Tag Archives: Family

October 5, 2011 · 1:27 pm

Sick Days

I’m into day two of sick days with my daughter. After she finished crying this morning when I told her she had to stay home another day, she began listing the crafts we were going to make. This after more than two hours of crafting with her yesterday.

Sick days are not what they used to be. When I was a kid, a sick day meant I never left my bedroom. I slept the entire day. I always felt like I’d been run over. My kids? Never. Well, except for the nasty stomach bug we all had last year when none of us could lift a pinky. My kids play the day away like it’s a mini vacation. If they sleep for 30 minutes, they’re up past my bedtime.

I must have missed the lesson on sick days: Don’t play with your kids. Don’t make it fun. Give them castor oil and keep them weighted in their beds with layer upon layer of leaden blankets.

Instead, I get stuck with, “Mommy, do you have any crafts for me to do?” Or, “Let’s play ponies.” Sure, it’s nice to have a day alone with them, just the two of us. But when they’re at school, I do things. When they’re home, I don’t get to do my things. And around day two, I get antsy. And I’m out of craft ideas. And then I start to get a tickle in my throat or a cough or whatever germs they’re spreading.

The whole decision to even keep one of my kids home is often a struggle to begin with. Fevers and puking are easy to figure out. But my daughter gets these annoying coughs. What to do? How long to keep her home for that when she otherwise feels pretty good? Many times I’ve kept a well kid home or sent a sick kid in. It’s rarely a winning situation for me.

When my husband came home at lunch today, my daughter raced around the house, laughing and yelling.

As my husband was leaving to go back to work, he said, “I’m glad you kept her home today since she was really sick, Dear.” Yep. That’s exactly what I was thinking.

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September 27, 2011 · 12:53 pm

No, No, I Won’t Mow

“Look, Annie across the street is mowing the grass,” says my daughter, peering through the blinds like a puppy waiting for the mailman.

“Mmm hmm,” I say, not the least bit interested in that remark. I know where this is going.

“Hey, Mom,” my son yells, taking the steps two at a time, “Did you see Annie mowing the grass?”

“Yep.”

Five minutes later, “Oh, look, Dear,” my husband runs in to tell me. “Annie is mowing the grass.”

“Well isn’t that good for Annie,” I say. Dammit, why can’t the women around here band together? Or at least can’t they mow the grass when my family is not at home?

I have held fast for 13 years and counting. I have never mowed the lawn. Well, I attempted 13 years ago when we were moving from a rental and needed to mow the thick, waist-deep forest that had become our backyard. I pushed and heaved with all my might, and the mower sputtered and choked and did things I wasn’t sure it was supposed to do. I mean, I was new to the whole mowing thing. Thick, three-foot grass is not something to cut your teeth on. So I stopped. A whole eight-foot strip of grass. That is what I have mowed. So yes, technically I have never mowed a whole lawn. And I don’t dare start now.

I’ll tell you why. I have wiped so many butts some days, that I have not been sure which was my own. I have had every bodily function spewed or smeared all over me. I have cooked dinner while doing laundry, helping the kids with their homework while they have been splayed over the table crying that they don’t understand, and trying to get my mother off the phone for the third time that day. I have had a meal on the table every night when my husband comes home from work, even when my kids decide that while I am cooking is the best time to pitch a fit. I clean the house, wash the sheets, put toys away, clean the crud off the toilets, hold the kids down for shots, check body parts for things I do not want to, shovel snow, rake the leaves, sweep the driveway, and sometimes trim the bushes….I do it and that’s fine.

I do not want to mow the grass. And every time I see little Annie over there mowing the grass or the three other women on my street who occasionally do it, I grit my teeth, clench my fists, and think to myself, “Don’t we do enough?”

Well, evidently, they don’t.

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September 22, 2011 · 12:06 pm

Taming of the Tantrums

Strolling through the aisles of a store recently, I heard the start of a giant fit coming on. A toddler wanted out of her cart. Those pesky toddlers can be persistent. Boy, the memories flooded back. My quiet shopping experience had become stained by the piercing shrieks and then constant screams of this little girl who wanted nothing more than to be out of her cart. I snuck a few glances to see if her mom was “stuck,” meaning could she even get out of the store. She quieted when her mother held her. Then she started up again–she wanted down, and she repeated that for a very long time. This fit went on for a good ten minutes. It was loud. The mother made no effort to make a beeline for the door.

All I could think was two things: 1) Why doesn’t she run out of the store and save herself? I would have had it by now. When you run out of cookies, get thee to a door. 2) I have been there and I am so glad I am done with that!

Six years ago…

One morning I took my kids, two and a half years and six weeks old, to a craft store to buy some Halloween stuff to make with my son. I knew what I wanted. It would be a quick trip. This was one of the first outings alone with my kids, and it was a doozy.

I picked up the things I wanted and my son pointed out what he wanted. I told him no. That’s where I lost all control. He went into full fit mode: volume turned up, body convulsing out of control. I was in a bit of a pickle. This craft store had tiny carts and the carrier my daughter was in did not fit in a cart. I had carried her in and walked my son in. I was stuck in the store with a toddler in a full-blown tantrum. All I could do was gently hold him down in the aisle and wait it out.

At first I laughed. I’d wait this beast out. Well, I waited. And waited. People stared. My daughter slept. I still couldn’t pick up my son at all. Two older ladies came by. “I’ll bet you’re two and a half,” one said to my son. I laughed. She nailed it. God bless her. She understood. She offered to take my son out in a cart. That made him scream more because he thought I was giving him to this stranger, which at that point I felt like doing.

I thanked them but waited another minute and my son calmed down long enough for me to grab him in a football hold and loop my other arm through my daughter’s carrier. I ran for the door and through the parking lot, my son kicking me and biting me the whole way. While I tried to strap him in his car seat, he kicked me in the face, pulled my hair, and grabbed at my face with what felt like sharp claws. I can’t even mention the words that were going through my head and I’m pretty sure I cried the whole way home. I didn’t go back to that store for months.

I have been fortunate these past six years. That was the worst public display and nothing else has compared, but it scarred me for life.

Looking back to that day, when I realized I couldn’t escape my stupidity, I should have bought the silly wooden pumpkin that he wanted. I saw that fit coming and I could have said, “Sure, you can pay me back.” It wouldn’t have spoiled him. But it would have saved my sanity and helped me avoid a few battle scars. Had it not been there, that fit would have played out somewhere else, but maybe I would have been able to make a run for it. Regardless, I learned early on, it’s always better to shop without kids.

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September 16, 2011 · 11:45 am

The Boys’ Bathroom: Sometimes You Don’t Want to Know

I am fortunate (I think) to have a son who tells me things. When I ask him what happened at school, he tells me about his day at school. He tells me the minutiae of his day. And he tells me the goings-on in the boys’ bathroom. For years I’ve heard stories about what goes on in those dank, smelly chambers. Boys sticking their feet in urinals. Boys–cringe–rolling on the nasty floor. Boys doing things they should not be doing.

This week I think I’ve heard it all. I can’t bear to hear another bathroom story. My husband doesn’t even know the story, why I keep lecturing my son about this. “Just don’t touch anything and wash your hands. With soap. I don’t care what the other boys do.” My husband makes fun of me for this.

My son told me he went in the bathroom the other day and George* wasn’t in there, so he used George’s urinal.

“George’s urinal?” I asked.

“Yeah, George has his own urinal and nobody can use it,” my son said.

“Why is it his urinal?” I asked.

“He licked it,” he said.

My brain stopped right there. Overload. Too much to process. Where are the teachers? Ugh. Should I tell his mother? No, she wouldn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know. I mean, you don’t want them to touch anything in the bathroom and this boy had slathered his tongue along the cold porcelain. I felt weak.

“Don’t you ever lick anything in the bathroom,” I said. “Anything. Don’t even touch the urinal. People miss.” I could have gone on for an hour. My son had already moved on.

He described how a line formed behind him and then George came in and said, “Hey, why are you using my urinal?” and everyone in line started pushing.

Then George put a pencil in a toilet and flushed it and they watched it swirl around and around. Billy* reached in to get the pencil out and threw it away.

“Don’t put your hand in the toilet,” I told my son. “Ever. Just don’t touch anything in the bathroom. And wash your hands. With soap. I don’t care if the other boys do or not. You wash your hands.”

Ugh. Sometimes you don’t want to know.

*Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

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September 14, 2011 · 11:49 am

I Was Dissed

I packed up my lunch yesterday and headed to school to eat with my kids. My daughter smiled and bounced in her seat at breakfast when I announced I would be coming. My son said OK. That’s pretty much how it goes every time. But I knew something was up when he walked into the cafeteria at lunch and looked at the wall instead of at me. He sat at his table with his friends, and when I motioned for him to join his sister, her friend, and me, he shook his head no and wouldn’t look back. Dissed. Is my third-grader already too old for this?

I’ll be honest: It stung a little. When the excitement of having Mom meet you for lunch has dwindled by third grade and wanting to be with friends begins to take over, it’s a bit of a shock. I know it happens. I remember vividly that inner struggle as a kid, wanting to be with my parents but wanting to be with my friends too. (Though I was much older, I’m sure.) You don’t want to miss any of the fun and really, you want to seem cool. Eating with Mommy isn’t cool after a while. Boys can’t talk about bathroom situations and gross stuff when Mom is around, and Lord knows they do. And Mom might ask questions. Yeah, I would certainly do that. “What do you like to do?” “What sports do you play?” Seems like a logical time to get to know the kids my kids hang out with. Maybe it’s too much.

My son looked over at me once during lunch. I played it cool. I mean, we were having fun. You know, yeah, whatever man. He had a good time with his friends, whispering and laughing and bonding over Spaghettios and Wonder Bread.

I don’t eat lunch often with my kids at school. My kids ask when I’m coming again as soon as I leave the lunch room. But when he blew me off and pretended I wasn’t there, I tried not to be bummed. I saw his point-of-view: time to hang with friends and let my guard down or be with Mom, another supervisor. It was just harder seeing it from a mom’s point-of-view.

That afternoon during pick-up time, I debated blowing him off. Instead, I decided to just let him sweat it out a few extra minutes.

Later on I was going about my to-do list at home. He came up and hugged me. A big bear hug. No words. No prompting. Just a giant squeeze around my waist. I get it, son, all of that growing up stuff. I do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

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September 8, 2011 · 1:41 pm

Words That Make My Son Giggle

“Daddy, I learned a new word today,” my son announced at dinner. My first instinct is to always ask, “Is it appropriate?” His determination pushed him on. “G-E-N-I-T-A-L-S.” He spelled it for the sake of protecting his younger sister. Sweet.

I tried to stifle a snicker and could tell immediately that my husband was not amused. My daughter had a check-up at the doctor yesterday afternoon and we had the pleasure of trying to catch a sample in a cup. During that transaction, my son entertained himself with some wall reading, medical info. Nice.

A fit of giggles meant he found another funny word: penis. “Ha ha! Look, Mommy.” It was an eight-year-old boy’s dream, right there in the bathroom of the doctor’s office. Naughty words displayed for him to read again and again, providing that satisfaction in feeling he was doing something he shouldn’t be. Giving him reason to say it. I couldn’t dispute the fact that it was right there on the wall…several times.

Overall, a juicy discovery for a kid, finding sacred body part words in print. Learning a new one. Genitals. He even had to stop and close his eyes for a moment after he saw it. “Hold on. I need to remember it,” he explained. He was genuinely proud of this new word. Hopefully, he’ll fight the urge to share it during recess today.

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September 2, 2011 · 10:18 am

Cry Me a River

So it’s been a full week of back-to-school bliss. My days are filled with quiet cleaning, cool morning walks, peaceful time to work, hours to do what I want with no interruptions. And then at three o’clock every day, all hell breaks loose.

Here’s how our week has gone:

~Nearly everyone in my daughter’s class from last year is in another class together this year. “Why did I get left out?” Heartbreak for her, heartbreak for me. Not to mention the impulse to call the principal and ask him what in the world was he thinking doing that to my daughter? She shed a few tears.

~A fall down the stairs sent my daughter into a well-earned crying fit. More crying upstairs. I raced up to learn that my daughter had bumped her nose. And then when a mid-air flip attempt went awry, my son landed on his head. More tears.

~My daughter released a flood of tears one afternoon on the couch, just because.

~Tears flowed at the mere mention of writing thank-you notes for birthday presents my daughter recently received. This followed by a bit of rolling around on the floor and burying her head in a pillow.

~Homework, ugh!!! My son just didn’t get it and he wanted my help. Yet every time I read the directions to him and tried to explain it, he threw a fit. Did he or did he not want my help? I know he didn’t read the directions to begin with. Writhing on the floor, he screamed, “I hate homework!” Me too, man, me too.

~It took me 15 minutes to read one email due to four crying fits over a chair, a stool, a couch filled with dolls, and a knee to the eye. Each time I entered the room, it was a different story. “What’s wrong now?” I said, trying to keep my frustration to myself. My son kneed himself in the eye while doing flips on the couch. I didn’t even know what to say. After the whole head thing? Seriously?

~A math problem nearly sent me into tears. My son just wanted me to do it but I continued trying to calmly explain what he was missing. Hair pulling. Teeth gritting. Tears man, more freakin’ tears.

~Don’t even get me started about the announcement of bathtime and bedtime every night….

I’m amazed I’ve been able to get dinner on the table and homework done and the kids to bed on time (7:30 because they are so damn cranky). In years past, we’ve suffered nearly two months of this meltdown mania at the onset of school.

If you are a cranky mom this week, hugs to you. If you know one, give her a hug. Me? I think I just need a good cry.

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August 29, 2011 · 1:34 pm

Don’t Pick Up Strange Creatures

Every now and then, I think it’s important to be put in one’s place. I’d prefer it be gently, of course, but I don’t get to choose. Last week, I learned a lesson: Don’t forget to practice what you preach. Sometimes I just need to shut up and follow all that advice that I’m always dishing out to my kids. It’s tough when you open your eyes and realize you’re just as guilty and annoying and senseless as they are.

Example one: I ran a red light. Thankfully, I realized it as soon as I was about to sail through it, but screeching, skidding tires was a worse option than slowing down and maneuvering through safely. There were two stoplights yards apart from each other, and I was focused on the farther one. Neither my kids nor the lady entering the intersection even noticed.

Example two: My daughter dressed herself in a pink-and-white-striped shirt and a skirt with diagonal stripes of blues and purples.

“Honey, the shorts that match that shirt are right here. They’ve just been washed,” I offered, wanting her to wear the outfit that I liked. “Do you want to wear those instead?” Man, I tried, I really did.

“No thanks,” my daughter said.

“What your mother is saying is that doesn’t match,” my husband blurted out.

“I don’t care,” my daughter said. And she didn’t. She wore it all day, out in public, in places where I saw people I knew, even after I had asked once more if she wanted to change before we left. It was tough. Cute to mismatch at 4, not so cute at 6.

Example three: At the pool, just as I was about to sit down, I noticed what I thought was a yellow and black worm on my towel, on the part where my rear was about to go. I gently plucked it from the towel only to feel excruciating, piercing pain in my finger. “OW, OW, OW!” I yelled as I tried to fling it off. It stuck to me like a burr and left a nasty sting. Fool that I am, it was no worm but the rearend of a yellow jacket.

“Don’t pick up strange creatures,” my husband scolded as he handed me an ice pack. I should have known better.

As I pouted, trying to numb my burning finger, I thought about my week and what I did. I thought about what I am always telling my kids, and I did learn some things:

1) Pay attention! How many times do I have to say it?
2) Mind your own business. Worry about how you are dressed.
3) Think before you act. Don’t pick up something if you don’t know what it is.

Lesson learned.

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August 22, 2011 · 1:42 pm

Slow Down, Birthday Girl

My daughter, my baby, barely needs a stool to help in the kitchen anymore. She stands at my side rolling out dough, perfectly placing cookie cutters like puzzle pieces to cut as many cookies as she can. She does this without prompting. “Mommy, I can do it,” she says. I stand back, reminded all too often these days of how much my kids can do alone and how much less they rely on me. They yearn to be older and independent and capable at times when I just want to hold their hands and show them how and want them to need me.

My little girl is turning 6 this week. It’s not a monumental birthday. It’s not a special age when anything big happens. Turning 5 was huge because kindergarten is a milestone, a turning point from that preschool life of naps and cuddles and sippy cups to homework and adjustment and real problems, to independence. To life away from mom.

But 6? What’s so hard about 6? We survived kindergarten. We did great. Now it’s on to first grade. That’s the problem. From here on, it zips by. The baby fat slowly melts away. By the end of this year, it will be gone. Already taller and thinner, she hardly looks like my baby anymore. I stare at her in amazement and wonder which night it was that she sprang up. When did I miss this?

I can’t buy her those cute Mary Jane shoes anymore. They only make them in toddler sizes and she’s just outgrown that. Everything looks too grown-up for a first-grader, too teen.

She barely fits in my lap now. Her limbs dangle off to the sides like a rag doll. Her head no longer fits neatly under my chin, and we nearly have to sit side-by-side for comfort. I can barely lift her without a lot of grunting and bending my knees first in preparation for her weight. It’s such a workout, and it never used to be.

I’ll admit, this is the age I’ve waited for. When my kids were babies, I was drunk on love and that warm baby smell. But I spent a lot of time dreaming about the wonderful things we’d get to do together when they were this age. Camping, crafting, reading together. I love, LOVE, doing those things with them. I love talking to them and teaching them. Oh, it’s challenging and I want to pull my hair out sometimes, but I never quite adored the baby stage. I had enough of the wiping and the crying and sleep deprivation. I’ve waited for this. Making cookies with them. Choking on my breakfast when they announce my husband’s super long stray ear hair to half a restaurant. Babies’ surprises usually only involve bodily fluids.

Now that we’re here, in this wonderful long-awaited era, I’m pretty damn scared. I feel like a houseful of unexpected guests just arrived and I’m running around in a panic because I’m not ready. I don’t want to miss it. And I want it to slow down. When I secretly wished the whole baby part would speed up just a smidge, I openly beg for this time not to. Because I know this is the best time of my life. Greedy, I know. But they’ll get to have their fun. Before long, my kids will be older and have wonderful lives and experiences, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. They deserve that and I look forward to seeing who they become. But, no hurry.

For now, hearing my kids say, “Hey, let’s pretend…” is music to my ears and there are still a lot of firsts to be part of. That first soccer goal. That first sleepover. That first trip whale watching that I can’t wait to take them on. We still have lots to look forward to. I still catch a glimpse of that baby in there somewhere, in a coy smile or a sideways glance. It lasts only a second, but it fills my heart.

So happy birthday to my baby girl who is turning bigger this week.

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August 16, 2011 · 1:29 pm

Pick, Pick, Pick

I have a confession to make: I am in love with food. I might even go as far as to say I am obsessed with it. Really, I am probably obsessed with food. I like to cook only because it is a means to this food that I love. My days revolve around food and what I am going to eat or cook for my next meal or even the next day or next week. I am always reading recipes. I’m kind of obsessed with those too.

So imagine my joy when my son turns out to love food as much as I do. Even as a toddler, he ate anything I put on his plate, squeezing okra and calling the seeds “eyes.” He ate platefuls of the stuff. He’ll try anything once.

My daughter, however, is my challenge. My beautiful, picky daughter. It breaks my heart that I cannot share this love with her. Cooking she loves. She’ll sidle up to the counter and measure and pour, even taste a little. But put it on a plate in front of her and the battle begins. We’ve tried all the tricks. Everything. None of it works. Nothing.

We have well-meaning friends who offer up advice. Make her try it. How do you make anyone do anything? They don’t know what that would involve, prying open a clamped jaw with my hands and trying to force lasagna down her throat. How to get her to swallow? Rub her throat like a dog who won’t swallow a pill? I can see it now, the looks I’d get in a restaurant…and the escort out.

Or how about making her sit there until she eats it? Yeah, I have better things to do for a week. Do you? Because you can come sit with her until she eats it. Feel free.

The thing is, those things bring tears, yelling, and a whole lot of stuff I don’t want to bring to the table. And believe me, I’ve had to leave it many times. It all leaves me feeling bad. I can’t imagine the damage it does to her. Food should be a pleasant experience, with warm memories like grandma’s kitchen.

The best advice I’ve gotten? Don’t make dinnertime a battle. Put out healthy food and let her make her own choices. Amen. From our pediatrician who raised his own picky eater, who is now a chef. That’s right, a chef.

My daughter eats from all food groups. She loves fruit and often, but not always, prefers homemade to processed, meaning mac ‘n’ cheese and bread aren’t things I can just whip up. A speck of parsley or pepper in her food stresses her out. There’s just not a lot of variety in her comfort zone. I have faith that she’ll get bored with that. I have to trust that she’ll outgrow it. And she’s starting to come around…painfully slowly.

Take, for instance, the grilled cheese she tried recently. Growing tired of her meager menu, she decided a grilled cheese sounded safe. She likes bread. She likes cheese. It felt a little daring to put the two together. Nervously, she licked. I couldn’t bear to watch and paced behind the counter, ready for defeat. My son gave me the play-by-play and quickly announced it was all over: She had eaten the entire thing…and she wanted more. I couldn’t get cheese between two slices of bread fast enough.

Once that one was devoured, she pondered what had just taken place in her mouth. “I didn’t really like that cheese,” she announced. Hmmm. This usually means she doesn’t really like it. But here’s how I get around it: You eat it once, it’s on your menu now, Missy.

“We’ll work on it,” I said. Many tries later, we still can’t get it quite right, but she’s still willing.

I love her, pickiness and all. “You’ll make some man very happy with your high maintenance one day,” I tease. Check in with me in 20 years. I bet she’ll be a food critic. She’s getting good practice.

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