Category: Kids, kids, kids

. . . and I’m not talking about baby goats.

I’m So Lucky

My daughter wakes up too early, especially when I don’t need to wake up early. This morning, I lifted her from her crib around 6:30 a.m. I shouldn’t complain–our twins routinely woke up at 5:30 a.m. when they were small. I used to vow revenge–I said I would wake them up early when they were teenagers by vacuuming outside their bedroom door and making a racket in the kitchen, but now that the reality of them actually sleeping in has arrived I savor the quietness. Sometimes they are still dozing at 9:30 a.m. Now I know why adults might choose to rise early–to outsmart the teens.

Anyway. Back to this morning. I was so annoyed and tired. I was curled under the covers while she sat near my feet, watching Sesame Street.

Every few minutes, she’d ask, “Whatcha doing?”

And I’d mumble, trying not to move my lips, “Sleeping.”

“And what I doing?” she’d say.

“Watching t.v.,” I’d mumble again.

When I finally gave up and headed for the shower, I suggested, “Hey, why don’t you go watch a video?” And she said, “No. I want to watch you.”

“I’m so lucky,” I said. But I didn’t really mean that. As the boys would tell you, “Mom’s using sarcasm again.”

I’m ashamed that I so often take my life for granted. I want silly things–solitude, thinking time, to shower without an audience and to brush my teeth without a certain small someone turning off the water before I’m finished rinsing. I look right past the blessings I have and concentrate on how crowded I feel, how stuck, how sick I am of having little people breathing on me and blocking my path in the kitchen.

My daughter, though, doesn’t know about that stuff. When I finished my shower, she was waiting for me and she gleefully hollered, “YOU’RE SO LUCKY!”

And I heard her. That time, I actually meant it when I said, “You’re right. I’m so lucky.”

I am so lucky.

Two Completely Unrelated Stories

I stopped by Target today to buy cat food and another Juice Box. I found that the prices for the Juice Box accessories had dropped, so I went to customer service to request a price adjustment for the items I’d purchased a few days earlier.

The woman behind the counter fiddled with her register, peered at the receipt and finally informed me that she could not do a price adjustment on my items since they were clearance items.

I paused. Okay, I said, can I return the items and repurchase them at the lower price?

Sure, she said. She punched at her register, did a refund, recalculated the price and handed over fourteen dollars and some change.

Duh.

Second story, completely unrelated.

Last week, YoungestBoy had a baseball game. This particular game matched them against a superior team. The bases were loaded. The batter smacked the ball directly to the boy playing third base. The adults sprawled on the sideline in collapsible canvas chairs shouted, “Tag the runner! Tag the runner! TAG THE RUNNER!” The boy fumbled around his ankles for the ball, finally gripped it and stood paralyzed by confusion. “TAG THE RUNNER!” The runner ran behind him, reached the base and stood firmly on third base and the light finally dawned for Kendall and he limply tagged the runner. Late. Too late.

Kendall’s face fell and at the same time, the adults began to cheer, “Good job, Kendall! All right! Good job!” I watched Kendall as bewilderment clouded his face. He knew he’d made a mistake. He messed up. And yet, the adults were all cheerfully clapping and exalting his name as a hero.

What’s wrong with this? Are we so afraid to let our kids feel the pain of their mistakes that we cheer anyway? Is this wacky display of false congratulations helpful in any sense of the word? Kendall understood his error, even though the adults brushed off that pesky little truth in favor of a hearty round of applause.

And you know that at the end of the season, all the children will get trophies, even though some of the children are truly horrible baseball players and their teams resemble the Bad News Bears.

What are the kids really learning? I know–it’s not if you win or lose, it’s how you play the game, but what do you learn when the adults falsely cheer your mistake? Do you learn not to trust yourself? Not to trust the adults? Not to believe what you hear?

I just wonder.

The Little (Digestible) Things

Sure, I could discuss a wide variety of issues, but I am too distracted by the comments on a previous post. I mentioned how CuteBaby’s mom discovered digested paper in his diaper. Misery truly loves company, because I am greatly cheered by your reports of the following objects discovered in infant diapers:

1) Two Barbie shoes and a marble (in the same diaper!);
2) Needle;
3) Spider;

(I must comment on the urban legend about eating eight spiders at night while you sleep. . . my advice? Wear pantyhose over your head and prevent this from ever happening to you!)

4) Tinsel (by a cat, but still, it could have been a baby).

Does anyone else have something to add?

Tomorrow, I will have something of substance to say, I promise. I know this because I have phone calls to make to recruit volunteers and paperwork to complete and I hate these tasks and will need a way to look and feel like I’m working without actually facing the dreaded chores at hand. Behold, the blog!

In the Beginning, at the End, and a Little in Between

My alarm rang at 5:10 a.m. and I decided on the spot to forsake my walking partner and stay in bed. My head felt like a granite stone stuck to my pillow by the force of gravity. Who can get out of bed with such a heavy head, let alone walk with it balanced precariously upon one’s shoulders?

CuteBaby’s mom dropped him off with this concerned comment, “Last night, he had some paper in his poop.” I responded with horror, “From my house?” She didn’t come out and say so, but seriously, the kid is five months old. It’s not as if he’s been to the library and chowed down on a few books while she was working. He rolls now and my floor is admittedly not pristine, so apparently he found and ingested some kind of paper while under my care. I suck.

While he napped, I vacuumed until my a wide ribbon of gray smoke wafted from the vacuum cleaner. I changed the belt and cleaned the filter, to no avail. The vacuum is dead. May the vacuum rest in peace.

When I returned from Target tonight, the boys were sprawled in the family room watching television. I ignored them until a ruckus broke out. TwinBoyA yelled at YoungestBoy for spilling his glass of milk which TwinBoyA left sitting on the carpet in the middle of the floor since dinnertime three hours earlier.

He thought YoungestBoy was at fault for not noticing this glass of milk in the middle of the floor.

And so ends a delightful day of digested paper and spilled milk.

Tomorrow’s goals:
Prevent CuteBaby from swallowing foreign objects.
Plan dinner before dinner-time.
Keep children alive.

I’m keeping it simple.

The Longest Walk

Yesterday, Babygirl and I walked around our circle. You’d think that two healthy human beings could cover one-tenth of a mile in a reasonable amount of time, but no. Not when one of those human beings is two and a half. (I asked her, “How old are you?” and she said, without pause, “Twenty.”)

Babygirl jogged at first. Then she did a bear-crawl and became distracted by a black ant. We stopped to gaze at the Gnome-Lady’s house. She has twenty-seven gnomes strategically placed around her front yard. I convinced Babygirl that the Lady would not want her to walk on the rocks to see the gnomes.

We were nearly half-way around the block. Then came the puddles. Babygirl stooped to look down the storm drain. She jumped in the puddle. Because she is close to the ground, she noticed a ladybug crawling along. I placed the newsletter I carried near the ladybug so the bug would climb onto the paper. I thought we might take the insect home, but it flew away.

A few houses later, Babygirl saw rocks. She stopped and stuffed her shorts pockets full, awkwardly crossing her right arm across her small body to put the rocks into her left pocket.

When we finally reached home nearly an hour later, I emptied ten rocks from her pockets.

As someone said recently, the days are long, but the years are so short. Before I know it, she really will be twenty. I hope we’ll still take meandering walks together, even thought she might be wishing we’d go a little quicker and I’ll be the one stopping to poke at ladybugs.

Keeping Promises and Making Kids Cry

While Babygirl napped this afternoon, I decided to take my couch-potato, GameBoy-playing sons for a hike. I took them back to the trails at Point Defiance, which were so lovely that even the memory of Babygirl weeping and wailing as she hiked did not deter me.

The air was still, cool. The boys chattered incessantly as we briskly walked down the trail to the beach. I’d point out the trilliums and they wouldn’t quite yawn, but really, all they wanted to do was find a good stick. I described the process of decaying tree trunks and new growth and they scarcely blinked. I used the word “ecosystem,” but it didn’t spark any flicker of recognition.

The tide was low today and so the beach stretched out before us. TwinBoyB nearly fell on his head as he carelessly scrambled down the last ten feet of the trail. Then he slid on his bottom as he tiptoed across a fallen log. He finally screamed, “I HATE WALKS!” I ignored his outburst and carefully picked my way down the stairstepping roots of the giant beach-side tree.

We meandered down the beach. TwinBoyA was intent upon finding “aquatic life,” as he called it. We immediately came upon a pink and blue sea star. YoungestBoy held it and I photographed it. Then we discovered symmetrical holes in the rock, which turned out to be mudstone which contained oblong-shaped clams called piddocks. The piddocks opened like gaping bird mouths. If touched, they’d squirt and then sink back down into their holes.

We found rocks which crumbled in our hands and then it dawned on us that the rocks had broken off of the soaring walls of the bluff which bordered the beach. I think the rock was probably gypsum–it was soft as a bar of soap. We each carved our names into the rock wall. We could break the rocks with one hand, as if they were chalk.

TwinBoyB began to complain and suggest that we turn back. He is a whiner extraordinaire and always has been. His complaints are so tiresome and have ruined many an adventure. Today was no different.

We eventually turned back and found the roots of the tree which marked our trail. As we began our ascent up the trail, I said, “Children who do not complain will get a treat! Children who complain will get no treat!” I did not want to hear any bellyaching as we climbed back up the steep trail. I prompted YoungestBoy to tell the twins where we’d have our treat (Dairy Queen).

And then we trudged uphill. Although the trail was quite steep in places, it was not impossible. TwinBoyB immediately began a tirade of complaints: “I’m tired!” “I hate walking!” “Why did we have to do this?” “My legs are going to fall off.” “I’m going to explode!” “I think I am going to die. Seriously. I mean it.”

I realized that this boy would get no treat or my words would have no value. I even commented out loud and so in a great dramatic performance, he collapsed in tears and slid on his bottom on the path. His brothers were shouting encouragement and giving him their walking sticks. He cried, his face red, his attitude stinky. I dreaded what was about to happen. His brothers were frantic, cheering him on.

Just as we reached the parking lot, I mentioned that he would not get a treat. He wailed and gnashed his teeth, begging for another chance, for mercy. “Mom, what do I have to DO?” I said, “You needed to walk without complaining the whole way.”

His tantrum reminded me of Babygirl’s fit the other day. By now, his brothers were desperate. “Mom, PLEASE, you have to give him another chance!” YoungestBoy went so far as to suggest that if I’d been in his class the other day, then maybe I would have learned to think how I might feel if I were in another person’s shoes. TwinBoyA cautioned me, “Mom, God is frowning on you! Whatever happened to mercy and compassion? Huh? Huh?”

I said, “Look. I told you the rules. I made a promise. I have to keep it. He made a choice, a bad choice, and I’m sad for him, but I can’t break my promise.” At that point, TwinBoyB broke into a mournful yell, “JUST KILL ME! KILL ME NOW! I WANT TO BE DEAD!”

I stopped the car. I said, “Get out. When you’re finished, you can get back in.” He stopped screaming and looked at me through narrowed eyes. I started the car again, he started crying again and the TwinBoyA, in a great show of moral support, burst into loud weeping. He hid his face behind the sleeve of his fleece jacket. I think he was faking.

Behind me, YoungestBoy joined the chorus, sobbing so hard he could barely speak his accusations aloud. “You are so mean!” I turned to see tears running down his pink cheeks. All three boys were now crying in unison.

I wanted to roll my eyes. I wanted to laugh. But I calmly pulled the car over–again–and warned everyone to stop. I explained again why TwinBoyB would get no treat.

I think they expected me to crumble–and how I wanted to collapse under the weight of their collective disapproval–but I held steady. I pulled into the drive-through lane of the Dairy Queen and said, “What do you want?” to YoungestBoy. Then I asked TwinBoy A. I ordered a hot fudge sundae and two Georgia Fudge Mud Blizzards (one for me, one for TwinBoyA) and told TwinBoyB that I was sorry he didn’t get a treat.

He accepted his fate without a sound. TwinBoyA rose to the occasion and shared his whole treat with his brother. Before we’d gone a block, the sound of pleasant laughter filled my car.

I can only hope TwinBoyB learned something. I know I did. I need new hiking companions.

Weird Symptoms

My 7-year old boy has a mysterious illness. When he came through the door Monday after school, his face was flushed. I said, “Are you feeling all right?” and he said he did, but later, he complained that his eyes hurt, his legs hurt, his waist hurt.

I have a cold myself, as does Babygirl, but YoungestBoy gave it to us. This appears to be something new. So I kept him home from school yesterday. We hardly knew he was here–he quietly rested and played, though at one point, he did join us circling the block on his bicycle.

This morning, he came downstairs, cheeks unusually pink and when I asked, “How are you feeling today?” he said, “Well, my ankle hurts.” A bit later, when I asked again, he informed me, “My thumbs are smooth.”

I gave him some ibuprofen (I’m not sure it cures smooth thumbs, though) and plan to send him to school for at least half a day. He excels in school, but maybe he’s just trying to get out of going? Then again, he has those pink cheeks.

The mysteries of childhood lead to dilemmas for mothers. To send or not to send? That is the question.

Fudge Sauce on Ice Cream (Does Anything Stick to a Kid’s Brain?)

First, a recipe.

Keri’s Fudge Sauce (I got this from Keri in Wyoming–I don’t know where she got it)

1 cup sugar
2/3 cup cocoa
3 tablespoons flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cup milk
2 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon vanilla

In a saucepan, mix sugar, cocoa, flour, salt and 1/4 cup of the milk. Blend until smooth, then add remaining milk. Cook, stirring constantly, over low heat, until sauce boils and is thick. Remove from heat. Stir in butter and vanilla. Serves 12-16.

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Lately, my efforts to teach my boys seem futile. How many times do I correct, suggest, direct, redirect, show, instruct and scold? Countless times. How many times do I remind, cajole, explain? Why do I have to say the same things over and over again? For instance, “Proper nouns begin with what? That’s right, a capital letter.” Or “CLOSE THE CUPBOARD DOORS! PLEASE!”

I am reminded of how pointless it is to pour hot fudge sauce over cold ice cream. The chocolate just slides down the icy slopes and puddles around the edges. Just like my words and their brains.

I worry that nothing I say actually sticks. They will never routinely flush toilets, wash their hands, and put punctuation at the end of sentences. They will always leave their shoes in the middle of the floor, forget to pick up their cups, and leave blobs of toothpaste in their sink. They will never clean out their ears, brush their teeth or comb their hair without a reminder. TwinBoyB will always say “Six times eight is fifty-six, right?” and I will always repeat, “No, six times eight is forty-eight. Always has been. Always will be. And so shall be forevermore. Amen.” They will never LEAVE my house because they will remain 11 years old forever.

Honestly, if we are making any forward progress, it is measurable in millimeters.

And yet, I keep scooping the fudge sauce over the top, over and over again. I hope one day, something will stick before the ice cream totally melts and makes a sticky mess. And I hope my kids will eventually become valuable citizens of the United States, remembering to brush their teeth and close and lock the door when they leave the house. (Please, I hope they leave one day.)

In the meantime, I need fudge sauce over ice cream over brownies.

Those Funny Kids

Yesterday, a friend of ours sent some hand-me-down clothing to Babygirl. Babygirl immediately requested to wear two skirts, a shirt and a sweater, all at the same time. I said, “Oh, look! What a cute skirt!” Later on, she gestured toward her hot-pink, plaid skirt and said, “I wearin’ my curtain.” Get it? Skirt? Curtain?

Last night at 10:30 p.m., I checked to see if the twins were going to sleep. I see the glow of their television (yeah, they have a television in their room, wanna make something of it?) and I said, “Hey, boys! Time to sleep!” And TwinBoyA said from the floor, “Awwwww, Mom! It’s about artichokes!” I stifled a laugh and said, “Okay, finish watching it but when it’s over TURN OFF THE TELEVISION!”

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Babygirl uses C0urney L0ve’s hairstylist. And yes, she pays too much. (Actually, this is just a really bad case of bed-head. Babygirl’s never had a haircut, which is sad, isn’t it, that a child should be so hair deficient?)