Pearls Before Swine

This past Friday, the boys and I listened to a radio show marking the 43rd anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. (If you are interested, you can find a link to the show here.) The program aired on the anniversary, this past Monday, April 4th.

Before you get all impressed that my kids listen to public radio, let me tell you that for the entire 15 minutes we listened to the podcast, they made goofy faces at each other, scowled at me, tickled each other, poked each other, asked random unrelated questions, and plotted their wii time. All those shenanigans had their intended effect and I set the boys free to terrorize their sisters rather sooner than I had hoped. (A maternal twist on a tired platitude: If you love someone, set them free and watch them wreck havoc all over your house.) (The grammatical issues in that sentence disturb me, but if I correct them, I lose the familiarity of the platitude. Such a dilemma.)

But I, for one, am glad we listened. We heard a couple of clips from King's speech to the Memphis sanitation workers during their historic strike of 1968. One of the guests was a retired sanitation worker, a man who participated in the strike and who brought his wife and three small children to listen to King speak on April 3. It was especially riveting to listen to his first hand account of being at the speech. We listened, and then we did some talkin'.

We talked about the labor movement, then and now. We talked about the dignity of work, whether you are a garbage collector, a doctor, a janitor, the President of the United States, or a stay at home mom.

We talked about language, and how language can be an agent of history. Another man, with the same passionate belief in equal rights and social justice but without the oratory skills of King, would not have been able to lead the Civil Rights Movement with the same success. Words make a difference; words change history.

We talked about why a boy might feel the need to prod his brother in the butt with a big toe while I'm attempting to share important cultural history with them.

We talked about why their little sisters are so annoying and why slamming the door in their sisters' faces is not the wisest response to how annoying the little cutie-pies can be.

We talked about how King almost predicted his own death, the very day before he was gunned down on a hotel balcony.

For several seconds, we talked about nothing, because I was too busy holding my head in my hands and asking God to smite my children for goofing off.

And we talked about King as a preacher, a man for whom civil rights were simply human rights conferred by a God who created and loves each and every person, no matter what.

It was perhaps the most important 15 minutes of my week. Maybe not theirs, but mine. And to ensure that they remember at least one small thing, I made this poster and hung it in our kitchen.

Dangerous unselfishness. Standing up for someone else, when I don't stand to gain from it, when doing so is risky. A powerful idea. And a Christian one. King goes on to say:

That's the question before you tonight. Not, "If I stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to my job." Not, "If I stop to help the sanitation workers what will happen to all of the hours that I usually spend in my office every day and every week as pastor." The question is not, "If I stop to help this man in need, what will happen to me?" The question is, "If I do not stop to help the sanitation workers, what will happen to them?" That's the question.

That's the question King wanted people to ask themselves in 1968. And that's the question I want my kids to ask themselves over and over again as they become adults.

Instead, all I'm really getting from them is their somewhat irreverent mimicry of King's speech style every time they walk past that poster in my kitchen. Who does that? Who mimics MLK for a laugh? My kids, apparently. Horrifying.

Oh well. Hopefully, the exposure alone will be good for them.

* * *

It's 10AM and the Day is Gone

image credit: www.claymoreslinger.com/medeival_art

It's 10AM. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the coffee is strong.

So why do I feel defeated already?

From my perch on the couch, I see mayhem.

A quick survey of my to-do list: more mayhem.

An inventory of my brain: piles of mayhem.

The garage: mayhem.

The garden: mayhem. This is serious mayhem, since it will need to be transformed into a native paradise in about three weeks time if we are to avoid the curse of the busman's holiday at our annual garden tour show on May 1st.

Mayhem seems like such an innocent little word. It's kind of cute, in a way. Like "mother may I" and a polite "ahem" are rolled up into one.

But mayhem has a dark side. Mayhem is pinning me down on the couch, whispering menacing thoughts in my ear (you'll never make it), and drilling a little hole in my left heel, from whence all of my energy is draining.

* * *

We overslept this morning, me and my homeschooled children. So at 9:45, they are asking me what's for breakfast, and I am too busy bickering with nascent cramps to answer them. The youngest has a nasty cough and is home from preschool today, which means she will be spreading her special brand of terrorism far and wide. The boys' carpentry class ended last week, so I have no reason to get the kids out of the house.

* * *

I have an image in my head today of me, arrayed in full body armor, battling demons. Demon #1 would be those cramps, which are maturing every minute and are not so nascent anymore. Demon #2 is a serious lack of motivation, daunted as I am by the mountain of work before me. And a little daunted by the mouse my son saw in the garage yesterday, meaning I have to have Fun With Traps today at some point. Demon #3 is the chaos that surrounds me. This demon has multiple arms and legs, and just when I beat him down in one part of the house or garden, I turn a corner and get bitch-slapped again.

* * *

What is the proper way to battle chaos and disorder? With little time, few resources, and far too many demands upon both?

* * *

And did I mention that I gave up yelling for Lent? That was a folly of the highest degree. I do not recommend this for mothers. It's similar to when I gave up coffee for Lent many years ago, and vowed on a bright and sunny Easter morning never, ever to do that again. Giving up yelling has been well nigh impossible.

But attempting to give up yelling has at least focused me each day on the attempt itself. Each day is a renewed chance to not yell. I have decided that less yelling counts as some measure of success, so at least I have that.

* * *

I am rambling. Writing this post has been all about delaying the inevitable: dealing with my day. Better bring it to a close. I will refill my coffee cup, step out into the bright sunshine, and battle my demons.

I just need to find my helmet underneath all the mayhem first.

* * *

So 2000 and Late

Lady E is enjoying the Brain Quest app on my ipod. We have the flash card versions too, but ya' know, that e-phone-i-crack-thingee is just too tantalizing. No more boring cardboard flashcards for these kids. Bells and whistles, please. (Literally, the app makes bell and whistle sounds when she answers a question correctly.)

Today, she got this one right:

Which came first, buttons or zippers?

After she got it right, she mentioned casually: "I knew that zippers came last because buttons are like such an 80's thing."

She's six.

I think there's a joke in there somewhere about leg warmers and Amish people, but I can't find it under all the bickering, lunch preparing, failed homeschooling attempts, arguing, yelling, bickering, complaining, crying, chore-resisting and general mayhem that is my home at present.

* * *

This is Beepin' Awesome

Car trip dialogue overheard today:

Lady E: Well, I can't say that word, Tallulah! It's just the d-word.

Little T: But what is the d-word?

Lady E: I can't say it! Mom hasn't had The Talk with me yet, and dad hasn't had The Talk with me either, so I can't use words like that.

Me, interjecting from the front seat: What word is that, honey?

Lady E: Do I say it? Or spell it?

Me: Go ahead and spell it.

Lady E: d...a...n...um...t?

Me: Go ahead and say it.

Lady E: Dangit! I can't say that yet, because you haven't had The Talk with me yet.

* * *

Lady E: There are a lot of letter words I don't say, but the one I won't even spell is the b-word. I just won't even say that or spell it. And there's the f-word. That one is bad. But I don't actually know what it is.

pause

Mom, is the f-word the one where you're talking and then you stop talking and then you say BEEEEEEEEP and then you keep talking? Mom? What are you laughing about, Mom?

* * *

We've had many interesting conversations around here lately about language. It's been beepin' awesome.

* * *

Little T Shows Me Some Love

My pierced earring holes are non-functional.

This distresses my daughters, who are all about the ear bling. Two have pierced ears; the other -- the Little T of my title -- will when she turns six. The age of 6 is entirely arbitrary. I had no plans for ear piercings, no magic age when it was time for piercings. But then, sometime before Lalaloopsie turned 6 (that's my oldest daughter), she and I decided to get her some holes for her birthday, and thus began the 6th birthday girl tradition in our family.

But my four ear holes, three on the left side, one on the right (it was the 80's) are mostly closed up. Every so often, I try to force earrings through them, draw blood, and give up.

Back in the day, I was an earring-wearing fool. Dangly, turquoise, beaded, homemade, looped, Telegraph Ave. purchased, the more the merrier, I loved earrings and had an extensive collection. My mom, sister and I gave earrings for most gift occasions and admired each others' baubles. It was fun and awesome.

Then motherhood hit. At that point, I lost the ability to keep, let alone wear, earrings. (I get to blame motherhood for whatever the hell I want to.) I do regret the loss of earring-wearing. One Mother's Day, maybe four years ago, I got them re-pierced, but I've fallen back into my neglectful ways, and they are once again all clogged up.

Tonight, Little T was sitting on my lap, doing her kissing me too much thing, drawing swirls on my face and generally doting on me. She took my left earlobe in her fingers, caressed it lovingly, and said: "These are your earring holes, mommy. You used to be pretty."

I think I'll look into getting them pierced one more time.

* * *

Why Information Is Good for Kids

image credit: www.cksinfo.com

My 12 year old son has discovered the movie Stand By Me. Classic, wonderful, fantastic movie, especially for teen boys. Granted, twelve is more tween than teen, but he is straining against that particular boundary with every ounce of his hormone-ravaged puberty-bound person.

So I let him watch that movie. It has since become his favorite of all time, and we've had some great conversations, about fathers and sons, about profanity, about friendship and cruelty, about story-telling, and more. Apparently, one of the words used in this movie is also a word he asked me the meaning of years ago. At the time and at his age -- maybe 8? -- it seemed entirely inappropriate to really answer his question, so I opted for the following: "Oh, that's another word for kitty-cat!"

Those of you familiar with the movie will surely remember Vern, the chubby kid who provided so many classic moments. ("That's easy. Pez. Cherry flavored Pez. No question about it.") Well, today in the car, Sam was telling more stories from the movie and he momentarily forgot Vern's name. I offered helpfully, "Oh, his name is Vern!"

Sam, right out there in front of his little sibs: "Right. But they all call him pussy!"

And that, my friends, is why kids need accurate information: so they don't grow up to teach their younger siblings that it's perfectly acceptable to go around calling people pussy.

Can you say BACKTRACK? I can!

* * *

How's This for an Alarm Clock

Hello Blogger my old friend,

I've come to write for you again.

Because a notion softly creeping,

Came inside while I was (not) sleeping.

And the children that are sucking all my time

Still do whine...

And drown out sounds of silence.

* * *

It's 5:15am. My heart is pounding. I have just averted disaster, and I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet.

A few short moments ago, I was sleeping like a baby, a baby who shares her bed with too many other babies and is forced to make due with a small sliver of space so close to the edge of the bed the right side of her body actually gets a work out while sleeping, such is the effort to prevent falling onto the cold, hard-wood floor.

So it wasn't that restful to begin with, but at this point in my parenting, I take any sleep that knocks on my door with a "yes please and thank you for coming" and I don't complain. I sleep.

I came slightly awake when I heard another child come into the room. Two were already sprawled behind me on the bed, peacefully placing elbows and feet into awkward positions for me and their dad, and before opening my eyes, I contemplated how I was going to fit this one in as well. I opened an eye, expecting to see another daughter. Instead, without lifting my head, I had a level view of my son's waist.

His thumbs were hooked around his camo pajama bottoms. His legs were in "the stance." He was getting ready to relieve himself. His waistband was inches from my face.

This one has a short but colorful history of peeing in interesting places while he is half asleep. In a flash, I realized that I was this close to being his next interesting place, as it was clear to me that he thought he was standing in the bathroom and not in the bedroom of the woman who brought him into the world. At least I hope so. Otherwise, he may have been making a statement regarding my parenting skills. Let's go with mistaken bathroom location.

I woke up right quick. Before those thumbs had moved too far downward in their hooking motion, I barked: "To the bathroom! To the bathroom! Not here!"

Sleepily, he looked at me with hurt eyes: Why on earth is this lady yelling at me?

Seconds went by. Was he actually awake? Did he hear and comprehend me? I barked again. And Lord have mercy, he stopped mid-draw and stumbled over to the bathroom, mere steps from my bedroom door, and did his business. (Boys peeing is such a noisy business, isn't it?) Next, he turned to the bathroom door, closed it, locked it, and tried for several seconds to open it again. Finally, he got it unlocked, came out into the hallway and stood there for awhile, disoriented and confused.

"Back to bed, sweetheart. Go!" I commanded, a bit forcefully, because I was still stunned by what had almost just happened.

He looked hurt again, said something in a whiny voice indicating that I was being entirely unjust to him, and walked heavily into his room. I heard the thud of his body falling back into bed. I don't think he once fully woke up.

I, on the other hand, am wide awake. Having narrowly escaped a distinctly unpleasant wake up call, I'm pretty sure I can handle whatever comes my way today.

I'm glad it ended this way; this family does not need anymore stories like this one.

* * *

Help Me Get My Techno Geek On

Got an iphone. Learning to use it. Kind of have a love-hate thing going on with it.

Do any of you bloggers out there mobile blog? Have you tried different blogging apps? What are my options? You know, cuz I jet set a lot, and have my most brilliant ideas when I am carpooling to exotic destinations like soccer practice.

If you blog from your phone, do you like having this ability? Has it proven useful, or just so-so? What do these apps reasonably cost?

An inquiring blogger wants to know.

* * *

Ask Me Anything. Except That.

I finally had to have the talk, the one I’ve been dreading, with my daughters. I know, I know, there comes a time in every child’s life when she asks big questions. I had just hoped to have a few more years before dealing with certain issues, a few more precious years of preserving their ignorance and avoiding delicate topics.

As a parent, I consider myself fairly well prepared for most of life’s tough questions. But this one? Not so much. I just didn’t want to have this talk. Didn’t want to justify my own behavior. Didn’t want to talk about how old is old enough for certain behaviors and habits. Didn’t want to answer any detailed questions. Didn’t want to give away too many of my secrets.

But today, a day that seemed ordinary in every way, the question came my way:

Is coffee good for you?

There is no right answer to that question.

Poor Widdle Neglected Blog

Between working on my annual design project, managing eighty-bazillion soccer try-outs, and trying to learn how to use my stupid fancy new iPhone, my poor widdle blog has been sorely neglected.

If anyone is still reading this:

Your visit is important to me! All of my energy is currently busy responding to other demands. Please stand by. Hopefully, there will be something interesting to read in this space soon. Your visit will not be monitored or recorded for quality assurance, but let's hope I write something of quality again someday.

The management thanks you.

* * *

Always Be Polite

When my 6 year old daughter is out in public and needs to throw out some trash, she first looks to see if the public trash can has a THANK YOU printed on it.

If it does, after she tosses her garbage, she says "You're welcome" and does this goofy little curtsey thing.

And I am just enough of a mushy-head to think that's the cutest thing ever.

* * *