Category: Kids, kids, kids

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

I’m a Hoot with a Mom Purse, Kind of Like Jack Bauer

My 3-year old daughter raises a finger for each dream.  “There’s the puppy dream.  The spider dream.  The robot dream.  And the dream where you were a hoot!” 

Every time she says “you were a hoot!” she raises her eyebrows, points at me and emphasizes “hoot,” which makes me want to laugh, except that she is so serious.  Apparently, in her dream-life, her mother is a hoot!  And “hoot” is the same thing as an “owl.”  The nuance between the two is too subtle for me to understand, but I take her word for it.  A hoot is scary.  And I’m a hoot.  You heard it here first. 

*  *  * 

I devoted the morning to Vacation Bible School planning.  Before I knew it, the boys were home from P.E., so I switched gears and we did some math lessons, followed up by some history.  At 2:00 p.m., with some exasperation, I dismissed them for the day.  Their brains had shut off but their mouths were still running and they could not stop pinching each other.

So, I resumed my Vacation Bible School ponderings.  The theme is “Fiesta!” and I grew distracted by various options for making maracas and tambourines.  I spent quite a long time fiddling with paper, folding it accordion-style in attempts to make flowers.  (Easier said than done.)  I settled on instructions for tissue paper flowers.  I’m going to ask people in our church to make a few . . . hundred. 

What is remarkable is how a day can slip away while you search for directions to decorate for a fiesta and feed orange segments to a baby and run bath water for your already extra-clean girl. 

Oh, and your night will vanish when you watch the season finale of “24.”  I realized tonight that Jack has been carrying a Mom Purse all season long.  Not that his bag lessens my admiration for a man who can single-handedly save the world in twenty-four hours.  It’s because of that purse, I’m telling you.  Without his purse and his cell phone, he’d be just another mom man.

Come to think of it, I have a Mom Purse and a cell phone.  I bet I could vanquish terrorists, too.  Oh wait!  I already have . . . until tomorrow.

Sleep tight, kids.  Tomorrow, I’ll be waiting for you.  (Excuse me while I dig in my purse to find a few things.  Now where did I put that taser?  And the digital listening device shaped like a pencil eraser?  And my fax machine disguised as a playing card?)

Some Answers With a Side of Rambling

    


Play structureOriginally uploaded by Mel 128.

Here is a photograph of our new play structure, taken at dusk.  (Which happens to be my favorite time of day.)  You can’t really tell, but along the white beam are three swings:  two regular swings and a tire swing.  To the left of the ladder are a set of swinging rings.  At the bottom of the “fort” is a giant sandbox where even the big kids sit and play.

Now, someone asked, so I will tell you that the ACT is a test, sort of like the SAT. My ACT score was comparatively better than my SAT score, so I like to remind myself of exactly how high it was on occasion. After all, look where it got me!

My husband is gone tonight tonight at a wedding rehearsal and dinner.  I desperately wanted to go (free food!), but couldn’t find a babysitter.  My mother had the nerve to have a life of her own and was unavailable.  And the teenage sitter I love is busy having a life of her own, too.  I will miss the wedding tomorrow, too, which is a big bummer.  I love attending weddings–I like everything from seeing the wedding dress to choking up over the vows to watching the other guests.  And the reception?  (Free food!) 

Alas, no free food for me.  (I know.  What is this talk of free food?  Aren’t you blogging about losing weight over at The Amazing Shrinking Mom?  (By the way, I suggested the title “The Shrinking Mom.”  They added the “Amazing” part, just in case you thought I was narcissistic and all.)  Yes!  I am blogging about dieting.  And I am dieting.  But I won’t be talking about that over here . . . no.  For that scintillating talk, you must click and go.

 

Almost Midnight and Here I Sit

My 3-year old has been a fairly reliable nighttime sleeper for quite a while.  I can’t tell you the specifics because my brain synapses no longer fire since I’ve been living with at least one child under the age of four for thirteen long years.  But trust me.  She normally goes to bed easily and sleeps all night, waking up ten to eleven hours later.

Except last night when she woke up at 1 a.m., 2 a.m. and 3 a.m.  And tonight, when I put her down at 8:30 p.m., 8:50 p.m. and 9:50 p.m.  (My husband tended to her that last time.)

I don’t have a point, either.  I’m just saying that I’m distracted and tired.

*  *  * 

Today, my back yard was filled with men (okay, well, three men) who put together one of those mammoth Rainbow Play Systems.  Now we have a slide, ladder, fort, sandbox, two regular swings, one tire swing, swinging rings, and a partridge in a pear tree. 

Afterwards, while the men were sitting around swigging bottles of water, one of them explained that two years ago today, his father died.  And so he’d planned to come down here and construct the play system today, in memory of his dad.  Did I mention that he donated this play system to us in the first place?  (His kids outgrew it.)

I think it did his heart good to see my kids frolicking and swinging and christening the fort a “castle.”  My daughter has never, ever been so dirty.  At one point, she scampered inside, grabbed a pink fleece hat and ran back outside where she flopped down on her back in the sand and proceeded to make “snow angels,” only in sand. 

*  *  * 

My 13-year old sons have nearly finished their second year of school-at-home.  A few weeks ago, we read a children’s version of some excerpts of Don Quixote.  My blue-eyed twin, especially, adores the ideas of knights and swords and quests.  He laughed out loud as I read of the exploits of Don Quixote and his sidekick.  Then, he asked if I could get him the book Don Quixote. 

I explained that the actual book is really long and challenging and he said, very seriously, “Mom, I think I can handle it.”

The book arrived from Amazon two days ago and he’s a dozen chapters into it.  He thinks it would be a fine thing, indeed, to be a knight and to wander about seeking quests while carrying a real, live sword.  I just want to clutch my throat and close my eyes in gratitude for this teenage boy who still thinks a fort can be a castle and who calls himself “Master King” and offers to knight anyone, including his 3-year old sister.

The midnight hour approaches.  Seven hours until the house begins to wake up again.  And how much sleep does a mom need? 

(That’s right.  Just ten more minutes.)

The Myth of Sleeping In

At heart, I’m a pessimist . . . except on Saturday mornings.  On Saturday mornings, I somehow trick myself into believing that I will get extra sleep, even on days when my husband leaves the house early, as he did this morning.  My daughter wakes up at 6:55 a.m. and I barely open my eyes as I pluck her from her crib and run bath water.

As the water runs, I return to bed and precisely four minutes later, return to the bathroom to turn off the water.  I am still mostly asleep, convinced I will be sleeping in this bright Saturday morning.  I am a Saturday morning optimist.  I crawl back under the covers.  

Six minutes later, she beckons me and I stumble back to the bathroom to answer her nonsensical question (ie. “can I have a cloth-cloth?”).  She has very few made-up words in her vocabulary, but she calls a “washcloth” a “cloth-cloth,” which I find very charming.  But I still would rather sleep.  So back to bed I go.

Ten minutes later, she’s finished with the bath.  I wrap her in a towel, turn on her television, bring her a bowl of dry Cheerios and a drink and stubbornly return to bed.  I am sleeping in!  It’s Saturday! 

Soon, she appears at my bedside.  “Can I sleep with you?” she asks.  So, I scoot over and she climbs in.  Moments later:  “Will you turn on a show, please?”  I turn on Nickelodeon and plump up my pillow.  I am sleeping in!

She’s eating saltine crackers in bed.  She turns on the light.  She’s in.  She’s out.  She’s up.  She’s down.  She’s talking to me, even though I AM SLEEPING IN!  It’s Saturday!

At 9:15 a.m., I’m still in bed.  “Sleeping.”  Lights are all on, so I’m suffocating under the covers.  The television is loud.  How did it get so loud?  And then the alarm begins to ring in the bathroom.  This alarm clock almost outsmarted me, but one day I read the instruction booklet three times in a row and figured out how to turn it off.  Only, somehow, now it’s beeping.  I say to my daughter, “Hey, can you go push the buttons on that clock and turn it off?” 

She goes, but can’t get on the counter because she’s wearing her 8-year old brother’s pajamas and her feet swim in grievously long pajama legs.  She keeps slipping.  I say, “Can’t you push the buttons?”  She says, “I can’t!  I’m slipping!”  Finally, I throw off the covers with a mad flourish and stomp to the bathroom.  I say crazy things like, “FINE!  WHY WON’T YOU LET ME SLEEP IN?!  IT’S SATURDAY!”

And so the day begins.

She Said

Yesterday, my daughter got a new dolly (because she only has a dozen dollies, maybe more, so deprived and all, but lucky for her, a church lady donated this really lovely and lifelike doll to my poor little girl’s cause).

So, I said to my daughter, “What is the dolly’s name?”

“Mrs. Zippy,” she replied.

“Mrs. Zippy?” I asked, confused. 

“Yes, Mississ-ippi!” she said.  I laughed and she said, “Just kidding!” 

Goodbye, Expectations! Hello, Reality.

I locked my son out of the house today.  I did.  He’d run outside to make a dramatic point about the horrors of repeating a failed spelling test.  When I saw the door ajar, I closed it, locked it and then made sure the other doors were locked, too.  Ha!  (I, myself, am the model of maturity, to be sure.)

And when he knocked at the front door, I leaned in close to the door jam and said with mean glee, “Enjoy your time outdoors because I don’t allow children who are disrespectful into my house!”  And then I checked to make sure the deadbolt was still turned and stomped upstairs where my daughter was taking her third bath of the day and was vying for my attention.  (“WHAT?!”  “Um, I need a stick to put in his mouth,” she said, indicating a plastic shark.  At which point, I died from a heart attack.  The end.)

I never, ever, not one time in my whole adolescence sassed my parents.  (At least not out loud.)  I never set out to annoy them, to displease them, to make them want to lock me out of the house.  Never.  I was a pleaser, a good girl who wanted only to get perfect grades.  I volunteered my time at a hospital, at a 4-H group, at church and more.  If you needed help, I was your girl.

And how has all my goodness been repaid?  With stinky boys who feel free to complain and whine and slide off their chairs onto the floor in protest when I expect them to take a spelling test.  With sons who don’t hesitate to tell me in no uncertain terms what they will not do.  (“I will NOT take that assessment!”)  With kids who break pencils to protest the injustice of my expectations.

Karma-schmarma!  Phooey on karma, I say!  I deserve a child who yearns to read the captions and the footnotes, in addition to the regular text.  I deserve a child who is utterly grateful for the sacrifice that schooling-at-home is for me.  I deserve a child who displays some maturity and some respect.  I deserve a child who loves to read more than play Nintendo.

And I get mouthiness and stubbornness and kids who are like giant anchors needing to be dragged up from the sea bottom.  And they are tangled up in seaweed, just to make matters worse.

But they are my anchors.  And so I unbolted the door, accepted his apology, gave the spelling test again.  For whatever reason, God thought these were the kids for me, so away with you, Expectations! Hello, Reality!  I’m not quite ready to hug you yet, Reality, but I guess you can sit over there in the comfortable chair for now while I say farewell to my fond Expectations.

(“Buh-bye!” she says, weeping.)

Shoes and Shoe: A Mystery

As you can see, her outfit the other day wasn’t really complete until she added the scarf and gloves. She’s peeking out from the overgrown laurel hedge where the children like to hide.

 

 

 

 

 

 And here is a close-up of those authentically tacky 1970s shoes, size 5.5. Don’t you wish you could wear them with tie-dye and bell-bottoms?  Or a short polyester dress and “suntan” pantyhose?

Finally, I have to ask: Is this your shoe? It’s not ours! I’d never seen it before yesterday, when I uncovered it in a pile of stuff on the stairs. 

Remember when I found a pair of socks that didn’t belong to us? I can imagine how a boy could forget his socks at someone’s house. But I am mystified picturing how a boy might have left one shoe here. Did he hobble out without realizing that one foot wore only a sock?  Did his parent not notice?  To whom does this shoe belong?

This is the mystery I ponder.

A Mish-Mashy Hodge-Podge Sans Conclusion

My daughter insisted that she would sleep outside tonight, in the backyard, in her underpants, thank you very much. “Night-night, Mommy!” she waved as I opened the sliding glass door and stepped inside.

I called her bluff and when I heard the theme music for SpongeBob Squarepants, I opened the kitchen window and informed her, “Hey, SpongeBob is on!” and she scurried inside. Then, curled on the couch, she let me know that she planned to sleep downstairs, on the couch.

I do love her polite defiance. When I tell her, “Hey, go pick up those toys,” she’ll say, “No, thank you.” After her bath (right before she went to bed in her room, as usual), she said, “I spit water right there, on the floor.” I furrowed my brows in the classic Mom Disapproval Glare and she said, “I’m sorry, Mama.” But the spark in her eyes and the impish grin said otherwise.

* * *

Today was a most glorious day. I had an eye appointment at Costco at 10:40 a.m., which I managed to stretch into a solitary daylong excursion. More on that in a minute, but first I must tell you about the eye doctor, or as I like to think of him, The Pocket Doctor.

From his tiny white shirt to his little shiny shoes, he was just like a real doctor, only miniaturized. His nose was tiny and perfect sculpted, like Barbie’s. When he leaned in close to peer into my eyeballs, the scent of Ivory soap wafted from his tidy hair.  I had complete confidence in The Pocket Doctor and couldn’t stop thinking about how handy it would be to have a replica of a doctor to just tuck into your pocket or purse.

Oh, and weirdly, my eyes are better, not worse, and so I have a lesser prescription. When we finished, I ordered the contacts, then faced the wall of glasses to pick out a new pair. (My old pair is 9 years old.)

The Costco clerk came out from behind the counter to stand next to me as I contemplated the choices. Too many choices! They were sorted into three areas: Men, Women, Contemporary. I stood in front of the Contemporary section, trying to imagine myself in these little rectangular black frames or those small oval pink ones and the clerk said, “Well, these are cute,” just as I started saying, “I don’t think I’m cool enough to wear any of these.” She said, “Sure you are!” but that was just mercy speaking.

I scooted over and picked out a pair from the Women’s section, but not before picking up, putting on, taking off, putting down the same ten pairs of glasses over and over again. I just couldn’t decide. But finally, I just picked one. Good enough for the next ten years.

* * *

Last night, my husband and I went to a movie. (Can you guess what we saw?) For the first time, I bought tickets online, which was pretty terrific. No standing in line to purchase tickets . . . and a very small crowd in the concession area. We stood behind three people in a line and I immediately wanted to switch lines. I had a hunch, but my husband, Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Change, said, “No, this is fine.” So we waited another ten minutes, finally realizing we really should have moved to another line.

As we finally headed toward the theater, I said to my husband, “You know, this one time I saw a movie on the opening weekend and when I first got to the theater, I thought, hey, it’s not even full, and then I walked into the movie and it was packed . . . kind of like this!” And we saw that the seats were full. . . and then we found two spots right on the floor, front and center. Perfect.

If I were a different sort of person, a person with a big mouth, a person unafraid of being bashed in the mouth by a stranger, I might have uttered these words:

1) ARE YOU TALKING ON YOUR PHONE DURING THE MOVIE?! SHUT UP! and

2) GET YOUR TODDLER OUT OF THIS THEATER! THIS IS NOT A MOVIE FOR TODDLERS! HIRE A BABYSITTER, YOU MORON!!

But, I’m not that sort of person, so I just said to myself, Now I have something to blog about. Aren’t you lucky?

* * *

Oh, and finally. When I returned from my daylong adventure (Costco, Wendy’s for salad, Joann Fabrics, Value Village, Trader Joe’s), I returned to my driveway in time to see my neighbor holding something at arm’s length with her index finger and thumb, hurrying across her yard.

She was walking back when I disembarked and I said, “What happened? Did something die?”

Then I heard the squawking. Two frantic Steller’s Jays were swooping from tree to fence and back again. Apparently, the neighbor’s cat had killed their baby bird and both birds had turned into John Walsh, desperate to find their missing offspring. The neighbor kept saying, “I feel terrible! I feel terrible! I feel terrible!” and scolded the cat who did not feel terrible and who was still lurking under a bush, a serial killer longing to kill again.

Did you know that Steller’s Jays form monogamous long-term pairs? They were still screeching and hopping from roof to tree to fence and back again when I finished carrying in the groceries.

* * *

Tonight, while I clipped back a wicked bush (with spiky two-inch needle-like thorns) near our gate, the boys played a game in which they threw a ball over the house to one another. If they’d broken a window, I’d really have a tale to tell, but they didn’t, so I don’t.

The End.

I Am No Mother Duck

A few days ago, while driving down the road with my youngest two in the back of the 1987 Chevy Astro, I noticed a car slowing in front of me. Two women standing at a bus stop were pointing and laughing and so, I slowed, too. The car in front of me sped up and so I could clearly see the spectacle slowing traffic. A mother duck and her four ducklings waddled from the middle of the busy residential street to the edge, as I waited with my foot pressed to the brake while frantically digging in my purse for my camera.

I pulled out the camera just as the little procession reached safety.

The image of that mama duck and her babies has remained in my mind, though. Her ducklings followed, hovered close to her feathered sides, didn’t run off, didn’t fight with their brothers, didn’t refuse to do grammar because it is so boring.

I’m nothing like that duck mom. Today, as a matter of fact, I would have thrown my letter of resignation at my boss, only, uh, I don’t have a boss and I can’t resign. Instead, I slammed the door and strode outside, first to the driveway where I stood by the lilacs, and then up the street a few houses where I noticed a gentle spring breeze and wondered if the neighbors were looking at the wild-haired lady in her moccasin slippers wandering the neighborhood. All the windows really did seem like eyeballs behind sunglasses, staring at me.

I didn’t go far, of course, because I was keenly aware of the littler ones in my house and also cognizant of the fact that my teenagers would keep an eye on the little kids even though those very same teenagers, well, one of those teenagers, had caused me to flee into the street, question my very status of a competent mother and resolve to turn in my Homeschooling Mother Card once and for all.

I CAN’T DO THIS! I shrieked to myself, as loudly as one can shriek inside one’s head on the street in the middle of the morning while worrying about neighbors calling the police to report a raving lunatic strolling the streets.

My son, The Reluctant Student, has some issues, some undiagnosed issues having to do with paying attention and retaining information and organization. I don’t need a label to know that he struggles with what comes naturally and easily to me and his twin brother. He sometimes stays focused and tries, but this week he’s been derailed. The picture of him as a railroad car literally off the rails, unable to move forward or backward, blocking the rest of the train from moving fills me with pity and understanding, but also frustration because we need to keep moving. Moving forward, heading toward the finish line, hurry, hurry, hurry!

When I hurry him, he resists.

I used to think that raising children was all about nurturing them properly and creating the right environment. I see now how much genetic predisposition influences and even controls behavior. I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle, like a salmon swimming upstream who finally encounters an impassable dam.

So, between a difficult morning of grammar (adverbial phrases, anyone?) and my daughter who spends every waking moment either changing her clothes or interrupting me or demanding Cheetos, I really did decide I am not cut out for this mothering gig. Really. I quit. DO YOU HEAR ME? I’M NOT COMING IN TOMORROW! I QUIT!

Blink. Blink-blink. Okay, fine. In two weeks, I’m outta here, for sure. I’m going to get a job cleaning chimneys or muck-raking cow stalls or deep-sea fishing on an Alaskan fishing boat . . . something easy like that.

If I were a mother duck and my kids were those ducklings, today they totally would have been squished by a car. Tomorrow, maybe they will be all fluffy and yellow and quiet and cute. One can hope.

(My son just sent me this instant-message: “GOING TO TRUN OFF NOW MOM GOOD NIGHT I HEART U =) AND ALSO SORRY FOR TODAY.” Okay. Fine. Whatever. I’m in for one more day.)