Category: Kids, kids, kids

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

Telephone Conversations, Interrupted

My daughter is three and a half and obsessed with the telephone. If you call my house, you will have to talk to her, which I know is a very annoying requirement and one I never understood before I had children when I would telephone my friends and be forced to speak to their little hooligans. But, now I know. The child will not be denied her phone time.

Tonight, she was speaking on one of her many pretend cell phones (the pink one) and she said, “Oh, I can’t come to your party.” Pause. “I have babies here.” Pause. “And I can’t drive.”

Then she asked, “Daddy, did you see the dinosaur in the forest? Did it bite you? Did it bite your head or your toes or your legs?”

Apparently, he indicated that the dinosaur bit him on the head.

And then the imaginary conversation ended.

Earlier in the day, I made a telephone call to New York, New York . . . while my daughter was busy playing on the other computer. (She’s very competent and probably she’ll be fluent in html before long.) I had to leave a message, though.

And, of course, later, the woman from New York returned my call and so I hurried upstairs in a desperate bid for privacy and quietness with the phone in one hand and the paperwork in the other and closed the door to my bedroom (with no lock on its door, drat!) and the bathroom. We were having a rational conversation when my daughter came stomping upstairs, talking to me, insisting on my full attention, and finally, crying, as I rushed away from her in a effort to finish my conversation.

Later, I attempted another telephone call to an East coast blogger (Barbara Curtis), because I needed some advice and reassurance and, of course, although I left my daughter safely upstairs, happily chatting with her daddy, she appeared at my elbow, whining and then sobbing while I tried to talk. Then, the other three year old woke up and he started whimpering about his runny nose and about being hungry . . . then my 8-year old walked by and motioned some unintelligible question at me . . . and finally, I had to say good-bye before my head exploded and my eyeballs popped out.

I have to say, I miss the days of long, uninterrupted telephone conversations. And I’d like to know why having a telephone pressed to my right ear reminds the children of their urgent needs and desires that only I can fulfill.

Boys (and one girl) in the Backyard


Like shepherds without sheep, they wander the back yard, walking with staff-like sticks in hand, discussing important matters. I can’t hear them. I would love to eavesdrop, but when I open the door, they stop and stare at me.

This afternoon, the sun shone and even my daughter scampered outside to play in the warmth–in her Carter’s pajamas with the zipper and built-in feet and floral-patterned boots. She holds her own with the boys, scooting along on their skateboards and swerving to avoid swinging sticks. I sat indoors, feeling the pressure of Pacific Northwest guilt . . . for when the sun shines here, it is mandatory to go outside immediately, for you never know when the next thirty-day stretch of rain might begin.

But I stayed indoors anyway, savoring the semi-quiet.

My husband is home again, but will leave in less than forty-eight hours for a reunion, of sorts, with his best college buddies. He will have a fantastic time and I will be fine, knowing that he owes me and next spring, I’ll be enjoying paybacks.

Root Beer Man

My left eye won’t stop twitching which is a sign that I have not had enough beauty sleep. I’m all squinty and head-achey and lethargic, deaf to the pleas of my chores to “Pick me! Pick me!”

This picture shows what happens when you leave an almost-13 year old boy to do his literature assessment without direct supervision. You see the eye holes he cut out with scissors? I ought to count that as an art project and take credit somehow.

At 3:00 a.m., I was roused from a deep sleep by my husband who heard the cries of my 3-year old. She needed to use the bathroom and then, of course, have a bath, because don’t we all want that extra special clean feeling after we use the toilet? She cried that her tummy hurt.

Yesterday afternoon, she was in the bath right after she asked for some medicine. She has an aversion to medicine of all kinds, so I knew she must be desperate.

I came downstairs and found some anti-nausea medicine (similar to something someone posted here the other day–the main ingredient is fructose) and brought her a teaspoon. She looked at it suspiciously and sipped a microscopic amount and announced she was done. I left the little cup on the edge of the tub, thinking maybe she’d reconsider.

Later, when I checked on her, the cup was floating in the water. I said, “Oh, did you drink it?” She said, “No. I don’t like red medicine. I only like pink.” And so she dumped it in the tub and bathed in it, instead.

But back to last night/this morning. She was back in bed at 3:40 a.m. Then awake at 4:30 a.m. At 5:40 a.m., when I heard her cry out again, I said to my husband, “Will you check on her?” My head was weighted to the pillow like a stone and I simply couldn’t move. I think he gave her pretzels and saltines and turned on a video for her. At some point, she came into bed with us and we all slept until 7:00 a.m. when she woke up, asked for a drink, begged to get up, then said, “Just one more minute,” and fell to sleep again.

I woke with a start at 8:10 a.m. and rushed to shower and get my son off to school. My older boys’ school day has been haphazard because my daughter has wanted me to hold her constantly and because my head has come loose from its neck and is dangling precariously by a frayed ligament.

But tonight, my colorist will arrive and vanquish my roots and mow my boys’ raggedy hair.

This probably wasn’t such a great week to give up caffeine. Although Root Beer Man is cute and all, I really need Diet Coke Man to swoop in here and pour me an icy 32-ounce glass. Posted by Picasa

America’s Next Top Model Cuts With Scissors

My daughter wore her pajamas to church this morning. Saturday night, she’d mentioned that she intended to wear them, the Carter’s footie-jammies with horizontal lavender and baby blue stripes, but I didn’t really believe her. (Actual pajamas not pictured, but boy, what an outfit that is, huh?) She’d also picked out a yellow and blue dress with gauzy ruffles around the hem.

But this morning, when she woke at 8:35 a.m. (which in her uninformed brain was only 7:35 a.m., but now it’s Daylight Savings Time, SURPRISE!), she told me she would wear her pajamas. And I said, “Okay.” We had to leave by 8:45 a.m. . . . well, really, we should have been at church at 8:45 a.m., but let’s not quibble over details. I tucked her dress, tights, shoes and sweater into my bag, just in case.

I taught Sunday School to three preschoolers and then my daughter and I headed upstairs to claim our rightful position in the second pew on the left side, right behind my boys who, judging from the greasiness of their pre-teen heads of hair, failed to use shampoo again last night during their showers. A lady behind me noted my daughter’s unusual attire and said, “You’re a more relaxed mom than I was!” and in the pause between that and her next statement, I wondered if I should take offense, but then she said, “Good for you!” I said, “Well, I figured, what does it matter, really?” As I said to my husband tonight, if you can’t wear your pajamas to church when you are three years old, when can you?

We lasted through all the stuff that happens before the sermon begins, then headed to the fellowship hall where we could see Daddy preaching on closed-circuit television while also running around in circles (her, not me). My daughter is seemingly ravenous on Sunday mornings . . . but the truth is, she knows that the kitchen holds loot, desirable loot like cookies and brownies and sometimes, cake. This morning, she feasted on Hostess “donettes,” those small chocolate covered ones. She also brought a cookie to our table, a snickerdoodlish cookie.

The cookie sat. I sat. My daughter sat. Then my daughter, wanting to shake things up and shake things out, asked if she could put pepper on the cookie.

“No,” I said.
She asked again.
“No.”
She said, “But I want to put pepper on the cookie.”
“I said NO!”
She asked again.
I enunciated very carefully, “Look . . . at . . . me. I . . . said . . . NO.”
She added a little whine to her request and asked again.
“Listen to me. The answer is NO!” I used my most stern voice, the one just short of screaming my head off, because after all, I was wearing pantyhose, sitting in the fellowship hall at church.

She paused, smiled sweetly and said, “I love your dress.”

* * *

(These tiny cut-out pictures are her handiwork. They are the actual size . . . my daughter is good with scissors. I’m thinking she’ll either be a hair stylist, a surgeon or, maybe she’ll operate first, then style her patient’s hair.)

* * *
A Note to Clarify:
She had rejected the cookie already. She merely wanted to make a huge pepper and salt mess on the table, using the cookie as an excuse. I did not want to clean up a big mess, so I told her no. I have no objection to peppering cookies under other circumstances. (What? I personally do not pepper my cookies.)

A Look Back

How time rushes forward, even while it seems to stand still. Weeks have passed now and four envelopes of pictures (old-fashioned developed film from a plain old camera, even) sit on my desk. Finally, tonight, after cleaning out my email box (down to 37 emails), I scanned a few.

Here is the path to the shore. You can see one of my 12-year olds and my 3-year old, hurrying for their first glimpse of the beach.
And here are all the kids. Notice the foamy beach. Later on, the foam skittered across the wet sand and my daughter jumped over it with glee.
And here is the foam-jumper herself. She fully intended to swim in the ocean, but settled for running at shore birds until they swooped into the air and formed an undulating flying ribbon.
Look out, Sandpipers!

There they go! (Click on pictures for full-size views.)

Walking Through Merryland

Ever determined to Make Christmas Memories, I forced my children to leave the cozy confines of their cave and accompany me to a Zoolight display. My Reluctant Student is also a bah-humbug kind of kid. He thinks things are either 1) too much trouble and his feet will hurt or 2) boring. (This is why Disney World was perhaps not the Happiest Place on Earth with him in tow.)

No matter. He protested and said, “I’m not going!” and clutched the remote control a little tighter and gazed a little more devotedly at Cartoon Network, but I said, “Fine. Get yourself a babysitter because we’re leaving at 4:30 p.m.” Then he realized something dreadful. “What’s for dinner?” he said, looking at me with stark panic. “Oh, I don’t know. We’ll get something along the way,” I said in my most casual voice.

Ha. Got him. I told him I’d drop him off at his dad’s office and when he and dad got home, they could make themselves something. After all, I have lots of cans of Campbell’s chicken soup.

Lo and behold, he decided to come with us, but just for the food.

The sky spit rain as we left, and soon, the spit turned into steady raindrops. No matter, I told the children. “We aren’t made of brown sugar. We won’t melt.” Twenty minutes later, we arrived in the nearly empty parking lot. This was all part of my master plan. Go on a weeknight. Arrive when the display opens. Brave the rain. Avoid the crowds. See? Perfect.

As we walked into the zoo, the rain stopped. The boys were boys, making inane comments and jostling each other as we strolled along. My 3-year old daughter wanted to see animals and wanted to go inside . . . apparently she didn’t get the memo and failed to realize that we were staying outside, looking at lights, not animals. Fortunately, the aquarium was open, so we flitted from tank to tank, admiring the sealife. The boys sprawled out on the floor in front of the shark tank and made disparaging comments about the sharks who lingered on the floor. (“Those are dad sharks, laying around after watching football.”) They found this hilarious.

No one enjoyed the light display quite as much as my daughter. As the light rainbow came into view, she exclaimed, “We’re in merryland!” She’s a devoted fan of Dora the Explorer, the apparent location of Fairyland. I love it when she bestows a more fitting name upon a place: Merryland. Perfect.

Of course, on the way home, my festive mood blackened when we were exchanging compliments. I said, “Let’s say what we like best about each other.” I started by pointing out my Reluctant Student’s best qualities and the boys chimed in. They did add some snide comments, boys being boys and all, but really, they were sweet to each other. Then my blue-eyed twin said, “And now, let’s say what we like about mom the best. I’ll start. Well, when she’s not throwing temper tantrums, mom is really nice. Even though she yells a lot.”

Well. Happy holidays to you, too! The sharpness of a child’s words hurt like none other because they are without malice. I protested that we were supposed to be saying nice things . . . and he said, “Well, you do yell.”

And I did not say, “THAT’S BECAUSE I AM WITH KIDS ALL DAY!” I never did throw a temper tantrum in my whole life until I had children. Really. But there is something about the neverending noise and the constant interruptions and lack of consideration for my moods that has driven me to stomp and yell. Sometimes. Okay, more often that I should.

But since I don’t want my darkness to overshadow the light, I am making a concentrated effort to put a stop to my “temper tantrums.” (Though, of course, I would like to rush to explain that I really don’t throw temper tantrums–I only respond as ANY SANE HUMAN ADULT WOULD to the pressure and situations and annoyances that I am forced to endure–but I will just swallow my pride and say, all right. You got me. I’m a horrible mother, but at least I will be a calm horrible mother.)

At least for today.

And then we went by Dairy Queen and had milk shakes and Blizzards and for my daughter, an ice cream cone.

Another happy memory made. Let’s hope the pictures turn out so I have proof.

(Oh, and where was my husband? He was out delivering presents to children who have an incarcerated parent. We participate in The Angel Tree program affiliated with Prison Fellowship every year.)

Full-Day Kindergarten? No Thanks

A few weeks ago, I came across this newspaper editorial about legislating full-day kindergarten. I am adamantly opposed to the idea of mandatory full-day kindergarten for all public school students in this state, so I read the whole article. (I’ll wait, if you want to go read it, too.)

The article quotes a school superintendent whose number one personal priority for new funding would be full-day kindergarten, because, she says, students are arriving in kindergarten “who haven’t been read to, and who don’t know their numbers or their ABCs.”

I can hardly imagine a child who reaches the age of five (or six) without knowing these things. My kids seem to learn by osmosis, which doesn’t explain why my daughter keeps counting in Spanish, because I only speak English–for that, I thank Dora the Explorer. How can parents not read to their kids, not speak to their kids, not teach their kids during their time spent together?

I am not naive. I do understand that some children are growing up in difficult circumstances . . . but adding a half-day of kindergarten is going to solve these problems? Might not funding be better spent intervening in these high-risk families?

For a long time, I’ve been annoyed by the (possibly imagined) pressure I feel to send my children to preschool. I’ve never done so and my children seem to be fine (although on bad days with my Reluctant Student, I would tell you that I am clearly a horrible failure of a mother and if I’d sent him to preschool, perhaps he’d be a genius). Not that there’s anything wrong with preschool, mind you. But I don’t think it is necessary.

Is this the first step? Will four year olds soon be required to attend preschool? Will three years olds be the next target for enrollment? Will our two-year olds be sent to mandatory daycare where underpaid young women will chant their ABCs and count until everyone is dizzy? Where does this all stop? And why do I get the feeling that the state thinks parents aren’t qualified to educate their own preschoolers?

More and more, kindergarten seems like first grade and preschool seems like kindergarten. Children are rushed faster and faster to grow up quicker and quicker. At the Veteran’s Day program, I noticed a bunch of second-grade girls with highlights in their hair and pantyhose and high-heels on their feet. Slow down! What’s the big rush? You’ll have to get a job and pay taxes soon enough, little girl!

In movie theaters, I see children watching movies intended for adults. You know as well as I do that at home, children see even more inappropriate material as parents cuddle up on the couch watching movies with their kids–and sometimes, in concession to Parent Guilt, they cover their children’s eyes at the worst parts. I know 3-year olds who watch rated PG-13 movies and I can’t stop feeling judgmental about that. It’s just not right to expose children to mature themes and images.

The school district officials will tell you that full-day kindergarten will help more kids graduate from high school. I doubt it. But legislating such a law will keep lawmakers busy and will pad the salaries of school teachers and will give the appearance of making children a top priority.

Kindergarten should be a gentle introduction to school. None of my kids could have lasted through a full day of school that first year. And that first year, it took us all morning just to get ready for kindergarten.

And while I’m talking about school, can I just request an immediate halt to homework for elementary school kids? I hate kids’ homework! But the school requires it–not the individual teachers, but the school administrators. Perhaps if the school wasn’t so busy teaching children non-essentials and preparing the kids for yet more mandatory state testing, they’d finish their seat-work while still at school.

I love my local public school. I really do. I love the shiny checkerboard hallways and the festive bulletin boards with seasonal displays and the flickering fluorescent lights. I fondly remember my own school days. I want my children to love their school days. (At least I have hopes for the younger two . . . the 12-year olds’ hate school now.)

I just want those full-time days to start in first grade. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Just Another Soccer Mom Saturday Morning

My husband was away this morning, so it was up to me to take my 7-year old to his 9:00 a.m. soccer game. Not only that, but it happened to be our day to bring snacks. My husband explained to me that it was imperative that I cut up apples and oranges for halftime and then bring Oreos and Capri Suns for the end of the game.

Before we left the house then (at 8:38, only slightly behind schedule), I washed and sliced apples, peeled oranges and broke them into sections. I also fed the little kids breakfast (the 12-year olds are on their own) and put a chicken into the crockpot.

We arrived at the damp field and my son didn’t see his team. We limped along, me holding the snacks and an umbrella, my boys carrying an adult chair and a kid-sized chair and my daughter carrying her Winnie-the-Pooh unbrella. At long last, he exclaimed, “Oh, there’s my team!”

I found myself in agony watching this game between two teams of seven-year old boys. My son is the goalie and each time the other kids came barreling toward him, I wanted to close my eyes. A few weeks ago, he was kicked in the eye (thank God for cheekbones). Last week, he was kicked in an even more tender area. This week, no kicks, but alas, several goals were scored.

Then he slid hard on his backside and thigh, hard enough to make him cry. He came out of the game and his team carried on without him, which meant the other goalie let several more balls get past and the offense couldn’t seem to coordinate their efforts and score a goal. When he went back in the game, the ball smacked into him and he fell onto his knees more than once. All of this hurts even more when your tender skin is cold.

My daughter mostly sat and ate apple slices and then Oreos while the 12-year old boys took turns sitting in my chair. After a soggy hour, the game ended. My boy was disappointed that his team lost, but a good sport nonetheless.

We went to Goodwill, then, to find costumes for Halloween. My 12-year old twins are going to an event at the YMCA. One is going to be a cartoon character from some Japanese anime’ show and the other is going to be an Army guy. The army camoflauge was easy to find and we managed to pick up a few other things as well.

Then onto the bank and then to McDonald’s for lunch. We went through the drive-through and ate our lunch on the way home.

When we arrived home, I parked the car in the driveway and let out a sudden, shocking, rare, window-rattling, open-mouthed belch which spanned a seeming eternity. We sat in stunned silence for a moment. I didn’t even say “excuse me.” From the passenger seat, my blue-eyed 12-year old said dramatically, “It’s a sign of the apocalypse!”

And that comment, my friends, is the reason I had kids.

The Tenth Circle of Hell

Dante’s Inferno describes nine circles of hell, which feature such punishments as being trapped in a violent storm unable to touch each other, being forced to push rocks in opposite directions, being turned into a thorny black tree, being chased by ferocious dogs, being in a desert of flaming sands wehre flames rain from the sky, being whipped by demons, being placed head-first into a hole while flames burn the soles of the feet, having your head put on backwards so you can only see what is behind you, and being frozen in a lake of ice. (I remembered none of that. I had to look it up. What a pitiful education I’ve had.)

What Wikipedia will not tell you is that documents have been recovered which suggest a little known Tenth Circle of Hell. Which is where I spent the afternoon yesterday.

Chuck E Cheese’s The Tenth Circle of Hell is crowded with children who have no quiet, indoor voices, and catatonic adults who languish in booths watching over their territory. The adults appear to be shell-shocked, which is due to the high cost of tokens, which are the Lifeblood of the Tenth Circle of Hell. The token machines taken credit cards now and soon, they will be able to fill out the paperwork for your second mortgage.

But I thought I could survive unscathed, even though to enter you must accept the Mark of the Beast a hand-stamp. At precisely 4:00 p.m., we arrived with birthday present in hand. The mother of the birthday girl had twenty-five plates lines on the long table. No children were in sight. They began to trickle in fifteen minutes later and party seemed to sort of officially begin at 4:35 p.m.

I was lucky, though. Near the long table was an unoccupied booth, big enough for two. I marked my territory with my jean jacket and “Family Circle” magazine, then sat and watched. I read my magazine (“Love Your Life: 25 Ways to Feel Calm Every Day”, which strangely enough, didn’t mention a thing about sitting in a booth at Chuck E. Cheese’s on a Sunday afternoon), glancing up occasionally to see my son acting crazy.

He goofed off with the others. The animatronic creatures had been replaced with a fake movie camera which projects the images of the crazed children on two big screens. The girls seemed to be auditioning for MTV, while the boys took turns throwing themselves to the floor and karate-chopping each other and shaking the camera violently. Periodically, my son would hurry over and ask if I’d seen a particular stunt he’d done. At one point, a bunch of hapless employees joined a costumed Chuck (can I call you “Chuck”?) as he danced a few numbers. The bored manner in which these employees danced was a delight.

At long last, pizza was served. At long long, pizza was finished. At long last, tokens were distributed. Ten tokens for each child. Knowing ten tokens would never be enough and hoping to parole myself Chuck E. Cheese’s the Tenth Circle of Hell for at least another year, I bought twenty bucks worth of tokens–which works out to 105. I redeemed myself by actually tagging along and playing games with my boy and his friend (who was mooching tokens from us). (I had long since finished my magazine.) I demonstrated my propensity for gambling by plugging token after token into this game in which (in the words of this website,) “The coin or token will land on a flat surface or surfaces which have a sweeper(s) and/or a pusher arm moving across the surface or surfaces.” I could easily put all 105 tokens in that machine, but I didn’t.

When we spent all the tokens, turned the 311 tickets into a receipt, and “purchased” our cheap trinkets, we went back to see if the cake was being served. No. It was not. Instead, birthday party mom had distribute goody bags which contained torturous noise-makers. Suddenly, the room was filled the sound of ten thousand crows having their tailfeathers plucked out one by one and dog-whistle kind of whistles, which oddly enough, considering my state of near-deafness, I could hear.

A grown adult, a man, stood blowing a whistle over and over. I was about to suggest to the three other moms sitting near me (they’d infringed on my booth territory while I was busy gambling playing games, but I’d assured them, “”Oh no, that’s fine. Stay there,” and then I eavesdropped, but sadly to say, they were very boring) that one of us needed to slap that noise-making lunatic and I was willing to offer ten bucks to the slapper, but instead, I just sat glaring deathrays at that man who eventually did stop, but not a second too soon. I had slapped him in my imagination about ten times by then. (No wonder I was sitting in the Tenth Circle of Hell with such dreadful thoughts.)

The cake was finally served and the second my son finished licking his plate (over and over and over again and then some more, was he raised by wolves, hungry wolves on the Atkins plan with a fierce sugar craving?) I marched over to birthday party mom and shook her sticky hand and thanked her profusely. And I said that I hoped she’d get to put up her feet when she got home.

We left at 6:15 p.m. I have no idea when the birthday girl opened gifts.

As we walked out in the sudden stillness of the evening, my son said, “Mom, you know what kind of parties I like the best? Chuck E. Cheese’s and Odyssey 1.”

Yeah, me, too. That and being chased by venomous snakes and being plunged into a lake of burning pitch and then, as a grand finale, being steeped in human excrement.

The Fair

Immediately following Sunday School, I took my two youngest children with me to The Fair. The shuttle bus ride was the highlight for my three-year old girl. My seven-year old begged to ride a few rides and I let him, despite my saying, “We are just going to see the animals. No rides.”

My daughter rode her first kid-sized roller coaster and she did not enjoy it. I cradled her as we whipped around and around, six times, I counted. Each time we passed the carnival worker, I’d beg silently, Please, please, stop this thing! Out loud, into my daughter’s ear, I’d say, “You’re doing great! We’re almost done!” She didn’t cry, but she wasn’t thrilled, either. I wasn’t thrilled to see the carnival worker pressing a flannel cloth to his nose. What sort of contagious disease did that guy have, anyway?

My son rode three or four rides and confessed afterward that he didn’t actually like “The Kamikaze,” a contraption that swings two boat-like cars back and forth and finally, completely around, upside down. He’s such a trooper–he rode the rides by himself because I couldn’t leave his sister.

But before the rides, we passed through the livestock barns. My three-year old hopped and clapped at the sight of one cow behind after another. She greeted the goats, sheep, turkeys, zebras, and horses with equal enthusiasm.

All told, we were at The Fair for two and a half hours.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon cleaning up my twin boys’ room. I took a Sharpie marker and labeled their dresser drawers so they can more easily find and put away their clothes. Both dressers were garage sale finds, so I wrote directly on the drawers. My daughter watched me do that and I just hope she doesn’t think my actions give her license to write on the furniture, too.

While I was cleaning the boys’ room, my kids were busy wreaking havoc in other rooms.

Yesterday, I took my daughter to the grocery store, which she completely adores. She picked out a small pumpkin to take home, a “sugar” pumpkin meant to be baked and used in cooking. She cradled that pumpkin all the way home and after a few blocks said, “I want some treats in my pumpkin.”

The child remembers last year’s trick-or-treating, apparently. I find it so strange that small children can remember things from the distant past. She still remembers the cat we had when she was a baby. It was a black cat named Shadow and he ran away (we figure) when she was about eighteen months old. One day, months later, we were walking on a bright sunny day and I said, “Look at your shadow!” She looked around and wanted to know where the cat was. It took me a few minutes to realize what she was talking about.