Please, God," over and over. I beat the ambulance there and was waiting when they wheeled Mad Dog into the ER on a backboard, wearing a neck brace.
Nothing can prepare a mother for a sight like that.
I was pleased to see that Mad Dog was calm. It was only when she saw me that she began to cry. I held her hand as the ER doctors got her vitals from the paramedics. I heard them say that during transport she began moving her toes.
A good sign.
They began asking Mad Dog questions. "What happened? Does anything hurt? Are you taking any medications?"
Then they asked about allergies.
"Are you allergic to anything?" asked a nurse.
"Cheap jewelery," Mad Dog said.
The ER staff paused a second and exchanged curious glances.
"What did you say?" asked the nurse.
"Cheap jewelery," Mad Dog repeated. "You know, bracelets and necklaces. The cheap stuff gives me a rash."
Everyone looked at me. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I quickly told them about the rash from the coin-machine necklace incident so many years earlier. The nurse looked to Mad Dog.
"Me too, honey," she said. "Only accept the good stuff."
Laughter erupted in ER exam room #7.
Within the hour, Mad Dog regained feeling in her legs. An x-ray revealed her tailbone was intact. The doctor explained that she must've compressed or pinched a nerve when she fell and that while she'd be sore for a bit, she was going to be fine.
- - -
I'm beyond relieved that Mad Dog is okay. It's cliche, but oh so true that your life can change in an instant. Life's short and we need to value every second we get to spend with the ones we love.
You just never know when you'll get that call.
And if I've learned anything else from Mad Dog, my precious, first-born daughter, it's that life is also too short to wear cheap jewelery.
It was clear that the cheap, trinkety necklace was to blame so she took it off and after a few treatments with hydrocortisone, the rash disappeared.
When she asked why the necklace gave her a rash, I said it was because it was cheap, costume jewelery and it irritated her sensitive skin.
So, for the past four years, Mad Dog has avoided wearing coin-dispensed jewelery and the rash has yet to return.
- - -
Fast forward to The Worst Day of My Life EVER...
- - -
One day last December, I was out doing some last-minute holiday shopping while the kids were at school when my cell phone rang. It was the elementary school office.
"Your daughter fell during recess and she can't move her legs. We've called 9-1-1 and the ambulance is on its way."
My heart stopped and my mind raced. Was she paralyzed? Was she conscious? Was she crying for me?
Over the receiver, I could hear the school secretary talking by walkie-talkie to the nurse who was out on the playground with Mad Dog. I could hear the nurse comforting her, telling her that help was on the way.
I began to sob.
The secretary shared what she knew: Mad Dog had fallen off a huge mound of snow and landed on her tailbone. She was conscious and coherent, but didn't have any feeling in her legs. The nurse, who volunteers for our local rescue squad, was with her and was telling her what to expect during the ambulance ride.
She advised me the paramedics were en route (I could hear the siren over the phone) and that I should head straight to the hospital to meet them.
I don't remember much of my drive to the hospital other than repeating, "Please, God," over and over. I beat the ambulance there and was waiting when they wheeled Mad Dog into the ER on a backboard, wearing a neck brace.
Nothing can prepare a mother for a sight like that.
I was pleased to see that Mad Dog was calm. It was only when she saw me that she began to cry. I held her hand as the ER doctors got her vitals from the paramedics. I heard them say that during transport she began moving her toes.
A good sign.
They began asking Mad Dog questions. "What happened? Does anything hurt? Are you taking any medications?"
Then they asked about allergies.
"Are you allergic to anything?" asked a nurse.
"Cheap jewelery," Mad Dog said.
The ER staff paused a second and exchanged curious glances.
"What did you say?" asked the nurse.
"Cheap jewelery," Mad Dog repeated. "You know, bracelets and necklaces. The cheap stuff gives me a rash."
Everyone looked at me. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I quickly told them about the rash from the coin-machine necklace incident so many years earlier. The nurse looked to Mad Dog.
"Me too, honey," she said. "Only accept the good stuff."
Laughter erupted in ER exam room #7.
Within the hour, Mad Dog regained feeling in her legs. An x-ray revealed her tailbone was intact. The doctor explained that she must've compressed or pinched a nerve when she fell and that while she'd be sore for a bit, she was going to be fine.
- - -
I'm beyond relieved that Mad Dog is okay. It's cliche, but oh so true that your life can change in an instant. Life's short and we need to value every second we get to spend with the ones we love.
You just never know when you'll get that call.
And if I've learned anything else from Mad Dog, my precious, first-born daughter, it's that life is also too short to wear cheap jewelery.
This Just In...
A few weeks ago as we were getting ready for school, Crowbar asked if he could wear a suit.
Seeing as this was an odd fashion choice for a five-year old, I asked why he wanted to get so dressed up.
"It's my turn to do the weather," he said. "During Circle Time, a kid gets to give the weather report and it's my turn."
Wanting to dress like the weathermen on TV, Crowbar asked if we had a suit and tie he could wear. Thankfully, I had some hand-me downs that'd do just the trick.
The result was a three-day span where Crowbar was the epitome of high fashion. The first day was his actual weather report day. The second and third... he just wanted to look good.
Seeing as this was an odd fashion choice for a five-year old, I asked why he wanted to get so dressed up.
"It's my turn to do the weather," he said. "During Circle Time, a kid gets to give the weather report and it's my turn."
Wanting to dress like the weathermen on TV, Crowbar asked if we had a suit and tie he could wear. Thankfully, I had some hand-me downs that'd do just the trick.
The result was a three-day span where Crowbar was the epitome of high fashion. The first day was his actual weather report day. The second and third... he just wanted to look good.
Day 1: Lookin' good in that sport coat. 
Day 2: Reviewing his notes before heading out for the day.
(We're in the midst of a kitchen remodel, hence the crazy cabinets and mismatched drawer fronts.)
Day 3: Stay classy! When Crowbar came home the first day, I asked what his teacher thought of his fancy duds. He said:
"My teacher didn't say anything, but the lunch ladies all said I looked great!"
Rainy Saturday
Having an ever-growing herd of kids makes it tough to have some good one-on-one time with each of them. But Mad Dog and I snuck away early one Saturday morning to explore the farm stand and find the best doughnuts in town.
Here's our journey:
Mission accomplished.
Here's our journey:
Mission accomplished.
Luke...use The Force to bring back Barbie.
When I was little, I was totally a Barbie girl. And it broke my heart a teeny, tiny bit when my own daughters initially expressed little-to-no interest in the dolls.
They'd play house until the cows came home, but wouldn't touch the pink beauties I'd purchased for them -- including the Barbie Townhouse, something I would've JUST DIED FOR, but never had when I was a kid. So for years, Barbie and her modest wardrobe sat, ignored in the back of their closet.
This past spring, when my parents did some major cleaning, my mom found and gave me a box of my old Barbies. Combing through the countless outfits and accessories, felt like Christmas morning.
Thirty years earlier, I'd been the lucky recipient of several one-of-a-kind home-made Barbie clothes from a neighbor and had inherited my aunts' beloved dolls and outfits, some of which came from the original Barbie and her pal, Skipper. Everything had been lovingly played with and though the dresses were fairly worn, they were just as I'd remembered them.
As I oohed and aahhed over the box, my girls approached, intrigued. I pulled out several tiny outfits and tenderly dressed a few Barbies who'd been left naked. (Gasp!) I showed my girls how to fasten the tiny snaps -- their dolls' clothes all have velcro closures -- and told them of the many adventures I used to invent.
When we got home, Mad Dog and The Deuce took the box upstairs, dug their own Barbies out of the closet and began to play, combining their newer dolls and accessories with my old ones. They've barely stopped playing with them since.
Now when I enter their room, I take care to not step on tiny Barbie shoes. But I don't mind. Not a bit.
Back in the day, I never had a Ken doll and never cared to. He looked like a stiff, nerd with that black, plastic crew cut.
Instead, a Barbie-sized Luke Skywalker, all cute and tan, served as leading man to my Barbie. His wavy blonde hair and muscular build put pale, skinny Ken to shame.
I was the envy of the neighborhood for that Luke doll. My playmates wanted my Luke to take their Barbies to the prom, despite the fact he only had a white wrap top, beige tights and white boots to wear.
Guess what? Luke's still totally The Man.
I found him the other day hanging out outside the townhouse, still looking all blonde and cool, while the girls' Ken dolls are pathetically stuffed down in the bottom of their toy box.
Luke, 30 years later, still rocking those boots.
They'd play house until the cows came home, but wouldn't touch the pink beauties I'd purchased for them -- including the Barbie Townhouse, something I would've JUST DIED FOR, but never had when I was a kid. So for years, Barbie and her modest wardrobe sat, ignored in the back of their closet.
This past spring, when my parents did some major cleaning, my mom found and gave me a box of my old Barbies. Combing through the countless outfits and accessories, felt like Christmas morning.
Thirty years earlier, I'd been the lucky recipient of several one-of-a-kind home-made Barbie clothes from a neighbor and had inherited my aunts' beloved dolls and outfits, some of which came from the original Barbie and her pal, Skipper. Everything had been lovingly played with and though the dresses were fairly worn, they were just as I'd remembered them.
As I oohed and aahhed over the box, my girls approached, intrigued. I pulled out several tiny outfits and tenderly dressed a few Barbies who'd been left naked. (Gasp!) I showed my girls how to fasten the tiny snaps -- their dolls' clothes all have velcro closures -- and told them of the many adventures I used to invent.
When we got home, Mad Dog and The Deuce took the box upstairs, dug their own Barbies out of the closet and began to play, combining their newer dolls and accessories with my old ones. They've barely stopped playing with them since.
Now when I enter their room, I take care to not step on tiny Barbie shoes. But I don't mind. Not a bit.
Back in the day, I never had a Ken doll and never cared to. He looked like a stiff, nerd with that black, plastic crew cut.
Instead, a Barbie-sized Luke Skywalker, all cute and tan, served as leading man to my Barbie. His wavy blonde hair and muscular build put pale, skinny Ken to shame.
I was the envy of the neighborhood for that Luke doll. My playmates wanted my Luke to take their Barbies to the prom, despite the fact he only had a white wrap top, beige tights and white boots to wear.
Guess what? Luke's still totally The Man.
I found him the other day hanging out outside the townhouse, still looking all blonde and cool, while the girls' Ken dolls are pathetically stuffed down in the bottom of their toy box.
Luke, 30 years later, still rocking those boots. I'd say Luke's fared well all these years. He's helped spark a love affair between my girls and their Barbies -- one that makes me nostalgic and proud.
Week in Review: Back to School.
It's been a while since I've given a decent week in review. And this, being our first almost-full week of school, has been a busy one.
The new kindergartner, Crowbar, still loves going to the big-kid school. However, on Wednesday of this week, he asked if he could take a break and stay home. As much as we'd like to oblige so we could all take a break, we sent him off on the big yellow bus.
He still sits in the backseat with the 5th graders, by the way.
The twins, Mad Dog and The Deuce, newly minted fifth graders, are back in the groove and I can tell an increase in maturity this year from last. They don't groan at homework time and are able to get themselves dressed, cleaned up and breakfasted (or perhaps breakfed?) without much if any assistance.
Something new this year is that they're way more into their looks than before. Not as in an "I'm So Vain, I Really Wrote This Song About Me" way -- but more in a they actually prefer to leave the house with hair brushed and deodorant applied.
I'm doing my best to teach them good habits and to care (without overly caring) about their looks. This is tough for someone whose never considered herself a girlie girl. I never learned how to do a decent braid -- nor really cared to -- or spent my hard-earned money (made as a 15 year-old cashier at the local sub shop) at the mall. I had friends who worked at the Clinique counter so they could be closer to Deb (remember the pink shag carpet?) and get a discount on makeup.
Only my brothers were in the house during those preteen years. My sister was already off to college, so instead of adopting her great fashion habits, which at the time included blue mascara, I adopted a self-care philosophy that more resembled that of my ape-like brothers. (But that's a story for another time -- or perhaps therapy.)
Anyhow, back to my point. I'm trying to teach them proper skin care, hair care and...well... to just plain care about if they smell like longshoremen or not.
Then, there's the new back-to-school schedule...
Mark and I made a plan last year to offset our work hours so one of us could see the kids off on the bus in the morning and the other could intercept the crew after school. This was in effort to eliminate the before/after school care fees that were near $800 a month.
So Mark took the early shift (with the kids) and I take the late one. It's his job to get the troops up and off to school -- a job made easier once he applied some of what he learned in the Air Force. The kids line up when he calls out, "FRONT AND CENTER" and grab their backpacks and lunch boxes when he gives the "GEAR UP" command.
My late shift involves getting everyone an after-school snack, started on homework and making dinner. In truth, I love getting home early. I'm no longer fighting the clock to fit everything in at night -- especially since we can mostly finish eating by 6:30 p.m. (It used to be more like 7:30.)
The thing I'm having trouble with though is my 6:30 a.m. start time. It wasn't as bad last year when I could fuel up on several cups of coffee, but now, being 7 months pregnant, my caffeine intake is severely limited. I can have a small cup -- half a mug -- tops.
On top of it, I'm unsure how I'm going to manage this gawd-awful early shift after a sleepless night with a newborn, but we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it.
In the past, my weeks in review contained Mom's Tolerability Index, a graphic which measured the awfulness of the week in boxes of Franzia.
Seeing as I haven't enjoyed a box (or two) of vino in several months, I need a new unit of measure.
Pints of Moosetracks ice cream?
4-packs of chocolate pudding cups?
I've got to think about that one for a while.
The new kindergartner, Crowbar, still loves going to the big-kid school. However, on Wednesday of this week, he asked if he could take a break and stay home. As much as we'd like to oblige so we could all take a break, we sent him off on the big yellow bus.
He still sits in the backseat with the 5th graders, by the way.
The twins, Mad Dog and The Deuce, newly minted fifth graders, are back in the groove and I can tell an increase in maturity this year from last. They don't groan at homework time and are able to get themselves dressed, cleaned up and breakfasted (or perhaps breakfed?) without much if any assistance.
Something new this year is that they're way more into their looks than before. Not as in an "I'm So Vain, I Really Wrote This Song About Me" way -- but more in a they actually prefer to leave the house with hair brushed and deodorant applied.
I'm doing my best to teach them good habits and to care (without overly caring) about their looks. This is tough for someone whose never considered herself a girlie girl. I never learned how to do a decent braid -- nor really cared to -- or spent my hard-earned money (made as a 15 year-old cashier at the local sub shop) at the mall. I had friends who worked at the Clinique counter so they could be closer to Deb (remember the pink shag carpet?) and get a discount on makeup.
Only my brothers were in the house during those preteen years. My sister was already off to college, so instead of adopting her great fashion habits, which at the time included blue mascara, I adopted a self-care philosophy that more resembled that of my ape-like brothers. (But that's a story for another time -- or perhaps therapy.)
Anyhow, back to my point. I'm trying to teach them proper skin care, hair care and...well... to just plain care about if they smell like longshoremen or not.
Then, there's the new back-to-school schedule...
Mark and I made a plan last year to offset our work hours so one of us could see the kids off on the bus in the morning and the other could intercept the crew after school. This was in effort to eliminate the before/after school care fees that were near $800 a month.
So Mark took the early shift (with the kids) and I take the late one. It's his job to get the troops up and off to school -- a job made easier once he applied some of what he learned in the Air Force. The kids line up when he calls out, "FRONT AND CENTER" and grab their backpacks and lunch boxes when he gives the "GEAR UP" command.
My late shift involves getting everyone an after-school snack, started on homework and making dinner. In truth, I love getting home early. I'm no longer fighting the clock to fit everything in at night -- especially since we can mostly finish eating by 6:30 p.m. (It used to be more like 7:30.)
The thing I'm having trouble with though is my 6:30 a.m. start time. It wasn't as bad last year when I could fuel up on several cups of coffee, but now, being 7 months pregnant, my caffeine intake is severely limited. I can have a small cup -- half a mug -- tops.
On top of it, I'm unsure how I'm going to manage this gawd-awful early shift after a sleepless night with a newborn, but we'll just cross that bridge when we come to it.
In the past, my weeks in review contained Mom's Tolerability Index, a graphic which measured the awfulness of the week in boxes of Franzia.
Seeing as I haven't enjoyed a box (or two) of vino in several months, I need a new unit of measure.
Pints of Moosetracks ice cream?
4-packs of chocolate pudding cups?
I've got to think about that one for a while.
Kindergarten: Big leagues or bush league?
He was like a high school senior on the last day of school. As Crowbar neared the end of his time at day care, he grew more and more surly and agitated, antsy to leave baby stuff behind and embark on the brave, new big-kid world of kindergarten.
During those last weeks, each day when asked how his day went, Crowbar would respond with a litany of complaints:
My teacher yells too much.
Those kids are babies.
All the toys there are lame.
It was clear that as one of the older kids in the center, he’d simply outgrown the place. He wasn’t being challenged. And while I wasn’t thrilled about sending him to go hang with 'those babies' anymore, I knew that last week in particular would ultimately make his transition to kindergarten easier.
The kid was beyond ready.
The morning of his first day, he woke early and rushed to get ready. He slowed a little to take extra time to comb his hair just so and then he dutifully placed the laminated nametag he’d been given at open house around his neck, taking care to make sure his name was in clear view.
He was in the big leagues now.
During those last weeks, each day when asked how his day went, Crowbar would respond with a litany of complaints:
My teacher yells too much.
Those kids are babies.
All the toys there are lame.
It was clear that as one of the older kids in the center, he’d simply outgrown the place. He wasn’t being challenged. And while I wasn’t thrilled about sending him to go hang with 'those babies' anymore, I knew that last week in particular would ultimately make his transition to kindergarten easier.
The kid was beyond ready.
The morning of his first day, he woke early and rushed to get ready. He slowed a little to take extra time to comb his hair just so and then he dutifully placed the laminated nametag he’d been given at open house around his neck, taking care to make sure his name was in clear view.
He was in the big leagues now.
He bounded onto the bus, barely touching the ground, and proceeded immediately, confidently to the back where the big kids sat.
He didn't mess around with the small kids in the front. He was a big kid now.
It was about noon when I got the call from the health room. The lady on the other end called to discuss an "incident" at lunch. An incident where my boy -- my big boy -- was bitten by another kid.
"Someone bit him?" I asked, surprised. Crowbar hadn't been bitten since he was three -- and that was from a fussy two year-old at day care.
The bite didn't break the skin, but the nurse informed me he had a pretty good series of welts -- a perfect outline of a full set of teeth, tops and bottoms, on his upper arm.
Then she assured me that Crowbar handled the incident well. No tears, no fighting, no raging accusations. He'd simply grabbed his injured arm, turned to the lunchroom lady and said,
"That kid just bit me."
Apparently, he'd said it in an incredulous way, with shocked disbelief.
This is kindergarten?! He must've thought. Biting in kindergarten? Are you freaking kidding me? I left that crummy day care for this?
The nurse added that despite his trip to the health room -- a trip where loads of extra attention and special treatment are standard -- he'd refused medical attention. He'd waived off her efforts to inspect his injury and declined the ice pack she'd offered.
Crowbar doesn't like a fuss. He wanted to get back to class and on with business.
Luckily, the incident didn't diminish the thrill and excitement of his first day. He skipped off the bus and directly into my arms, talking nonstop about how great his day had been. It wasn't until later that night that he remembered to tell me what had happened -- and when he did, he was very matter of fact.
He is, after all, a big kid. There's no need to make a fuss. Fussing is for babies.
Overheard late Saturday PM -- A random post that turned into a shameless plea for a book deal.
C'mon guys. You know how Mom feels about farting in peoples' faces.
- - -
Yes, this is true. I do have a distinct No Farting in Peoples' Faces Rule in this house. And I've had to, on more than one occasion, make my distaste for this unpleasant act known.
There also are rules against Burp Blowing and Stuffing Faces into Stinky Armpits -- an edict I had to quickly draft Friday night while getting the kids off to bed.
The reason these are hard rules and not simply house guidelines stems back to my childhood. As a young girl with three brothers, I was frequently subjected to forced smelling of their various body parts/functions -- not to mention countless forehead thwaps, sternum thumps, noogies and pink bellies.
(Also, I was awakened more than once via Chinese Water Torture, my bed surrounded by two-thirds of the WHS varsity football team. As an adult, I find this scenario mildly arousing, but as an insecure 14 year-old with crushes on half the guys, it was less than thrilling.)
So, my rules are intended to protect the innocent, weaker children of the household -- rules I wish were in place for me, between the ages of 5 and 17.
Having two girls and one boy, I thought The Gross inflicted among this pack of siblings would be significantly less than in a house where testosterone tips the scales of sibling justice. I was wrong. First-born girl sibs are just as quick to flex their disgustingness to prove their superiority to the younguns. Guaranteed.
So it's my duty to protect little Crowbar from his sisters and enforce these rules to the best of my ability -- and to impose swift and creative justice when these rules are broken.
I believe in delivering consequences that teach something, while delivering me from unpleasant chores, so here's the penalty scale for infractions:
- Farting in Peoples' Faces: Scrub the all the toilets in the house -- they're woefully overdue for a cleaning.
- Burp Blowing: Clear the moldy leftovers out of the fridge -- this includes opening the Tupperware containers I'm afraid of.
- Stuffing Faces into Stinky Armpits: Rummage through the dirty laundry and turn out all the balled-up stinky sweat socks.
Again, all this will soon be found in the best-selling parent handbook I intend to write -- The Apathetic Parent. I just need a hefty advance so I can go on sabbatical and pen the damn thing.
Note to prospective book publishers: I can be reached via the About Me section of this blog. This book will be a mega-hit. I promise. Quirky. Cutting edge. Revolutionary. Hire me. You won't be sorry.
Overheard
Believe it or not, I teach Sunday School at my church. Last year was my first year and I taught the first and second graders, which I enjoyed tremendously. My kids were in different classes down the hall.
This year, I've been asked to switch it up and teach the older kids -- a class of fifth and sixth graders.
Mad Dog and The Deuce are fifth graders. And this all led to this interesting exchange:
Scene opens: Mad Dog and I are sitting side by side, each eating a bowl of cold cereal.
"Hey, guess what? I'm going to be your Sunday School teacher next year. Cool huh?"
"You'll be my teacher?"
"Yep, the Director of Christian Education asked me to last night. Isn't that great?"
"It's freaky, Mom."
"Does 'freaky' mean 'awesome?'"
"Yeah, let's say, 'awesome.'"
And... end scene.
This year, I've been asked to switch it up and teach the older kids -- a class of fifth and sixth graders.
Mad Dog and The Deuce are fifth graders. And this all led to this interesting exchange:
Scene opens: Mad Dog and I are sitting side by side, each eating a bowl of cold cereal.
"Hey, guess what? I'm going to be your Sunday School teacher next year. Cool huh?"
"You'll be my teacher?"
"Yep, the Director of Christian Education asked me to last night. Isn't that great?"
"It's freaky, Mom."
"Does 'freaky' mean 'awesome?'"
"Yeah, let's say, 'awesome.'"
And... end scene.
You and Dad? Married? Now that's screwed up.
The twins were five years old when I got divorced.
I remember holding up a hand and, pointing to my five fingers, explained that no matter where Dad lived, the five of us would always be a family (belonging to the same hand). I checked out and read countless library books to help them understand what was happening. We shared many long conversations about how Dad and I wanted to just be friends instead of husband and wife.
In short, we talked about it a lot. And while it was tough on them, I made sure they knew they were well-informed, loved and safe.
Crowbar was just a baby at the time. While present, he wasn't exactly an active participant in these discussions. He was 5 months old and had no concept of what was happening to our family or why.
When he'd wake me in the middle of the night, I'd hold him alone, rocking him, crying and apologizing for what was happening to our family and how his life would change. But he was far too young to understand me.
- - -
Fast forward five years, to much happier times...
- - -
The other day, I was alone with the kids, driving in the van. The twins began talking about a house we used to live in before the divorce, back when Dad and I were married.
Crowbar nearly jumped out of his seat.
"You and Dad were married?!" he asked, incredulously. "Married. To Dad. Married?"
He spit out the words with shock, surprise, and a hint of disgust. He just couldn't place the two of us together.
"Dad with Gus (Dad's dog). And you... married?" He'd never heard of anything so absurd.
It was at that moment I realized I never really explained why our living arrangement was the way it was. I never had That Talk with him, to help him understand why his dad didn't live with us
His life is the way it is, because it just is.
Crowbar knows he's got a Mom, a Dad and a Mark and that never once seemed weird or the least bit abnormal to him.
It just shows we've come a long way in our society. Non-traditional families aren't freakish or unusual. They're not even remotely dysfunctional. They just are.
Divorce is never a happy event. The collapse of a marriage shouldn't be taken lightly -- especially when kids are involved. But this recent event goes to show that divorce in and of itself doesn't screw up kids.
Parents who handle divorce poorly screw up kids.
Our post-divorce family life isn't sad or tragic. It's filled with happiness, love and laughter -- lots of laughter -- both at our house and over at Dad's place.
The kids aren't moping around here, wishing or scheming to get their parents back together, a la The Parent Trap. They're good with how things are. And so am I.
Co-parenting with an ex isn't always easy, but it doesn't have to be hard. Or messy. And I think Crowbar's reaction to envisioning his parents together is proof that we're handling things well.
Possibly a little too well.
I remember holding up a hand and, pointing to my five fingers, explained that no matter where Dad lived, the five of us would always be a family (belonging to the same hand). I checked out and read countless library books to help them understand what was happening. We shared many long conversations about how Dad and I wanted to just be friends instead of husband and wife.
In short, we talked about it a lot. And while it was tough on them, I made sure they knew they were well-informed, loved and safe.
Crowbar was just a baby at the time. While present, he wasn't exactly an active participant in these discussions. He was 5 months old and had no concept of what was happening to our family or why.
When he'd wake me in the middle of the night, I'd hold him alone, rocking him, crying and apologizing for what was happening to our family and how his life would change. But he was far too young to understand me.
- - -
Fast forward five years, to much happier times...
- - -
The other day, I was alone with the kids, driving in the van. The twins began talking about a house we used to live in before the divorce, back when Dad and I were married.
Crowbar nearly jumped out of his seat.
"You and Dad were married?!" he asked, incredulously. "Married. To Dad. Married?"
He spit out the words with shock, surprise, and a hint of disgust. He just couldn't place the two of us together.
"Dad with Gus (Dad's dog). And you... married?" He'd never heard of anything so absurd.
It was at that moment I realized I never really explained why our living arrangement was the way it was. I never had That Talk with him, to help him understand why his dad didn't live with us
His life is the way it is, because it just is.
Crowbar knows he's got a Mom, a Dad and a Mark and that never once seemed weird or the least bit abnormal to him.
It just shows we've come a long way in our society. Non-traditional families aren't freakish or unusual. They're not even remotely dysfunctional. They just are.
Divorce is never a happy event. The collapse of a marriage shouldn't be taken lightly -- especially when kids are involved. But this recent event goes to show that divorce in and of itself doesn't screw up kids.
Parents who handle divorce poorly screw up kids.
Our post-divorce family life isn't sad or tragic. It's filled with happiness, love and laughter -- lots of laughter -- both at our house and over at Dad's place.
The kids aren't moping around here, wishing or scheming to get their parents back together, a la The Parent Trap. They're good with how things are. And so am I.
Co-parenting with an ex isn't always easy, but it doesn't have to be hard. Or messy. And I think Crowbar's reaction to envisioning his parents together is proof that we're handling things well.
Possibly a little too well.
An offer I couldn't refuse.
My kids can get an awful case of The Gimmies.
It started when they were pretty little -- when they were first learning to talk. We'd pass a McDonald's with a play land and I'd hear little voices (twins, remember?) from the back, asking, "Dah-nods?"
The Gimmes seem to ebb and flow in terms of frequency and intensity. Naturally, they ratchet it up near the holidays when the As Seen On TV Gimmies kick in, but for some reason, this summer has been particularly bad. The Gimmies appear on quick trips to the grocery or drug store -- and even at our local thrift store -- a store which, according to Crowbar, totally freaks him out.
Mark's and my response to The Gimmies is taken right out of The Apathetic Parent's Handbook, a book we intend to write someday. We meet The Gimmies with our own, using a "tough luck, kid" tone.
"You want that toy? I want my own talk show."
Generally, the kids get the idea, sighing and moving on through the aisle.
We all want things. But that doesn't mean we get them, right?
So yesterday, while driving the crew to day camp, The Gimmies began to creep into conversation.
"What's for dinner tonight?" asks The Deuce.
"Lasagna."
"Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's go to..." (insert name of our local overpriced, crappy pizza joint where unlimited play bracelets cost as much as a Smartcar).
When I deny the request, whining starts. Complaints that we never go there begin and then escalate into charges that we never do anything fun. (Funny how amnesia sets in so quickly, cancelling all recollection of last weekend's trip to the movies, family bike ride and friend's pool party.) For some reason, the girls were on a roll. They bitched and moaned all the way to camp, while Crowbar sat, suspiciously quiet.
We pulled into the camp parking lot and as I pushed the button to open the van's automatic sliding door, I commanded them to, "GET OUT!" only half-joking.
The girls reluctantly let me kiss them goodbye and then sulked their way inside.
Before hopping out, Crowbar addressed me in a quiet, almost thoughtful voice.
"I'd like to go to the zoo. We haven't been there in a long time. Can you take me to the zoo, please?"
His face was sweet and there wasn't the usual ugly tone associated with The Gimmies. And he wasn't playing me either. He was, quite simply, a sweet-faced 5 year-old who would like to be taken to the zoo.
I patted his head. My cold heart, hardened from the exchange with the girls, warmed momentarily and told him I'd see what we could do.
He hopped out and skipped up the walk to the building.
He was right. It's been quite a while since our last zoo trip. Despite having season passes, we've filled our weekends with home projects, dedicating the bulk of our precious free time to back-breaking labor, instead of play days.
And upon discussing it, we realized that we needed the play days even more than the kids, especially with Sweet Pea* on the way.
And so, over lunch, we planned and scheduled some play time this summer. A trip up north to Grandma's, two days at the water park and, of course, a trip to the zoo.
Now comes the challenge of convincing the girls that The Gimmies didn't get them these play days, but instead, a sweet, well-thought request, without the slightest hint of whining.
- - -
*We've learned that the baby we're expecting this fall is a little girl. Since near-inception, we've been calling the baby "Wingnut," but upon learning she's a girl, felt the need to soften it a little. So, Sweet Pea it is. For now. We'll see if a new pseudonym surfaces as she grows and reveals her personality to us.
It started when they were pretty little -- when they were first learning to talk. We'd pass a McDonald's with a play land and I'd hear little voices (twins, remember?) from the back, asking, "Dah-nods?"
The Gimmes seem to ebb and flow in terms of frequency and intensity. Naturally, they ratchet it up near the holidays when the As Seen On TV Gimmies kick in, but for some reason, this summer has been particularly bad. The Gimmies appear on quick trips to the grocery or drug store -- and even at our local thrift store -- a store which, according to Crowbar, totally freaks him out.
Mark's and my response to The Gimmies is taken right out of The Apathetic Parent's Handbook, a book we intend to write someday. We meet The Gimmies with our own, using a "tough luck, kid" tone.
"You want that toy? I want my own talk show."
Generally, the kids get the idea, sighing and moving on through the aisle.
We all want things. But that doesn't mean we get them, right?
So yesterday, while driving the crew to day camp, The Gimmies began to creep into conversation.
"What's for dinner tonight?" asks The Deuce.
"Lasagna."
"Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's go to..." (insert name of our local overpriced, crappy pizza joint where unlimited play bracelets cost as much as a Smartcar).
When I deny the request, whining starts. Complaints that we never go there begin and then escalate into charges that we never do anything fun. (Funny how amnesia sets in so quickly, cancelling all recollection of last weekend's trip to the movies, family bike ride and friend's pool party.) For some reason, the girls were on a roll. They bitched and moaned all the way to camp, while Crowbar sat, suspiciously quiet.
We pulled into the camp parking lot and as I pushed the button to open the van's automatic sliding door, I commanded them to, "GET OUT!" only half-joking.
The girls reluctantly let me kiss them goodbye and then sulked their way inside.
Before hopping out, Crowbar addressed me in a quiet, almost thoughtful voice.
"I'd like to go to the zoo. We haven't been there in a long time. Can you take me to the zoo, please?"
His face was sweet and there wasn't the usual ugly tone associated with The Gimmies. And he wasn't playing me either. He was, quite simply, a sweet-faced 5 year-old who would like to be taken to the zoo.
I patted his head. My cold heart, hardened from the exchange with the girls, warmed momentarily and told him I'd see what we could do.
He hopped out and skipped up the walk to the building.
He was right. It's been quite a while since our last zoo trip. Despite having season passes, we've filled our weekends with home projects, dedicating the bulk of our precious free time to back-breaking labor, instead of play days.
And upon discussing it, we realized that we needed the play days even more than the kids, especially with Sweet Pea* on the way.
And so, over lunch, we planned and scheduled some play time this summer. A trip up north to Grandma's, two days at the water park and, of course, a trip to the zoo.
Now comes the challenge of convincing the girls that The Gimmies didn't get them these play days, but instead, a sweet, well-thought request, without the slightest hint of whining.
- - -
*We've learned that the baby we're expecting this fall is a little girl. Since near-inception, we've been calling the baby "Wingnut," but upon learning she's a girl, felt the need to soften it a little. So, Sweet Pea it is. For now. We'll see if a new pseudonym surfaces as she grows and reveals her personality to us.
Los Mojitos strike again
We're full swing into pee-wee baseball season and Los Mojitos have shown some signs of improvement.
For starters, our short stop's sand castles are looking way more realistic than at the beginning of the season. The detail work on the turrets are really something, given the fact he's only got a few seconds between batters to sculpt them.
Also, our right fielder only has to leave the field to run to the bathroom once or twice a game now. He's really building some strength in that teeny tiny little bladder of his. Way to go!
Then there's our star batter. He's figured out how to fill his batter's helmet with sand and dump it on an unsuspecting teammate's head without any of the three coaches seeing. He's a stealthy little guy.
And then there's Crowbar. His sand angels on the third base line are just beautiful. Nice wide wing span, beautiful arc where his heels dig into the ground. It's really a sight to behold.
Yes sir. We're in prime shape now. Bring on the playoffs!
Los Mojitos' crack lineup: first baseman, right fielder and
For starters, our short stop's sand castles are looking way more realistic than at the beginning of the season. The detail work on the turrets are really something, given the fact he's only got a few seconds between batters to sculpt them.
Also, our right fielder only has to leave the field to run to the bathroom once or twice a game now. He's really building some strength in that teeny tiny little bladder of his. Way to go!
Then there's our star batter. He's figured out how to fill his batter's helmet with sand and dump it on an unsuspecting teammate's head without any of the three coaches seeing. He's a stealthy little guy.
And then there's Crowbar. His sand angels on the third base line are just beautiful. Nice wide wing span, beautiful arc where his heels dig into the ground. It's really a sight to behold.
Yes sir. We're in prime shape now. Bring on the playoffs!
Los Mojitos' crack lineup: first baseman, right fielder and right center fielder (Crowbar) eagerly anticipate the next big hitter.
Commando camping
Last weekend we took our first family camping trip.
I'm not really much of a camper. I went a few times as a kid and have a few vague memories from it -- like listening to my dad curse as he tried to assemble the tent in the dark and eating lukewarm Dinty Moore Stew straight from the can for breakfast.
I know we had fun, but I don't think my parents dug it all that much. (Though, crazy, as is sounds, I LOVE Dinty Moore Stew because of that one trip.)
Mark, on the other hand, practically grew up on a campground. His parents were serious campers, first starting out with a tent, then moving on to a pop-up camper and eventually renting a seasonal lot where they spent nearly every weekend for a good 20 years. A former Boy Scout, Mark knows his way around a campfire.
So on our third date, when he suggested we take the kids camping sometime, I casually blew him off, thinking that neither me or the kids (total TV and video game fanatics) would be all that into it. I had visions of three hot and sweaty kids, sitting glumly at a picnic table, whining about how bored they were. I changed the subject and he didn't try to change it back.
Not right away, anyway.
Every now and again over the next few years, Mark would bring it up, suggesting we visit his favorite campground, only two hours away. Unfortunately, for two summers in a row, our weekends quickly filled up and we weren't able to find any free time to get away for a long weekend.
Until now.
This spring, as we planned out our vacation time for the year, Mark brought it up, pointing out how the kids are the perfect age to go fishing and roast s'mores. He laid out a whole cost analysis, showing me how after our initial investment in camping gear, we could take a weekend camping trip for under $90.
Appealing to my inner cheapskate, I agreed.
The initial investment proved greater than either of us had imagined. As the clerk totaled our ginormous bill at Gander Mountain, we looked at each other in a slight panic.
Mark whispered in my ear, "The first kid who complains of being bored is getting a backhand."
I agreed and added, "We are now officially Camping People. We will camp all of the time. We can't afford to be anything else."
So last weekend, we got our gear together and hit the road for Mark's favorite campground. I primed the kids by painting a compelling picture of getting back to nature.
No electricity?
No problem. We'll live off the land!
The kids, still somewhat skeptical, humored me and feigned excitement.
Turns out getting back to nature was easier than I thought. The kids never once complained about missed TV shows, or the Nintendo DS games purposefully left at home. They were eager to fish and play near the lake.
And, realizing I'd accidentally forgotten to pack Crowbar's swim suit, he eagerly went commando, wearing a pair of lightweight shorts to the swimming hole. He started walking around without a shirt -- something he's never done at home.
And at that moment, something changed in the boy. It was as if the 5 year old from the suburbs transformed into a Wild Thing, eager to fish, catch turtles and poke bugs with sticks.
He even danced around the fire, summoning the flames to lick our marshmallows.
I'm not really much of a camper. I went a few times as a kid and have a few vague memories from it -- like listening to my dad curse as he tried to assemble the tent in the dark and eating lukewarm Dinty Moore Stew straight from the can for breakfast.
I know we had fun, but I don't think my parents dug it all that much. (Though, crazy, as is sounds, I LOVE Dinty Moore Stew because of that one trip.)
Mark, on the other hand, practically grew up on a campground. His parents were serious campers, first starting out with a tent, then moving on to a pop-up camper and eventually renting a seasonal lot where they spent nearly every weekend for a good 20 years. A former Boy Scout, Mark knows his way around a campfire.
So on our third date, when he suggested we take the kids camping sometime, I casually blew him off, thinking that neither me or the kids (total TV and video game fanatics) would be all that into it. I had visions of three hot and sweaty kids, sitting glumly at a picnic table, whining about how bored they were. I changed the subject and he didn't try to change it back.
Not right away, anyway.
Every now and again over the next few years, Mark would bring it up, suggesting we visit his favorite campground, only two hours away. Unfortunately, for two summers in a row, our weekends quickly filled up and we weren't able to find any free time to get away for a long weekend.
Until now.
This spring, as we planned out our vacation time for the year, Mark brought it up, pointing out how the kids are the perfect age to go fishing and roast s'mores. He laid out a whole cost analysis, showing me how after our initial investment in camping gear, we could take a weekend camping trip for under $90.
Appealing to my inner cheapskate, I agreed.
The initial investment proved greater than either of us had imagined. As the clerk totaled our ginormous bill at Gander Mountain, we looked at each other in a slight panic.
Mark whispered in my ear, "The first kid who complains of being bored is getting a backhand."
I agreed and added, "We are now officially Camping People. We will camp all of the time. We can't afford to be anything else."
So last weekend, we got our gear together and hit the road for Mark's favorite campground. I primed the kids by painting a compelling picture of getting back to nature.
No electricity?
No problem. We'll live off the land!
The kids, still somewhat skeptical, humored me and feigned excitement.
Turns out getting back to nature was easier than I thought. The kids never once complained about missed TV shows, or the Nintendo DS games purposefully left at home. They were eager to fish and play near the lake.
And, realizing I'd accidentally forgotten to pack Crowbar's swim suit, he eagerly went commando, wearing a pair of lightweight shorts to the swimming hole. He started walking around without a shirt -- something he's never done at home.
And at that moment, something changed in the boy. It was as if the 5 year old from the suburbs transformed into a Wild Thing, eager to fish, catch turtles and poke bugs with sticks.
He even danced around the fire, summoning the flames to lick our marshmallows.
Crowbar: Nature Boy. Who knew?
At the end of the trip, the kids actually complained and whined when it was time to go home. The Deuce suggested we stay for a whole week next time. And as we pulled out of the campground, they waived good-bye to the playground, lake and swimming hole.
The whole weekend was pleasantly surprising. I found my inner campfire cook and the kids embraced the simple life for a whole weekend. One of my favorite parts was settling down in our sleeping bags to warm up and nap on one particularly chilly afternoon. I can't remember the last time I had all my babies around me, laying quietly and whispering softly.
It was bliss.
And thank goodness for it too. We're Camping People now.
Side note: While we were gone, the dogs were kenneled at a nearby pet spa. Even with the best rates in town, it cost more to board them than it did to reserve our campsite for two days.
20 questions about the baby
I hate it when people who were otherwise interesting to talk to, get pregnant and then can find nothing else to talk about other than their pregnancy. Sure, it's an exciting time, but c'mon, you're not the first person on earth to have a baby.
These are the same people who, after the baby is born, go on an on about how you've just GOT TO come see it when, truth be told, it's a pretty boring visit.
Honestly, babies aren't remotely interesting until they hit about 3 months old, so visiting a brand new one is kind of a let down.
For one, they're kind of ugly -- often discolored and squished up -- and two, they don't do anything. They just lay there in a blob. So, you find yourself making baby small talk with sleep-deprived parents, asking questions about poop and whether breast really is best.
So, to spare you 20 different posts about my pregnancy, I'm cramming the facts into one for those of you who are interested, making it easy for those of you who are not, to just skip reading this one all together.
Here goes nothing:
When are you due? Nov. 29 - the week after Thanksgiving. (It looks like I've gotten out of hosting this year!)
Boy or girl? We don't know yet. And yes, we're dying to find out. Our first ultrasound was too early to tell. We get another one in a few months and will hopefully find out the sex.
Which do you want, boy or girl? Obviously any healthy baby would be great, but to be honest, I'm pulling for a boy to even things out around here. The twins (girls) don't always want their little brother hanging around. It'd be great to give little Crowbar a playmate. Plus, I'm sure Mark would like a little less estrogen running around here too.
Were you guys trying to get pregnant? We talked about it, but weren't actively trying. We wanted to wait so the baby would be born early next year. It's scary-easy for me to get pregnant, which runs in my family. My Great Grandma Hazel used to say, "It wasn't hard for me to get pregnant. All Harold had to do was toss his hat on the bed and I'd have another baby."
Are you freaked out by having four kids? Not really. Once you hit three, you've got a pack. Adding another kid or two isn't really a big deal. I grew up in a family of five kids. I'm used to noise and commotion. Plus, it's extremely chic to have a whole entourage of kids. Haven't you seen Brangelina lately? They're my idols. But I promise I won't turn all Duggar on you.
Having had three kids already, you must be all set with baby stuff, right? Wrong. After my divorce, I planned on closing the store permanently, if you know what I mean. I gave away or sold all of my baby stuff and even had a surgical consult to close up shop. So, I'm starting from square one, which is okay by me. This is a new baby with my new husband. New stuff is fine.
Okay, so that wasn't 20 questions, but I couldn't think of any more, so I'll just stop. (I'm bored already too.) If there's anything you're dying to know that I didn't cover, leave it in the comments.
These are the same people who, after the baby is born, go on an on about how you've just GOT TO come see it when, truth be told, it's a pretty boring visit.
Honestly, babies aren't remotely interesting until they hit about 3 months old, so visiting a brand new one is kind of a let down.
For one, they're kind of ugly -- often discolored and squished up -- and two, they don't do anything. They just lay there in a blob. So, you find yourself making baby small talk with sleep-deprived parents, asking questions about poop and whether breast really is best.
So, to spare you 20 different posts about my pregnancy, I'm cramming the facts into one for those of you who are interested, making it easy for those of you who are not, to just skip reading this one all together.
Here goes nothing:
When are you due? Nov. 29 - the week after Thanksgiving. (It looks like I've gotten out of hosting this year!)
Are you excited? Heck yeah!
How have you been feeling? Great. No morning sickness, no heartburn, no major symptoms. Just super tired early on, but that's gone away now.
Are the other kids excited? Yes. The girls, almost 10, are excited to baby sit and keep coming up to hug and kiss my belly. My boy, who just turned 5, can't wait to be a big brother, though, because of his poor grasp on the concept of time, keeps asking when the baby will be here.Boy or girl? We don't know yet. And yes, we're dying to find out. Our first ultrasound was too early to tell. We get another one in a few months and will hopefully find out the sex.
Which do you want, boy or girl? Obviously any healthy baby would be great, but to be honest, I'm pulling for a boy to even things out around here. The twins (girls) don't always want their little brother hanging around. It'd be great to give little Crowbar a playmate. Plus, I'm sure Mark would like a little less estrogen running around here too.
Were you guys trying to get pregnant? We talked about it, but weren't actively trying. We wanted to wait so the baby would be born early next year. It's scary-easy for me to get pregnant, which runs in my family. My Great Grandma Hazel used to say, "It wasn't hard for me to get pregnant. All Harold had to do was toss his hat on the bed and I'd have another baby."
Are you freaked out by having four kids? Not really. Once you hit three, you've got a pack. Adding another kid or two isn't really a big deal. I grew up in a family of five kids. I'm used to noise and commotion. Plus, it's extremely chic to have a whole entourage of kids. Haven't you seen Brangelina lately? They're my idols. But I promise I won't turn all Duggar on you.
Having had three kids already, you must be all set with baby stuff, right? Wrong. After my divorce, I planned on closing the store permanently, if you know what I mean. I gave away or sold all of my baby stuff and even had a surgical consult to close up shop. So, I'm starting from square one, which is okay by me. This is a new baby with my new husband. New stuff is fine.
Okay, so that wasn't 20 questions, but I couldn't think of any more, so I'll just stop. (I'm bored already too.) If there's anything you're dying to know that I didn't cover, leave it in the comments.
Destiny fulfilled.
I often marvel at how much The Deuce, a conscientious fourth grader, reminds me of me when I was her age.
Nearly every day, she says, does or tries to get away with something I would've when I was a kid. And this weekend, once again, she fulfilled my mother's warning that someday, I would have a kid who acts just like I did.
Deuce has a flair for the dramatics. She can whip up tears in seconds and deliver a heart-wrenching performance worthy of an Oscar with little-to-no effort. She'll find her cause (wanting to stay up late, go to a friend's, play her video games) and when faced with opposition, will launch into a tear-soaked commentary on the unfairness of life.
This past weekend she delivered one of her finest performances, sparked by my request for her to help me clean her room. (Notice I said HELP ME clean her room -- not do it herself?)
She launched into a gut-grabbing soliloquy where she listed numerous injustices I'd delivered, marked by a curious case of selective memory. Apparently, I love her siblings more than her, fail to let her come and go as she pleases (she's 9!) and, insult of insults, like spending time at work more than with her. (As if.)
Each of her claims were baseless -- and deep down she knew it. Still, I let her go on and on, ranting about her tragic life and how unfair I was because I'd asked her for some help with housework.
When she was beginning to wind down, I tried something new -- an ace I'd had up my sleeve that nobody knew about. A tactic in my Arsenal of Mom Moves that I'd never used before:
I channeled my mother and delivered one of The Best Bleeding Heart Martyr Speeches in the History of the World.
As a kid, my mom was the ultimate martyr. She could whip out guilt-inducing one-liners and comebacks that'd make your head spin. One minute, you'd be asking for $5 for the movies and the next thing you knew, she'd be making you feel awful for even asking because of how hard she worked and how ungrateful you were.
At the time, I thought it was annoying. Now, I see it was a defense mechanism -- my new defense mechanism.
So, when Deuce finally began to wind down, I let her have it, with both barrels.
"You know Deuce," I began. "I love you kids more than anything in the whole wide world and it breaks my heart to be accused that I don't."
I continued to explain that I work hard to provide all of her basic needs -- and more -- and explained how being a parent is a never-ending balancing act between a world of have to's and want to's.
And then I said it:
"I work hard for you kids and nobody appreciates it. Instead of hearing, "Thanks, Mom!" I hear how nothing I do for you is good enough."
Seeing that this was my first martyr speech, I couldn't muster up full-fledged tears, but I did manage to get a little misty during the delivery.
Deuce sat on the edge of her bed, her head hanging low. She conceded and began helping me pick up her room. When we were done, we hugged and told each other how much we love and appreciate each other.
I think my mom's warning 28 years ago came true in more ways than she expected.
Not only did I get a kid that acts like I did, but I turned into my own mother in the process. A curious double whammy, an odd passing of the torch.
Trying on the martyr suit felt different and I'm not sure if I'll wear it again soon, but it did give me the desired effect. It shut down Deuce's pity party and made her more aware of other peoples' feelings.
To date, I haven't told Deuce that I hope her kids act just like she does, but in time, I'm sure I will.
It's my destiny. And hers too.
Nearly every day, she says, does or tries to get away with something I would've when I was a kid. And this weekend, once again, she fulfilled my mother's warning that someday, I would have a kid who acts just like I did.
Deuce has a flair for the dramatics. She can whip up tears in seconds and deliver a heart-wrenching performance worthy of an Oscar with little-to-no effort. She'll find her cause (wanting to stay up late, go to a friend's, play her video games) and when faced with opposition, will launch into a tear-soaked commentary on the unfairness of life.
This past weekend she delivered one of her finest performances, sparked by my request for her to help me clean her room. (Notice I said HELP ME clean her room -- not do it herself?)
She launched into a gut-grabbing soliloquy where she listed numerous injustices I'd delivered, marked by a curious case of selective memory. Apparently, I love her siblings more than her, fail to let her come and go as she pleases (she's 9!) and, insult of insults, like spending time at work more than with her. (As if.)
Each of her claims were baseless -- and deep down she knew it. Still, I let her go on and on, ranting about her tragic life and how unfair I was because I'd asked her for some help with housework.
When she was beginning to wind down, I tried something new -- an ace I'd had up my sleeve that nobody knew about. A tactic in my Arsenal of Mom Moves that I'd never used before:
I channeled my mother and delivered one of The Best Bleeding Heart Martyr Speeches in the History of the World.
As a kid, my mom was the ultimate martyr. She could whip out guilt-inducing one-liners and comebacks that'd make your head spin. One minute, you'd be asking for $5 for the movies and the next thing you knew, she'd be making you feel awful for even asking because of how hard she worked and how ungrateful you were.
At the time, I thought it was annoying. Now, I see it was a defense mechanism -- my new defense mechanism.
So, when Deuce finally began to wind down, I let her have it, with both barrels.
"You know Deuce," I began. "I love you kids more than anything in the whole wide world and it breaks my heart to be accused that I don't."
I continued to explain that I work hard to provide all of her basic needs -- and more -- and explained how being a parent is a never-ending balancing act between a world of have to's and want to's.
And then I said it:
"I work hard for you kids and nobody appreciates it. Instead of hearing, "Thanks, Mom!" I hear how nothing I do for you is good enough."
Seeing that this was my first martyr speech, I couldn't muster up full-fledged tears, but I did manage to get a little misty during the delivery.
Deuce sat on the edge of her bed, her head hanging low. She conceded and began helping me pick up her room. When we were done, we hugged and told each other how much we love and appreciate each other.
I think my mom's warning 28 years ago came true in more ways than she expected.
Not only did I get a kid that acts like I did, but I turned into my own mother in the process. A curious double whammy, an odd passing of the torch.
Trying on the martyr suit felt different and I'm not sure if I'll wear it again soon, but it did give me the desired effect. It shut down Deuce's pity party and made her more aware of other peoples' feelings.
To date, I haven't told Deuce that I hope her kids act just like she does, but in time, I'm sure I will.
It's my destiny. And hers too.
Who are you? A cop?
The art of conversation is completely lost on my kids.
They don't understand that proper communication is an exchange of thoughts and experiences by one or more equally engaged parties.
Instead, I get 20 questions. No, make that 200 questions.
From the minute I pick Crowbar up from daycare it starts:
What's for dinner?
Where are the girls?
Can I sit in the front?
Can I watch TV when I get home?
Did you bring me a snack?
Can Freddy come over?
Can I play with my Bakugans tonight?
Can we go to the library now?
What's for dinner?
Is today Tuesday?
Do we have to stop at the store?
Can I watch a movie?
Why are we going this way?
What's for dinner?
Yeah, did you catch that? Dinner? THREE TIMES? Throughout the barrage of questions, he doesn't even register my answers.
The girls are no better. I think they ask questions just to ask questions. And they for things way far out in the future. It goes beyond asking what's for dinner while they're eating breakfast. They'll ask if they can play video games next week, Thursday.
I don't know exactly how or when this all started. I don't mind being asked questions or permission to do things. In fact, in many cases, I prefer it. I like that they ask permission to play video games and before raiding the pantry.
But this relentless barrage is getting to be too much. I've gotten to the point where, if they repeat a question I've already answered (which is, like, ALL THE TIME) I tell them that I've already answered that one and to find the answer from someone who was listening.
I think tonight I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to hit those kids with a few questions of my own as soon as I see them.
How was school?
Do you have homework?
What did you play at recess?
Did you eat your lunch?
All of it?
What did you eat?
Is your teacher nice?
Did you have a good day?
What did you eat for lunch?
Who are the kids in your reading group?
What did you learn about today?
Is your seat belt buckled?
Do have all your things?
Did you play outside today?
What did they give you for snack?
Who were you playing with just now?
What did you eat for lunch?
We'll see if turning the tables has any effect. But if this is what my kids think conversation is, I seriously doubt it.
They don't understand that proper communication is an exchange of thoughts and experiences by one or more equally engaged parties.
Instead, I get 20 questions. No, make that 200 questions.
From the minute I pick Crowbar up from daycare it starts:
What's for dinner?
Where are the girls?
Can I sit in the front?
Can I watch TV when I get home?
Did you bring me a snack?
Can Freddy come over?
Can I play with my Bakugans tonight?
Can we go to the library now?
What's for dinner?
Is today Tuesday?
Do we have to stop at the store?
Can I watch a movie?
Why are we going this way?
What's for dinner?
Yeah, did you catch that? Dinner? THREE TIMES? Throughout the barrage of questions, he doesn't even register my answers.
The girls are no better. I think they ask questions just to ask questions. And they for things way far out in the future. It goes beyond asking what's for dinner while they're eating breakfast. They'll ask if they can play video games next week, Thursday.
I don't know exactly how or when this all started. I don't mind being asked questions or permission to do things. In fact, in many cases, I prefer it. I like that they ask permission to play video games and before raiding the pantry.
But this relentless barrage is getting to be too much. I've gotten to the point where, if they repeat a question I've already answered (which is, like, ALL THE TIME) I tell them that I've already answered that one and to find the answer from someone who was listening.
I think tonight I'm going to turn the tables. I'm going to hit those kids with a few questions of my own as soon as I see them.
How was school?
Do you have homework?
What did you play at recess?
Did you eat your lunch?
All of it?
What did you eat?
Is your teacher nice?
Did you have a good day?
What did you eat for lunch?
Who are the kids in your reading group?
What did you learn about today?
Is your seat belt buckled?
Do have all your things?
Did you play outside today?
What did they give you for snack?
Who were you playing with just now?
What did you eat for lunch?
We'll see if turning the tables has any effect. But if this is what my kids think conversation is, I seriously doubt it.
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