Perhaps as part of his self taught CIA/FBI training, my son, Secret Service, has developed a clever method of eavesdropping. Like many of us, at the end of a conversation, he leaves the room where we've been talking. Unlike many of us, he turns a corner so that he's out of sight and then waits. Secret believes that sometimes we will say something interesting after he leaves the room and he wants to know what that is.
I don't know what juicy tidbits of family gossip Secret has scored in this manner. His surveillance techniques are based on the assumptions that we don't tell him directly what we think and feel about him and that we know things that we aren't sharing.
This whole situation seems ironic because Science Girl and I feel like when we talk to Secret, face to face, he isn't listening. We have to get him to pull ear buds out of his ears, we have to repeat ourselves, we have to insist that he make eye contact. Yet, secretly, this child is so intrigued by what we've got to say that he's hiding and trying to hear us.
The other day, we were all in the kitchen and Science Girl and I were instructing Secret to take out the garbage. This, like all other household tasks assigned to Secret, was not to his liking. I believe it wasn't convenient for him to do the chore at that time, there was a short burst of disagreement, which resulted in Secret stomping out of the room holding the trash bag. Science Girl and I remained in the kitchen, heard Secret walk through the mudroom, heard the door to the garage open and close. I smiled at her. "He sounds just like me when he argues," I said proudly. "He uses a lot of the same exact expressions I do."
Just then, we heard something in the mudroom. I peaked around the corner. Secret, still holding the garbage, stood there scowling. I smiled pleasantly at him. "Here," I said, "let me help you with the door."
When he was really gone, Science Girl and I chuckled. "I don't think that was what he was hoping to hear," she said.
I think we should try to remember that Secret may be lurking around any corner of our house and remember to say warm and loving things when he leaves the room. As a parent, it is gratifying to see yourself reflected in your child, even if it is the negative. I especially will try to note when Secrets' behavior reminds me of me. If that doesn't stop the eavesdropping, I don't know what will.
Showing posts with label mommy blogger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mommy blogger. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Summer Wrap-Up
As I prepare to wrap up my second full month of blogging, I wanted to give a shout out to some of the places I have referenced in the blog and to some that I should have.
Secret Service and I had a good shopping experience at K & G Fashion Superstore http://www.kgmens.com/ and I would recommend it to those looking for boys or menswear. The one we went to had an independent tailor shop within it, which made it super convenient. Also, we found a great selection of reasonably priced men's dress shoes at http://offbroadwayshoes.com/ Off Broadway Shoes. Those of you with teenagers know that their feet grow before the rest of their body and when Secret and I took the shoes to the counter to pay, the salesclerk looked surprised. She glanced at the size 9 (!) shoes and at Secret, who is holding steady at about 5'2" and said, "Are these for him?" On the way home, Secret, impressed by the size of his own feet, asked me if I'd ever heard that shoe size was related to . . . I acknowledged that I'd heard that, but didn't think there was truth in it. Still, I could tell he was hopeful.
I haven't been browsing http://foodnetwork.com/ the Food Network site as much since having to singlehandedly eat Paula Deens' spaghetti pie for five days, but I still recommend it when you are looking for inspiration for something new to cook.
This summer, did anyone watch http://nbc.com/americas-got-talent/ America's Got Talent? It became a ritual for our family to sit down together. We all had our favorite acts, but I have to admit that Landau Eugene Murphy, Jr. was my man from the beginning. I can't remember the last time I bought music but when he releases an album, I'm lining up. There is something about his humble personality, rags to riches story and unexpected talent that just makes me smile.
It's Autumn. Any traditions or rituals that you enjoy this time of year?
Secret Service and I had a good shopping experience at K & G Fashion Superstore http://www.kgmens.com/ and I would recommend it to those looking for boys or menswear. The one we went to had an independent tailor shop within it, which made it super convenient. Also, we found a great selection of reasonably priced men's dress shoes at http://offbroadwayshoes.com/ Off Broadway Shoes. Those of you with teenagers know that their feet grow before the rest of their body and when Secret and I took the shoes to the counter to pay, the salesclerk looked surprised. She glanced at the size 9 (!) shoes and at Secret, who is holding steady at about 5'2" and said, "Are these for him?" On the way home, Secret, impressed by the size of his own feet, asked me if I'd ever heard that shoe size was related to . . . I acknowledged that I'd heard that, but didn't think there was truth in it. Still, I could tell he was hopeful.
I haven't been browsing http://foodnetwork.com/ the Food Network site as much since having to singlehandedly eat Paula Deens' spaghetti pie for five days, but I still recommend it when you are looking for inspiration for something new to cook.
This summer, did anyone watch http://nbc.com/americas-got-talent/ America's Got Talent? It became a ritual for our family to sit down together. We all had our favorite acts, but I have to admit that Landau Eugene Murphy, Jr. was my man from the beginning. I can't remember the last time I bought music but when he releases an album, I'm lining up. There is something about his humble personality, rags to riches story and unexpected talent that just makes me smile.
It's Autumn. Any traditions or rituals that you enjoy this time of year?
Monday, September 26, 2011
Suit Shopping with a Growing Boy
On Sunday, I took Secret Service clothes shopping. Secret hates clothes shopping and tries to convince me to go to the store without him, buy several varieties of outfits in various sizes for him, bring them home, have him try them on and then return whatever doesn't fit. Actually, Secret doesn't feel it is necessary to try on clothes, he thinks you can get an accurate measurement by holding the clothes up against your body.
Secret Service needed a new suit for the Speech and Debate class that he inadvertently signed up for and has been trying to quit ever since he got to the class and understood that he would actually have to give a speech or debate someone about something. Supposedly, he has written a speech and possibly even memorized it. Science Girl and I have not seen or heard the speech and Secret says if he has anything to do with it, we won't be seeing or hearing him perform it.
I asked a few friends about places to buy a reasonably priced suit for my growth-spurting boy. One friend suggested I get a suit for Secret at a thrift store. I explained that Secret has a rule about not wearing clothes that have been previously worn by others. While we drove to the clothing store, Secret, in more of an expansive mood than usual, chatted about how his first car is going to be a Mercedes. Secret reviewed some data on his phone and announced he can get a new Mercedes for $34,000 and if he earned $10,000 a year, he'd pretty much have the money in a little more than three years. Secret was not forthcoming on how he'd earn the $10,000 each year but didn't seem worried so I decided not to worry either. I am driving a Mazda so I wished him well and reminded him to budget for insurance.
I took Secret to a discount clothing store. He was unimpressed with the selection and said he suspected it was a consignment shop (which it was not!). While there, for the first time, Secret gave me a few more details, supposedly from the Speech and Debate teacher. Secret said the suit had to be solid black or grey, no pinstripes or navy. Secret also said the teacher told them to buy a good quality suit, "an expensive suit," because they'd be wearing it a lot and should look good and be comfortable. Not finding anything that met that criteria, we went on to another discount menswear store. In this store, Secret became insistent on buying a suit that I could tell was already too small for him. Trying to be patient (it isn't really one of my virtues), I explained that as a teenager he won't be getting smaller and instead, will be growing larger. I said that a suit that is too small today will be even smaller tomorrow. Thinking I'd handled that well, I was not happy when Secret said, "I disagree." However, it made me appreciate his potential for debate, his ability to defend a ridiculous position.
When we found a suit that was solid black, fit him and that he actually looked terrific in, Secret was unhappy. He wanted to spend all my money and the suit was a reasonable price. He perked up a little when he discovered I'd have to pay additional for alterations. We pick it up next week.
Secret Service needed a new suit for the Speech and Debate class that he inadvertently signed up for and has been trying to quit ever since he got to the class and understood that he would actually have to give a speech or debate someone about something. Supposedly, he has written a speech and possibly even memorized it. Science Girl and I have not seen or heard the speech and Secret says if he has anything to do with it, we won't be seeing or hearing him perform it.
I asked a few friends about places to buy a reasonably priced suit for my growth-spurting boy. One friend suggested I get a suit for Secret at a thrift store. I explained that Secret has a rule about not wearing clothes that have been previously worn by others. While we drove to the clothing store, Secret, in more of an expansive mood than usual, chatted about how his first car is going to be a Mercedes. Secret reviewed some data on his phone and announced he can get a new Mercedes for $34,000 and if he earned $10,000 a year, he'd pretty much have the money in a little more than three years. Secret was not forthcoming on how he'd earn the $10,000 each year but didn't seem worried so I decided not to worry either. I am driving a Mazda so I wished him well and reminded him to budget for insurance.
I took Secret to a discount clothing store. He was unimpressed with the selection and said he suspected it was a consignment shop (which it was not!). While there, for the first time, Secret gave me a few more details, supposedly from the Speech and Debate teacher. Secret said the suit had to be solid black or grey, no pinstripes or navy. Secret also said the teacher told them to buy a good quality suit, "an expensive suit," because they'd be wearing it a lot and should look good and be comfortable. Not finding anything that met that criteria, we went on to another discount menswear store. In this store, Secret became insistent on buying a suit that I could tell was already too small for him. Trying to be patient (it isn't really one of my virtues), I explained that as a teenager he won't be getting smaller and instead, will be growing larger. I said that a suit that is too small today will be even smaller tomorrow. Thinking I'd handled that well, I was not happy when Secret said, "I disagree." However, it made me appreciate his potential for debate, his ability to defend a ridiculous position.
When we found a suit that was solid black, fit him and that he actually looked terrific in, Secret was unhappy. He wanted to spend all my money and the suit was a reasonable price. He perked up a little when he discovered I'd have to pay additional for alterations. We pick it up next week.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Dinner Time
My current work schedule has allowed me the opportunity to plan and cook dinners at home, which I would enjoy if the boys would eat what I prepare. Instead, if one likes what I make, the other does not, and sometimes, neither likes it. I like trying new recipes so I had been scouring the Food Network site for ideas. Each evening, I would happily set the food on the table with recognition about the chef who created the recipe like, "Paula Deens' spaghetti pie." By the way, I thought Paula Deens' spaghetti pie was delicious, but neither boy would eat it. The recipe made enough for 12 people which resulted in a lot of leftovers for lunches for Science Girl and me. (Science Girl started to crumble when I packed the spaghetti pie in her lunch the third day and on day 4, she threatened to leave me if I sent it again.) After weeks of new recipes, but the same results, Science Girl did an intervention on me. She sat me down and had me look at the facts.
1. The boys (despite my best efforts) are not adventurous eaters.
2. (And, much like #1) - The boys want to eat the same foods over and over.
Her conclusion was that I should just make the foods they will eat. That leaves me with the following repertoire of dishes - burgers, steak, pasta, eggs, pizza. (Boring!)
I have heard that if kids help make the food, they are proud of their efforts and will be more invested in eating what they helped to prepare. I talked to each boy separately about developing a menu for a dinner. Sports' idea was to buy already prepared sushi and serve it. I nixed that so he's had to go back to the drawing board. Secret Service suggested making egg drop soup. He's made it before and both boys love it. I was encouraged - an idea I could work with. "What else should we serve?' I asked. Secret looked confused. "That's all," he said. "That's the whole meal?" He nodded.
So, as I write my grocery list, filled with the same old items, I can't help but check out the Food Network site, looking for recipes for tofu (I could pass it off as a pale burger) or calzones (like pizza but inside the double crust). I hope I can find a compromise between what they want and what I want.
1. The boys (despite my best efforts) are not adventurous eaters.
2. (And, much like #1) - The boys want to eat the same foods over and over.
Her conclusion was that I should just make the foods they will eat. That leaves me with the following repertoire of dishes - burgers, steak, pasta, eggs, pizza. (Boring!)
I have heard that if kids help make the food, they are proud of their efforts and will be more invested in eating what they helped to prepare. I talked to each boy separately about developing a menu for a dinner. Sports' idea was to buy already prepared sushi and serve it. I nixed that so he's had to go back to the drawing board. Secret Service suggested making egg drop soup. He's made it before and both boys love it. I was encouraged - an idea I could work with. "What else should we serve?' I asked. Secret looked confused. "That's all," he said. "That's the whole meal?" He nodded.
So, as I write my grocery list, filled with the same old items, I can't help but check out the Food Network site, looking for recipes for tofu (I could pass it off as a pale burger) or calzones (like pizza but inside the double crust). I hope I can find a compromise between what they want and what I want.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Letting Go
Sport is the kind of child who is rarely afraid of anything and as his mother, that makes me afraid for him. He is also a child who has a spiffy new bike and attends an elementary school that encourages students to walk or ride their bikes to school each day. Sport, now in 5th grade, has launched a vigorous campaign to be one of those students. On the face of it, it sounds like a good deal, exercise and independence. He has a buddy who already has permission to ride his bike to school and that child's mom explained to me that she has extensively reviewed the safest route for the boys to take and expectations about being safe in traffic. I get that but the part of me that is a Social Worker and has listened to many stories of bad things happening to innocent children, leads me to want to give the bad guys of the world less opportunity to be near my child. Meanwhile, Sport isn't having any of it. He saw kids his own age and younger ride their bikes to the day camp this summer and pushed relentlessly to be able to do so. Our compromise was that he could ride his bike but I would follow him in the car.
Recently, when I lamented to two friends about Sports' insistence to bike to school, they (separately) said, "Don't you want him to be independent? It got me thinking. While I don't want my boys living in our basement in their adulthood, I don't feel any urgency to have them become independent now.
The Internet said the preteen years are an important time for children to begin developing responsible behavior. In a study found on the Internet, it said Generation O youngsters (O is for optimistic and opportunistic) are growing up younger. Enfranchised by information technology, they are more independent and sophisticated than their predecessors and more confident about what they can achieve. I don't know if Sport is considered part of Generation O, but that description fits him. He cheerfully and enthusiastically insists on his independence.
Sport and I have come to a new compromise. He can join his buddy to ride to and from school two days a week. Sport is thrilled but I am still filled with great trepidation. In the morning, I stand at the house and watch them go. I don't get in the car to follow them.
Recently, when I lamented to two friends about Sports' insistence to bike to school, they (separately) said, "Don't you want him to be independent? It got me thinking. While I don't want my boys living in our basement in their adulthood, I don't feel any urgency to have them become independent now.
The Internet said the preteen years are an important time for children to begin developing responsible behavior. In a study found on the Internet, it said Generation O youngsters (O is for optimistic and opportunistic) are growing up younger. Enfranchised by information technology, they are more independent and sophisticated than their predecessors and more confident about what they can achieve. I don't know if Sport is considered part of Generation O, but that description fits him. He cheerfully and enthusiastically insists on his independence.
Sport and I have come to a new compromise. He can join his buddy to ride to and from school two days a week. Sport is thrilled but I am still filled with great trepidation. In the morning, I stand at the house and watch them go. I don't get in the car to follow them.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Family Car Trips
I was re-reading a book that I have,"101 Things Every Kid Should Do Growing Up," by Alecia T. Devantier. I have enjoyed seeing her ideas about what makes an ideal childhood. One of her ideas is that every kid should experience a family car trip. It got me to reminiscing about some of our family car trips.
Ever since Secret Service was small, he enjoyed all modes of transportation except the car. He admired buses, trains, always had a passion for airplanes, enjoyed a boat ride. But, get him in the car and he becomes unpleasant.
Several years ago, Science Girl had accumulated some Marriott points and since we had no plans to go out of town in the foreseeable future, we thought it would be fun to take our then 5 year old and 1 year old to a town 40 minutes away. We knew that Secret Service was not a fan of a long car ride but we prepared him for a "long" car ride, saying we were going on a vacation and would stay at a hotel. We were smug, thinking that before he could begin to complain, we'd surprise him by already being at our destination. Late on a Friday afternoon, we packed up and Science Girl eased the car onto the highway. We shared a smile as we handed Secret a book to look at, a stuffed animal to hold and put on one of his favorite music tapes.
Soon, Secret pierced the relative quiet of the car by starting the chant, known to parents everywhere. "Are we there yet?' he asked. I looked at the clock. We'd been in the car for 7 minutes.
"Where could we be?" I asked, as if he'd have a sensible answer. I turned to Science Girl, "How could we be at a vacation destination in 7 minutes?" I was indignant. To no one in particular, I exclaimed, "We couldn't even be at the airport in 7 minutes!" Of course, Secret was not interested in these details, he just continued to intermittently whine about it for the next 33 minutes.
I thought maybe 5 was too young to appreciate a family car trip so when Secret was 8, we drove with both boys from Portland, Oregon to Seattle, Washington, with a stop at Mount St. Helen. Secret had professed an interest in Mount St Helen. We handed the kids books, music, snacks. This time, because Secret was so much older and more mature, it took 20 minutes before he started to complain. Sport was 4, old enough to have something to say, and he mimicked his older brother, both complaining at various times that they were bored, hungry, thirsty, their legs were stiff or alternately numb. The author of "101 Things Every Kid Should Do Growing Up" suggests that on the family car trip, you should turn off the radio and teach your children the songs you sang on car trips when you were a kid. Science Girl and I have lovely voices and both were in choruses while growing up, but when we launched into a melodic "B-I-N-G-O" our children became mutinous. From the back seat, they started to argue with each other. I had one of those cosmic kicks in the head when I realized that without ever seeing my sisters and me as children, they were doing a dead-on impersonation of us squabbling about being on each other's side, pushing and shoving each other. Our pictures from Mount St. Helen show all of us looking grim, like we were concerned about being so close to harms' way (the volcano) but really we dreaded having to climb back into the car with each other.
This last March, we were on a family car trip from the Colorado mountains, returning to Denver. Taking another idea from "101 Things," I asked the boys (13 and 9 years old at the time) if they wanted to play license plate spelling, where you make words with the letters in the license plates of passing cars. To say they weren't interested would be a gross understatement. We were approaching an outlet mall and I signaled for Science Girl to stop so I could do a little shopping. The boys were indignant, saying that they wanted to get home as soon as possible. Secret turned to his brother, "She couldn't do this if we were in an airplane," he said. Sport agreed.
Ever since Secret Service was small, he enjoyed all modes of transportation except the car. He admired buses, trains, always had a passion for airplanes, enjoyed a boat ride. But, get him in the car and he becomes unpleasant.
Several years ago, Science Girl had accumulated some Marriott points and since we had no plans to go out of town in the foreseeable future, we thought it would be fun to take our then 5 year old and 1 year old to a town 40 minutes away. We knew that Secret Service was not a fan of a long car ride but we prepared him for a "long" car ride, saying we were going on a vacation and would stay at a hotel. We were smug, thinking that before he could begin to complain, we'd surprise him by already being at our destination. Late on a Friday afternoon, we packed up and Science Girl eased the car onto the highway. We shared a smile as we handed Secret a book to look at, a stuffed animal to hold and put on one of his favorite music tapes.
Soon, Secret pierced the relative quiet of the car by starting the chant, known to parents everywhere. "Are we there yet?' he asked. I looked at the clock. We'd been in the car for 7 minutes.
"Where could we be?" I asked, as if he'd have a sensible answer. I turned to Science Girl, "How could we be at a vacation destination in 7 minutes?" I was indignant. To no one in particular, I exclaimed, "We couldn't even be at the airport in 7 minutes!" Of course, Secret was not interested in these details, he just continued to intermittently whine about it for the next 33 minutes.
I thought maybe 5 was too young to appreciate a family car trip so when Secret was 8, we drove with both boys from Portland, Oregon to Seattle, Washington, with a stop at Mount St. Helen. Secret had professed an interest in Mount St Helen. We handed the kids books, music, snacks. This time, because Secret was so much older and more mature, it took 20 minutes before he started to complain. Sport was 4, old enough to have something to say, and he mimicked his older brother, both complaining at various times that they were bored, hungry, thirsty, their legs were stiff or alternately numb. The author of "101 Things Every Kid Should Do Growing Up" suggests that on the family car trip, you should turn off the radio and teach your children the songs you sang on car trips when you were a kid. Science Girl and I have lovely voices and both were in choruses while growing up, but when we launched into a melodic "B-I-N-G-O" our children became mutinous. From the back seat, they started to argue with each other. I had one of those cosmic kicks in the head when I realized that without ever seeing my sisters and me as children, they were doing a dead-on impersonation of us squabbling about being on each other's side, pushing and shoving each other. Our pictures from Mount St. Helen show all of us looking grim, like we were concerned about being so close to harms' way (the volcano) but really we dreaded having to climb back into the car with each other.
This last March, we were on a family car trip from the Colorado mountains, returning to Denver. Taking another idea from "101 Things," I asked the boys (13 and 9 years old at the time) if they wanted to play license plate spelling, where you make words with the letters in the license plates of passing cars. To say they weren't interested would be a gross understatement. We were approaching an outlet mall and I signaled for Science Girl to stop so I could do a little shopping. The boys were indignant, saying that they wanted to get home as soon as possible. Secret turned to his brother, "She couldn't do this if we were in an airplane," he said. Sport agreed.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sunday Evening
After dinner and cleaning the kitchen, I began to fantasize about laying in my bed. I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to relax, recline, lounge, surrounded by my books, today's unread newspaper, pens, paper, laptop, remote, all within easy reach.
But first, I had to supervise the boys completing some overdue tasks like straightening up their rooms. I had my no-nonsense drill sergeant persona going and we were making some progress when my parents phoned. Hoping to divert my focus, Secret answered the phone, had a short chat with his grandparents where he sweetly asked them to get him a debit card (thankfully, they declined) and then handed the phone to me. When I initiated a conversation, the boys ran off, later claiming that they thought they'd done a terrific job on their rooms and had legitimately been excused. I finished my phone call and lassoed them back to the tasks at hand.
After the rooms were minimally tidied, Sport was directed to get in bed with the book he is supposedly reading for school. Through no fault of his (at least that is what he said), he couldn't comply because he couldn't find the book. Following a successful search and rescue, Sport got in bed with the book. Gleeful, thinking I was close to my own goal of climbing into my bed, I celebrated by folding a load of laundry that had been in the dryer for the entire weekend. As I finished, Secret Service approached and confided that while riding his bike through a small pond earlier in the day, his shoes had mysteriously become wet. Another hunt commenced, this one for Secrets' old pair of shoes. Another success! We found both shoes (don't you hate it when you can only find one?) and put them in a prominent place so that Secret could easily locate them tomorrow.
I could feel myself getting closer to being able to relax in bed. On my way, I let the dog outside to do his business, the woman I carpool with texted me to organize this week's driving, I mediated an argument between the boys about whose turn it was to have the dog sleep in their room, moved clothes from the washer into the dryer, filled Sports' humidifier, and got Secret a box of tissues. Every time I turned around, Sport was out of bed for one reason or another. I tucked him in three times, eventually issuing an ultimatum that if he popped up again he'd go to bed 30 minutes earlier tomorrow.
Finally, I was in my bed. Unfortunately, it was time to go to sleep.
But first, I had to supervise the boys completing some overdue tasks like straightening up their rooms. I had my no-nonsense drill sergeant persona going and we were making some progress when my parents phoned. Hoping to divert my focus, Secret answered the phone, had a short chat with his grandparents where he sweetly asked them to get him a debit card (thankfully, they declined) and then handed the phone to me. When I initiated a conversation, the boys ran off, later claiming that they thought they'd done a terrific job on their rooms and had legitimately been excused. I finished my phone call and lassoed them back to the tasks at hand.
After the rooms were minimally tidied, Sport was directed to get in bed with the book he is supposedly reading for school. Through no fault of his (at least that is what he said), he couldn't comply because he couldn't find the book. Following a successful search and rescue, Sport got in bed with the book. Gleeful, thinking I was close to my own goal of climbing into my bed, I celebrated by folding a load of laundry that had been in the dryer for the entire weekend. As I finished, Secret Service approached and confided that while riding his bike through a small pond earlier in the day, his shoes had mysteriously become wet. Another hunt commenced, this one for Secrets' old pair of shoes. Another success! We found both shoes (don't you hate it when you can only find one?) and put them in a prominent place so that Secret could easily locate them tomorrow.
I could feel myself getting closer to being able to relax in bed. On my way, I let the dog outside to do his business, the woman I carpool with texted me to organize this week's driving, I mediated an argument between the boys about whose turn it was to have the dog sleep in their room, moved clothes from the washer into the dryer, filled Sports' humidifier, and got Secret a box of tissues. Every time I turned around, Sport was out of bed for one reason or another. I tucked him in three times, eventually issuing an ultimatum that if he popped up again he'd go to bed 30 minutes earlier tomorrow.
Finally, I was in my bed. Unfortunately, it was time to go to sleep.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
"Where?" - Part 2 or The Plight of the Two Car Family
Science Girl and I share the monumental task of driving the boys to and from school and extracurricular activities. Both boys have backpacks filled with important schoolwork. And they both have bags filled with sports equipment. When they are driven home, we always remind them to get their things out of the car. Sometimes they listen, but other times . . .
Secret Service believes in traveling light and not doing any task that isn’t absolutely necessary. For those reasons, he has been the premier violator of the rule that you take your things with you when you exit the vehicle. We very ineffectively have repeatedly reminded him. One afternoon last spring, he suddenly realized that Science Girl had left on a business trip in her car with his school backpack, homework and school issued laptop computer in the backseat. Secret said he had homework to complete and had to have all those things with him at school the next day. We bonded by pacing and hyperventilating. We called Science Girl, who was en route to the airport. After delivering an “I told you” lecture to Secret, she told us where she planned to park the car so that we could retrieve his important items. Looking at my key ring, I remembered that I’d lost my key to Science Girl’s car. I received an “I told you” lecture and she promised to leave the car unlocked.
We jumped into my car, Secret, Sport and for good company, the dog (who was an unwitting bystander to the craziness), and drove to the airport parking lot. We entered the huge lot and surprisingly were able to find the car without any problem. I allowed myself a moment of jubilation before we pulled the door handle and found Science Girls’ car to be locked. More hyperventilating. Secret and I unraveled a bit, each blaming the other for the dilemma we were in. Then, we pulled ourselves together and joined forces against Science Girl. Why was the car locked when we’d told her not to do so? I called Science Girl, ready to give her a piece of my mind, but she defended herself saying she believed she’d left the car unlocked and that some misguided #@!% good Samaritan must have locked it. Secret and I started to whimper, Sport said he was bored, the dog looked confused.
Science Girl had an idea – ask the workers at the parking lot to break into the car. I approached them hesitantly. Maybe they pitied us (I think the dog added a bit of Grapes of Wrath poignancy to the picture) but whatever the reason, they agreed to help. Luckily, Science Girl had left the drivers’ side window open a crack and using a tool, they were able to open the door. Secret was reunited with his possessions, we thanked the people profusely.
On the drive back home, Sport suggested that we purchase one of those break-in-the-car devices so that we'd be prepared in the future. I assured him that Secret Service had learned his lesson. When we reached the house, the kids went inside and I took the dog for a short walk to reward him for his patience. When I returned, I glanced into the car. Secret had gone into the house leaving all the rescued items in the car. I made a mental note to make a copy of Science Girls car key.
Secret Service believes in traveling light and not doing any task that isn’t absolutely necessary. For those reasons, he has been the premier violator of the rule that you take your things with you when you exit the vehicle. We very ineffectively have repeatedly reminded him. One afternoon last spring, he suddenly realized that Science Girl had left on a business trip in her car with his school backpack, homework and school issued laptop computer in the backseat. Secret said he had homework to complete and had to have all those things with him at school the next day. We bonded by pacing and hyperventilating. We called Science Girl, who was en route to the airport. After delivering an “I told you” lecture to Secret, she told us where she planned to park the car so that we could retrieve his important items. Looking at my key ring, I remembered that I’d lost my key to Science Girl’s car. I received an “I told you” lecture and she promised to leave the car unlocked.
We jumped into my car, Secret, Sport and for good company, the dog (who was an unwitting bystander to the craziness), and drove to the airport parking lot. We entered the huge lot and surprisingly were able to find the car without any problem. I allowed myself a moment of jubilation before we pulled the door handle and found Science Girls’ car to be locked. More hyperventilating. Secret and I unraveled a bit, each blaming the other for the dilemma we were in. Then, we pulled ourselves together and joined forces against Science Girl. Why was the car locked when we’d told her not to do so? I called Science Girl, ready to give her a piece of my mind, but she defended herself saying she believed she’d left the car unlocked and that some misguided #@!% good Samaritan must have locked it. Secret and I started to whimper, Sport said he was bored, the dog looked confused.
Science Girl had an idea – ask the workers at the parking lot to break into the car. I approached them hesitantly. Maybe they pitied us (I think the dog added a bit of Grapes of Wrath poignancy to the picture) but whatever the reason, they agreed to help. Luckily, Science Girl had left the drivers’ side window open a crack and using a tool, they were able to open the door. Secret was reunited with his possessions, we thanked the people profusely.
On the drive back home, Sport suggested that we purchase one of those break-in-the-car devices so that we'd be prepared in the future. I assured him that Secret Service had learned his lesson. When we reached the house, the kids went inside and I took the dog for a short walk to reward him for his patience. When I returned, I glanced into the car. Secret had gone into the house leaving all the rescued items in the car. I made a mental note to make a copy of Science Girls car key.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
"Where?" - Part 1
The best case scenario for a school day morning is that the children are both in pleasant moods, getting ready as directed, no one is complaining of a malady that would keep them from attending. The worst case, one of the kids can't find something. Many of these things can be skillfully ignored except for the following - Where are my shoes and where is my homework? Both of these questions raise my heart rate and make me start to sweat. (It’s like aerobics – after this kind of morning, I don’t feel the need to work out.) In the blink of an eye, that one word, “where” can turn a sunny, happy morning into a disaster movie.
When this sort of catastrophe strikes, I want to be the calm mommy who murmurs reassuring things to the upset child like, “take a deep breath,” and helps them re-trace their steps to find the lost item. Or, I want to be the organized mommy who has designated a place for every item and sure enough, when we go hand in hand to look together, the items are just where they should be! Or, the natural and logical consequence mommy who lets the children figure it out themselves by asking helpful questions like, “How do you want to handle this?”
Instead, I am the kind of mommy who is already running late and starts racing around the house, scurrying this way and that way, frantically trying to find the items while alternately shouting ideas of places where they should look and mumbling PG-rated obscenities under my breath. Panicked, flushed, frenzied, the search continues. After the screaming (mine) and the tears (mine) fail to produce the missing item, I start to problem solve. I think I’ve had some clever solutions to these dire situations.
Last year, Secret Service had to wear dress shoes to his charter school each day and one morning when he couldn't find his current pair, I felt like I saved the day by finding the dress shoes from the year before. Instead of gratitude, Secret kept saying his toes were scrunched and going numb. Another time, Sport couldn't find his shoes and I managed to find a matched set of pool shoes. The pool shoes fit him and I thought we were ready to walk out the door but he objected, claiming that they weren't appropriate for a snowy day. I offered him a pair of socks but he still took exception to the plan. One time when Secret was younger and couldn't find his shoes, I tried to convince him that wearing a pair of slippers would be a good idea and make him appear creative and imaginative. He didn't buy it and either did Science Girl. She said it would make him look like he was on a day pass from a mental institution. The only time I was successful was when Sport was younger and I talked him into wearing bulky snow boots on a warm spring day by saying that they reminded me of the boots a clone trooper would wear and that if he found puddles or mud, he could jump in it and I'd be OK with that.
Once, when Secret Service and I were searching for his completed homework, we thought to look in the trash can. We discovered the homework, intact, but covered with coffee grounds. While we both hyperventilated, Science Girl, composed and unflappable, placed the stained paper (with coffee grounds clinging to it) in a large plastic baggy, much as she would handle something contaminated in the lab and happily presented this to Secret to take to school. Secret looked at her like she was handing him a severed head to take to show and tell.
Science Girl and I try so hard, I don't know why the kids aren't more appreciative.
When this sort of catastrophe strikes, I want to be the calm mommy who murmurs reassuring things to the upset child like, “take a deep breath,” and helps them re-trace their steps to find the lost item. Or, I want to be the organized mommy who has designated a place for every item and sure enough, when we go hand in hand to look together, the items are just where they should be! Or, the natural and logical consequence mommy who lets the children figure it out themselves by asking helpful questions like, “How do you want to handle this?”
Instead, I am the kind of mommy who is already running late and starts racing around the house, scurrying this way and that way, frantically trying to find the items while alternately shouting ideas of places where they should look and mumbling PG-rated obscenities under my breath. Panicked, flushed, frenzied, the search continues. After the screaming (mine) and the tears (mine) fail to produce the missing item, I start to problem solve. I think I’ve had some clever solutions to these dire situations.
Last year, Secret Service had to wear dress shoes to his charter school each day and one morning when he couldn't find his current pair, I felt like I saved the day by finding the dress shoes from the year before. Instead of gratitude, Secret kept saying his toes were scrunched and going numb. Another time, Sport couldn't find his shoes and I managed to find a matched set of pool shoes. The pool shoes fit him and I thought we were ready to walk out the door but he objected, claiming that they weren't appropriate for a snowy day. I offered him a pair of socks but he still took exception to the plan. One time when Secret was younger and couldn't find his shoes, I tried to convince him that wearing a pair of slippers would be a good idea and make him appear creative and imaginative. He didn't buy it and either did Science Girl. She said it would make him look like he was on a day pass from a mental institution. The only time I was successful was when Sport was younger and I talked him into wearing bulky snow boots on a warm spring day by saying that they reminded me of the boots a clone trooper would wear and that if he found puddles or mud, he could jump in it and I'd be OK with that.
Once, when Secret Service and I were searching for his completed homework, we thought to look in the trash can. We discovered the homework, intact, but covered with coffee grounds. While we both hyperventilated, Science Girl, composed and unflappable, placed the stained paper (with coffee grounds clinging to it) in a large plastic baggy, much as she would handle something contaminated in the lab and happily presented this to Secret to take to school. Secret looked at her like she was handing him a severed head to take to show and tell.
Science Girl and I try so hard, I don't know why the kids aren't more appreciative.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
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.”
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.”
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
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.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, July 30, 2011
The beginning
Being a Mommy was a life long goal for me and one that was difficult to achieve. Maybe that's one of the reasons that I want so badly to be good at it. Truthfully, I don't want to be good at it, I want to be great. I want to be seen as an amazing mom. In reality, I'm not as good at parenting as I thought I'd be. Turns out I'm frequently tired, chronically disorganized, not particularly patient and my kids would say I'm a bad driver. I'm a B+ Mommy striving for an A.
Today's examples to support my B+ grade -
My younger son loves TV and has to be forced to read. So, hoping to increase his love of the written word, I'm reading the book, "Shiloh" to him. I had never read it before and it is an absolutely wonderful book, one that we both are enjoying. However, instead of reading yeaterday, we spent our time together watching an episode of "Good Luck Charlie" on TV.
My older son completed a summer volunteer job and I wanted to celebrate that with him. He has a wicked soda addiction that we are always trying to thwart. So knowing that, I'm not sure why we celebrated by drinking huge sodas from Sonic, even though they were delicious and half price for happy hour.
At our house, we've got 2 girls and 2 boys like in many traditional households, but at our house, the girls are the mom's and the boys are the kids. Besides my own need to do this parenting thing well, I think I feel more presssure to succeed because I want to prove that a non-traditonal family can raise good kids.
My partner and I both hold jobs outside of the home, we've got the boys to raise, a dog, a cat, a huge mortgage. It's my version of the American dream.
Today's examples to support my B+ grade -
My younger son loves TV and has to be forced to read. So, hoping to increase his love of the written word, I'm reading the book, "Shiloh" to him. I had never read it before and it is an absolutely wonderful book, one that we both are enjoying. However, instead of reading yeaterday, we spent our time together watching an episode of "Good Luck Charlie" on TV.
My older son completed a summer volunteer job and I wanted to celebrate that with him. He has a wicked soda addiction that we are always trying to thwart. So knowing that, I'm not sure why we celebrated by drinking huge sodas from Sonic, even though they were delicious and half price for happy hour.
At our house, we've got 2 girls and 2 boys like in many traditional households, but at our house, the girls are the mom's and the boys are the kids. Besides my own need to do this parenting thing well, I think I feel more presssure to succeed because I want to prove that a non-traditonal family can raise good kids.
My partner and I both hold jobs outside of the home, we've got the boys to raise, a dog, a cat, a huge mortgage. It's my version of the American dream.
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