Household Chores

When we moved into our current home, four years ago, I saw an opportunity to have my boys be more active in working with us to maintain cleanliness. I had lofty long-term goals. As a liberated woman raising boys, I wanted to prepare them to be the kind of men who understand and appreciate being in an equal partnership with a spouse. And, also true but more practical, we didn’t have a maid and I hate housework.

Why do children only want to help you when they are incompetent? Secret Service was very helpful at age 2. He spent long periods of time standing on a chair at the kitchen sink, the water running (look – I know running the water was wasteful, but there were days when I could find no other way to appease him), “washing” Tupperware. Now, when I’d like him to wash dishes, he will not, cannot, bear the thought of touching dishes that had food on them.

Seeking a chore that he could execute, I tried to get Secret Service to help me fold laundry. Although he can make an intricate paper airplane, he cannot fold a towel in half. Eventually, through a tedious process of trial and error, Secret Service showed aptitude in vacuuming. (Sidebar confession -When Sport was 2 years old, a teacher showed him picture cards and asked that he identify the object on each card. I held my breath when the picture on the card showed a vacuum as I was sure Sport had never seen me push one of those, and I felt terrible that Sport would appear less bright due to his mother’s poor housekeeping. Luckily, Sport had been an avid viewer of enough TV that he recognized the contraption from the Teletubby show and was victorious in correctly answering the question.) Anyway, although Secret Service consents to vacuuming, being a clever fellow, he holds to the rule touted in the Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie when Rodrick, the oldest brother tells Greg, (paraphrased here) - “Don’t be good at anything you don’t like to do.” When Secret vacuums, he (I believe purposefully) periodically hits the vacuum against the furniture and even after being directed hundreds of times to move the ottoman out of the way, “forgets” to do so.

Sport was also extremely helpful when he was 2 years old but he’s more willing to help now, too. Sport wants to learn chores that seem to have an element of danger. Recently, with exuberance, he asked to be taught how to iron. I don’t see that as a good choice for Sport. Over time, Sports’ favorite chore has been to clean the bathrooms. He likes squirting products, enjoys using a toilet brush, doesn’t mind working up a sweat. A few years ago, as we were praising him lavishly, we realized we may have over-emphasized his proficiency when Sport announced that he thought he’d like to clean toilets for a living. I know being a janitor is honorable work but we were aiming a little higher for Sport.

When I've clarified the necessity of being prepared for adulthood, the boys have reassured me by explaining that when they are grown up, they will be rich and they will be hiring a housekeeper. I hope they'll pay for one for me, too.

Back to School

The boys have been back to school for a week now and they are adjusting to a new routine, early mornings, homework. They’re fine, but I’m exhausted.

Sport, who last year could have moonlighted as a product tester, has successfully made it through the first 5 days with his backpack in good shape. He has been very pleased to note that his new shoes still look as if they’ve just come out of the box. The verdict is still out on his lunchbox which failed to report for duty this morning. Sport, with a puzzled look on his face, said he was sure he returned his lunchbox to his backpack after lunch yesterday. Still, two out of three is terrific for Sport. Last year he was 0 for 3 by the end of his first week of school.

I found myself in Secret Service’s school yesterday, at the end of the school day. Secret Service only welcomes me into his world when I’m holding a check book, VISA card or cash. I was on the third floor purchasing books for his literature class when he arrived. Afterwards, as we walked down the hall, I asked, “Do you have any classes on this floor?” Secret nodded. “Which ones?” I asked. Obviously, I had pried too much. Secret shut down, too much sharing. His answer, “Something.”

The way homework works in our family is that if the boys need help, I assist with English, Science Girl takes on Science, we share Social Studies, and you’re on your own for Math once you get to Middle School. This week, Secret Service had to develop a speech, sharing information about himself in a way that was creative. At one point, I proposed that he do a rap. He said, “Only nerds rap.” I had lots of other recommendations, all of which he rejected. Instead of developing a novel way to introduce himself, Secret Service’s idea is to sit in the back of the classroom to avoid being called on. So far, that seems to be successful for him.

As a homework assignment, Sport had to assemble a “me” bag, filled with 3 – 5 objects that would instruct his peers about who he is. I was touched when I saw him place a family photo of the four of us in the “me” bag. He looked up, shrugged, and said, “I can’t find a picture of the dog.”

Weekend at Home

In our family, we have very different ideas about how to spend our weekends. Science Girl likes to be at home. She enjoys doing household tasks like gardening or reorganizing the pantry. She likes to get up early on a weekend morning, dabble in her projects, run errands, and then fall into a deep sleep for the afternoon while the boys run amok. Secret Service and Sport don’t mind staying home and hanging around the house, either. Secret Service likes to go outside, turn on the hose, and watch the water run. Since he’s got the water on, I tried to get him to wash the cars or water the flowers, but he’s not interested in that. Maybe he is soothed by the sound of running water but then again, he isn’t paying the water bill. Another of his favorite pastimes is to patrol the neighborhood holding an air gun, alert to any sign of wasp nests. When he finds one, he attempts to shoot it down. I’m not sure what success he’s had but he hasn’t been stung yet, so that’s a plus. Meanwhile, Sport and his next door buddy enjoy doing experiments in the front yard. Recently, they proudly announced that they’d made paint from scratch and sure enough there was a white paint-like splatter on the lawn, sidewalk and Sports’ shoes. Sport also likes to gather all of our pillows, couch cushions, sheets and blankets to build a fort. This also involves turning many of the chairs over as they serve to stabilize the structure. It’s all fun and games until someone is unreasonable and wants to sit in a chair or have a blanket on their bed.

These aren’t my ideas of a good time. On the weekends, I like to get out of the house. I like to see friends and go places. But, as everyone learned in kindergarten, you have to take turns. So, this weekend I yielded to what the others wanted to do and we were home a lot. I made efforts to break up the monotony by offering to take the boys to buy a few new clothes for the start of the school year or to swim in one of our neighborhood pools. They declined.

Science Girl happily puttered around. She pulled a lot of weeds from the flower beds, made a trip to Mecca, I mean, Home Depot, watched a pre-season football game on TV, took an afternoon nap. She was following her bliss. On Sunday afternoon, she invited the boys to help her install shelves in the garage.

Now, as I want to educate and illuminate the boys about travel and the arts, Science Girl wants to teach them how to care for their future homes. When I passed through the garage, Secret Service was standing on a tall ladder, using a battery powered drill. Sport, waiting patiently for his turn, was on a scooter, winding and turning one way and another through the lawn tools, bicycles and athletic equipment strewn around the garage. Another time, Sport was on a ladder, requesting a power tool and Secret Service was measuring something.

Home maintenance must make you hungry. All day, the boys trooped in and out of the kitchen, scavenging for food. I felt like I was living the children’s book, The Hungry Caterpillar (1 gogurt, 7 glasses of lemonade, 11 tangerines, 23 pretzel nuggets). It was easy to see what they’d eaten because they’d left all the wrappers and empty glasses on the counter. I had been to the grocery store earlier, but they cleaned me out. (Another reason to take the family out for the day – when you come home all your food is still there.)

When it was time for dinner, they all trooped in from the garage. The boys said they were starved. “How do the shelves look?” I asked.

“We couldn’t get it to work,” Science Girl said sadly. “We’ll have to try again next weekend.”

As I brought the food to the table, I thought I heard water running outside. Before I could ask Secret Service if he'd left the water on, he asked how he was supposed to eat if he had no chair. Sport said the fort would fall if we removed a chair, Science Girl was reading her directions from the shelves to figure out where they'd gone wrong. I started a new grocery list.

Almost back to school

I read and try to follow the prevailing parenting wisdom. The parenting "experts" all recommend taking children to the library, introducing them to literature, modeling reading. So, like the "A" Mommy I aspire to be, I took my kids to the library yesterday. Secret Service spent his time looking at DVD's, periodically trying to convince me to let him check out one with an "R" rating. Meanwhile, Sport used my library card to get on a children's computer and play games. I checked out a book for myself and found two books that I will coerce Sport to read. They checked out nothing.

The experts think children should be involved in daily living tasks so I took them with me to run errands and teach them about the world. When we went to the post office, I bought some stamps and tried to discuss the cost of mail and gave a tiny explanation of the Pony Express. The boys sat together on a bench and played "Angry Birds" on my phone. Next, we got in the drive-up lane at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for me. Secret Service, upon seeing my insurance card, asked if all jobs offer insurance. I answered him and then, thinking we had a teaching moment, went into a short soliloquy about the need for domestic partner benefits. When I finished, Secret Service looked at me. He said, "It takes 3 minutes for each car to have its' turn at the prescription window."

We arrived home and I explained we're going to be electronic-free for a while. I suggested each boy read a book. I handed Sport one of the books I'd gotten for him and pointed to the book Secret Service is supposed to read for school. Rejecting his book, Secret Service announced, "I've got a football team to run." Both boys raced out the front door, Secret Service blowing a whistle and giving directions, Sport running back and forth like an animal out of its' cage. I saw no sign of a football.

Soon, (too soon) they were back inside. I was reminded of all those well meaning parenting experts who suggest that kids are over-scheduled and need time to play, to ponder, to create. My children, their books unopened, were now actively engaged in wrestling each other in the living room. Because they are creative, they were also slapping each other, shoving each other into furniture, all the while shrieking and laughing maniacally. The dog got into the action, too. The boys attempted to smother each other with my couch pillows, the dog tried to bite the pillows. I muttered to the dog, don't bite the pillows, bite the boys. I tried to wait patiently for the inevitable ending - someone always gets hurt. Soon, Sport claimed that he'd been injured. I didn't even inquire about the injury, just used it as the reason that I insisted they go outside to play.

Unfazed, they ignored me. I did what the experts say, I got closer, made eye contact, gave choices. I said, "Would you rather read or do chores?" Sport answered quickly and chose chores. Secret Service offered no response, inscrutable as ever. He motioned to his brother and they went back outside. Briefly, I worried about the neighbors. The experts suggest teaching kids about "inside" and "outside" voices but my boys outside voices are super loud and boisterous.

When I glance outside, my younger boy is wearing a helmet and laying on his back on a skateboard and the older one is pulling him. It begins to rain. I stick my head out the door to beckon them inside. They refuse to come. It isn't until becoming a parent that I've really understood the expression, "doesn't have sense to come out of the rain." They finally troop in, soaked. They are dripping wet but don't think it is necessary to change their clothes. The experts say let them have natural consequences for their behavior - if they get pneumonia they'll learn their lesson. However, it seems I am always the one who gets taught the lesson. Today's lesson has something to do with wet clothes and furniture.

I sigh. School starts tomorow. Until then, I contemplate handing them the TV remote.

Shopping with boys

With back to school shopping needing to be done, I have been reflecting on our past shopping trips with the boys. One that stands out in my mind was a couple of years ago. Innocently, without cruel intentions or malice, my partner and I had taken our two boys to Sears, to get them each new shoes.

Our older son, “Secret Service,” had played two hockey games and a baseball game that weekend plus tackle football with his younger brother right before the shopping trip, but as soon as we got inside the shoe department, he reported that his body was so wracked with pain, he was unable to remove his shoes so that we could get an accurate measurement of his feet. While he winced and squirmed (and whined), still unable to pull his foot from his shoe, the younger one, “Sport,” happily got sized. Miraculously, his feet had not grown, so he was eligible to select a new pair of shoes by the same manufacturer and we wouldn’t have to pay. Thrilled to save money, we showed him the section of these shoes. Like a diminutive, affluent gentleman, with distinctive, superior taste, he turned his nose up at this selection of familiar shoes, instead declaring that he wanted a “new look.” He went about opening and looking into numerous boxes, talking to himself about white shoes, that we knew would be dark the moment he stepped out of the store, silver shoes that looked like aliens had landed on earth, and black shoes etched with neon lime green trim.

Meanwhile, Secret Service, his old shoes still tightly fastened to his feet, had fallen into a heap on the floor, writhing and whimpering about the pain he was in. Sympathetic patrons looked upon us as if we were deranged to bring a suffering child to Sears instead of the local minor emergency center. Eventually, with the bribe of a piece of chewing gum, he did gingerly produce his feet for measurement and did grudgingly accept a replacement for the tattered shoes he had been wearing.

We then turned our full attention back to Sport, the one who seemed exuberant in his love of shoes. He announced that none of the shoes that we offered were right for him, the look he was after. He tried on every shoe his size and like a fussy Goldylocks, claimed one was too tight, one was too loose, one was too ugly, one was just like what he’d had, and on and on. My partner and I scurried around, proffering shoes of various hues, trying to convince him that the shoes we wanted him to select looked lovely on his feet. Eventually, a deal was struck.

Upon leaving the store, Secret Service, who had still been glum and reporting unmitigated pain, had a liveliness to his step. I guess, you’re happy we’re going home, I said. Well, he answered, I thought since we behaved so well, we could go for ice cream. Sport agreed.

My Family

I wanted to introduce readers (and there are easily a half dozen of you) to my immediate family. My partner and co-matriarch of the family is "Science Girl." Science Girl grew up nurturing a burning desire to someday have a job where she could wear a white lab coat (not as a fashion statement but as a Scientist) and in her professional life, she has accomplished this. At home, Science Girl reads and follows directions, measures fabric before cutting, subtracts the checks she writes from her bank balance, follows posted speed limits when driving and all sorts of crazy things that seem to me like unnecessary steps in a busy life. I am emotion and she is logic. We're different, and sometimes I find her idiosyncrasies charming, and other times, annoying.

Our oldest boy, "Secret Service," now a teenager, has kept his life private from us since he was small. When Secret Service attended kindergarten, I would come to pick him up and stand outside the door listening to songs sung, books read, art projects completed. When all the children filed out and I was reunited with my son, I'd ask him about his day.

"What'd you do today?"
Secret Service would reply, "Nothing."
Puzzled, I'd continue to inquire. "Did you sing?"
He'd shake his head no.
"I heard singing."
"We didn't sing."
"Did the teacher read a story?"
"Nope."
"Did you do a craft project?"
At this point, Secret Service would give me a look that over the years we took to mean that he'd shared enough.

This trend has continued and over the years, we have had to glean our information from the bulletins that the school publishes, the parent grapevine and teacher conferences. When we don't get up-to-date intelligence, we end up being surprised by what we find. One time we arrived at Secret Service's school play expecting that he was in the chorus and discovered he had a major role.

While our older son spends his time away from us shrouded in mystery, it is refreshing that our younger son, "Sport" is willing to share details about his day. Although our public elementary school claims they are working hard to get students to achieve, Sport denies that much of his time is spent doing Language Arts (that's the fancy term for Reading, Writing, and Spelling) or Math. Instead, Sport's stories about his school day are always about recess. Our son has developed a love and fierce devotion for a playground game called four square, and if colleges were recruiting for four square players or if there were professional four square teams with million dollar signing bonuses, he'd be set. At the end of each school day, Sport captivates us with his colorful stories of competing for the captaincy of a four square team, other students clamoring for a chance to play with him, his heroic efforts to win, the students who he takes under his wing to coach in the art of the game. Many stories are told with instant re-play moves acted out for dramatic effect.

Sometimes, I badger him for additional information about his day. Smiling and with good cheer, Sport is also willing to re-enact his moves on the flag football and basketball courts.

One of many reasons why I'm tired

When I've mentioned being tired, a few friends noted that my first blog entry was posted in the middle of the night and these friends helpfulfully suggested that I'd be less tired if I slept. That's good logic and I can't argue with it.

However, sleep often eludes me and I've decided to make that work for me. I've taken a part-time overnight position which capitalizes on my inability to sleep by necessitating that I stay awake all night at least two nights a week.

I think we should all work with our strengths and one of mine is that I am able to stay awake at night. Truthfully, when it is bedtime, I resist going to sleep. I blame my parents (this is a theme) for putting me to bed earlier than other children every night of my childhood. I remember going to bed while other kids continued to play outside in the summer and missing the good TV shows because they were past my bedtime. (One of my wishes, while growing up in New Jersey, was to live in one of those time zones where the shows came on an hour earlier. Sometimes dreams really do come true.)

I started this new schedule this summer, so my children have been at home when I've returned from work, groggy, in the morning. Thankfully, they've been supportive of my need for daytime slumber. I think they enjoy not being under my watchful eye, as my eyes are closed. I don't think anything too terrible has occurred while I slept, mostly the same things that go on when I'm alert - avoidance of chores and excessive TV watching.

Summer Vacation

There is nothing I love more than travel. (Well, obviously I love my family more. And, uninterrupted sleep, someone else cleaning my house, and --- wait, I digress.) But, I do love to travel. And, I'm finding that for some destinations, you have to plan way in advance. I'm already thinking about a trip next summer, so my first step is always to ask where my family wants to go. Without fail, the answers (even from the other adult in the home) are a beach or a Disney-type theme park. Then, the second step I always take is to ignore their input.

I want to take them to east coast cities, so rich with history - New York City, Boston, Philadelphia and Washington, DC. We're fortunate that we have family in NJ/NY so in the past couple of years, whenever we go to see family, we try to have a day in the city. The boys fight me as we leave the comfort of my sister's home, filled with various electronic devices, but they've enjoyed touring the Intrepid, walking through the enormous Museum of Natural History and seeing a Broadway show.

Last winter, my younger son made an off-hand comment about wanting to see the Lincoln Memorial. I threw myself on that, having always wanted to take the kids to D.C., a city of enormous sightseeing potential and where I went to college. I organized a trip there for us in early June. Sadly, we arrived in the midst of an unprecedented and unwelcome heat wave. Undaunted, each morning, I marched my crew out into the oven-like city, pushing them on to see the various sights. Periodically, when they weren't too parched from the heat to complain, the children would say they didn't want to be in D.C.

I would patiently explain that the younger one had picked this destination and we had to respect that. The older one would look at him with thinly veiled hatred and the younger one would howl that it wasn't so.

So, for next summer, they may have said "beach," but I think I heard "Boston." Instead of laying on sand, I think they'd really enjoy walking the Freedom Trail. They're baseball fans so I'm even willing to throw in a game at Fenway Park. I think they'll love it!