Better Parenting Through Selfishness

The other day, Elizabeth told me that a friend of hers "aspires to be like you when she's a mom."

Photo from a recent hike:
I do those for myself too!

Um...come again?

First of all, I was not previously aware that I had made any impression whatsoever on said friend.  To be honest, I wasn't even sure that if I saw this girl somewhere without my daughter in tow, she would know who I was.  Second, what could she possibly be basing this aspiration upon? How well I pull up to the parking lot to pick Elizabeth up from soccer practice?  The food I bring to games when I miraculously remember we are on snack duty?  My mad sideline cheering skillz?

Before I got too puffed up about inspiring the younger generation, I had to ask: Why, Elizabeth? Why does your friend want to be like me?

Turns out, she aspires to be like me because I "do pilates" and take violin lessons and otherwise do things for myself and not solely for my children.

FASCINATING!

Here we are killing ourselves to do ALL OF THE THINGS for our kids and gnashing our teeth over whether or not we're doing it all right, and it turns out, the children like it when we take care of ourselves!

This is very good news.  Never mind putting the needs of the child first.  Don't worry about those permission slips and nutritious lunches (unless they are for you) and clean, matching socks.  Release yourself from carpool duty and school supply shopping and bedtime/bathtime routines.  Really, the key to parenting success is to treat yourself right.  Have drinks with friends, go to baby goat yoga, play an instrument, train for a 5K fun run or for a marathon -- the world is your oyster!  And if you wanna eat oysters -- with or without horseradish -- DO IT!

It makes sense too: it must not be that interesting for kids to watch parents who have no lives beyond pick up and drop off, who make adult life look like it's solely about doing stuff for other people.  It turns out, kids want us to be happy. It helps them look forward to adulthood and see family life as more than just years and years of impossibly hard work.  They will surely figure that part out for themselves.

So, to those of you who have lists of things you need to do this weekend for your kids: shred that thing immediately. Start over, and this time, make a list filled with fun things that will make you happy.

Do it for the kids. 


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Cheapest, Best School Lunch EVER

Isn't it the greatest thing ever when you screw something up and have to settle for a really lame Plan B, only to be rewarded by a super awesome unforeseen consequence that basically makes you look brilliant?

That happened to me today! Yay!

We just came through one of the most soccer-packed, social-packed, traffic-packed, logistics-packed weekends of our lives, which is indeed saying something.  Before the weekend even started, I texted the following to my husband:

"Can you hear the circus music yet?  I CAN!"

My eldest saw that text in the car on the way home on Friday evening...he got a chuckle.

But I digress.  It's just that the weekend was so completely fricking insane that I couldn't manage to do any grocery shopping, so I had to settle for my last minute fall back: take the kids to Safeway in the morning on the way to school to get them breakfast and lunch.  But then, I was so sleep deprived, and in such a non-caffeine dither (no coffee in the house either!), that I completely forget to get off the freeway to go to Safeway.

No breakfast.  No lunch.  No plan.

My three oldest go to school in downtown Oakland, which is a lousy place for a person in search of groceries, especially at 7:45am.  So we made the very sad decision to get what we all call Gas Station Food.  We stopped at one of those food marts at a gas station and stared dismally at the selections before making some seriously depressing choices.  Off Lola went with her Cup Noodles, with a side of her mother's shame and guilt to chase it down.

That was my really lame Plan B.

But the brilliance!  The unforeseen brilliance!

When I picked her up after school, she happily announced that her buddy desperately wanted that Cup Noodles and gratefully traded her own lunch: a gourmet chicken caesar salad.  Lola was psyched.  I was relieved that she got to eat something besides a styrofoam cup full of sodium.  It was a win-win.

The best was yet to come, though.  Because then I came up with the BEST School Lunch Plan Ever, and the most Affordable.  I'm going to buy her a couple flats of those cup noodle things.  She'll be the most popular lunch trade in town, and all those other chumpy moms will buy the really good, organic, non-GMO, non-HFCS, locally sourced, locally grown, attractively packaged, liberal-heart-soothing lunches and their kids will trade with my kid.  Healthy lunch at processed food prices.

Bingo.

I just love that I learn something new every day, especially when it involves me being brilliant and not even knowing it.

* * *

Thank You, Rock-n-Roll!

When my first born son was a wee tot, probably no more than 1, he tried his first tomato.  It was the first time I ever saw him dislike a taste; up to that point, he was a dream eater.  But that tomato caused a facial response worthy of overcooked brussels sprouts and became the first chapter in a long, depressing story called How A Kid Got Picky.

At the time, I thought: "OK, he doesn't like tomatoes.  No big."  But it turns out, it has been a huge road block in his eating life.  Pizza?  Nope: tomato sauce.  Family spaghetti night? Not with my homemade sauce.  Salads?  Well, sort of fine, if you pick out the toms, which of course, he does.  Salsa? No.  Bruschetta?  Uh-uh.  Most soups?  Fail.

As he has gotten pickier over the years, his not eating tomatoes has gotten more and more frustrating for me.  Pizza is such kid-standard fare that the issue comes up frequently.  Pizza is the meal of choice at most birthday parties, soccer team parties, class parties, always leaving me with "What the heck did he eat?  Chips?  A carrot or two?"

I've tried a million times to get him to try pizza again.  We make pizza for dinner fairly regularly, and he will not eat it.  I've encouraged, cajoled, threatened, bribed, stormed, and reasoned.  I've screamed and yelled.  Over pizza.  I've come unhinged a few times, to be sure, and that's never a good thing.

For a long time now, I have suspected that he would actually love pizza if he just gave it a try.  After all, it's now been over a decade since a tomato passed his lips.  Things change, right?

A couple of years ago and at the end of my rope, I tried a new tactic.  Employing my most practiced nonchalance, I mentioned, offhand, that "someday, I'm sure you'll like pizza."  Since then, every now and then I've asked (using my most crafted casualness): "So, wanna try some pizza this time?  No?  OK, no problem.  Someday you will, I'm sure.  You'll love it."  

In his presence, that zen like confidence prevailed.  But out of eye and ear shot?  I've expressed my true feelings, storming mightily at his monumental stubbornness.  I've obsessed over how he will ever truly enjoy college if he won't eat pizza.  I've wistfully longed for a normal kid, one who inhales pizza like a healthy American teenager. 

It's not that pizza is so great.  Bread, cheese, sauce.  It's not the holy grail of nutrition.  But pizza has become a metaphor, a symbol of his refusal to do something I want him to do, of his epic picky-ness, of the pain-in-the-neck hassle of figuring out how to feed him, of the never ending power struggle that food became at an early age between him and me.  (I learned my lesson.  My other kids are far less picky because I got smart about how to feed them and how to handle food with them.)

So back to the Zen Strategy.  I tried it because I had tried everything else.  I didn't really believe it would work.  The only thing it did was pull the plug on the power struggle, and as much as I wanted him to eat the damn pizza, that was enough for me for awhile.

12 years later, my son has joined a band as a guitarist.  After the first rehearsal, he came home with the bad news: the boys order a pizza at every single practice.  "Well, maybe it's time to try it, then!" was my response.

His?  "Yeah, maybe."

At the end of the second band practice, he called me: "Guess what mom?  I tried pizza.  I loved it."

He even gave me the details about how when the pizza got there, he didn't say a thing, acted like it was no big deal, grabbed a piece and shoved it in his mouth.  I love having that little movie playing in my head.  

Thank you, rock and roll, for giving pizza back to my family, for proving that the zen approach to parenting works every now and then, for teaching me to let go.  Thank you for confirming what I have long suspected but also long resisted: take 97% of what you most worry about when it comes to the kids, and stop worrying.  Fake it till you make it.  Fake it until you figure out that it's really true.  Fake it until what you most want drops into your lap.

I know it's just pizza.  But that pizza is teaching me to be a better mother.

* * *

  

Warning: Dr. Suess Ahead

The kids were out with Rick this weekend, and they saw an ad for The Lorax splayed across the broadside of a city bus.  The ensuing conversation:

Kid #1: "Dad, can you believe that?  The Lorax is rated PG?"

Kid #2:"What?  How can a Dr. Suess movie be NOT GOOD for little kids?"

Kids in general:  "WHAT?  THAT'S CRAZY?  Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad, what's wrong with The Lorax?  Why? WHY DAD?????



Dad: "I don't know."

Kid #2: "What is there, Inappropriate Rhyming?"

* * *

After all, everyone knows that rhyming, in the wrong hands, can be dangerous.  That's why I don't let my kids read or write poetry until they are old enough to date.  Or at least old enough to clean the kitchen without my having to call them back 5 times to finish the job correctly.

Actually, maybe that will help me determine if the kids can go see The Lorax: if you're old enough to empty the kitchen drainer-catchy-thingee, you can see the movie.

* * *

I Don't Care About Your Problems

I mean, I love you and all, but let me just say this as gently as I can:  Shut the hell up and don't tell me a single word about how your brother or sister has wronged you in some entirely-new-to-the-human-experience way that shatters all measures of cruelty, offends decent people everywhere, and shaves years off your time in Purgatory.  I don't care.  When I say I don't care, what I mean is, I would rather listen to fingernails on a chalkboard, than be asked to mediate another argument for which I was not present, and which might require me to actually make a decision aka choose sides, and that's a trap I need to avoid like the Bubonic Plague.  I would rather go all Vincent Van Gogh on the side of my head than listen to the screeches currently emanating from your mouth.  Put another way, I'd rather listen to Ke$ha than to you right now.  I would rather have South Park on -- loud -- in a room with my five year old.  I would rather go de-flea the dog than be subjected to your Life Is So Not Fair and Why Do They Hate Me and Do You Like Seeing Me Suffer narratives.

I'm fairly certain that I have talked myself blue in the face with suggestions, with strategies for getting along.  I'm sure you know The Golden Rule.  And no, there is no addendum to that rule that reads "...as long as they go first."  I'm done encouraging you to rise above the fray, to take the high road, to be a peacemaker.  Conflict resolution?  Load of crap in reality.

I know you want to justify to me why your sister just sprinted past me screaming bloody murder with you in hot pursuit with that special murderous look upon your face.  I know you want to justify the pain you inflicted on your brother by filling me in on just how completely rotten and evil he is.  I don't care.  And when I say I don't care, I'm really saying that if you don't shut your pie hole now I will bypass Van Gogh and skip straight to Linda Blair, and you don't really want to see your mother's head spinning around on top her neck, do you?

I really, truly, with every fiber of my being do. not. care. why you are being a total pain in the ass.  I just want you to stop.

Stop.

Stop yelling.  Stop fighting.  Stop bitching and moaning.  While you're at it, why don't you just stop talking altogether?  Just shut it.  Please.  I beg you, I beseech you, if you have any gratitude at all, even the slightest smidge, for the fact that I shoved you into this world, you will be blessedly, finally, silent.

Because I love you.  But I don't care about your sibling problems.  I just want you all to be very, very quiet.

Lady E Makes Her Choice

Well, we survived the birthday sleepover, if surviving means being so tired you cannot lift your arms without hoping someone, somewhere feels really really sorry for you.

Even writing this post is costing me precious energy I can scarcely afford. But here's a recap.

They made forts. They played elaborate make believe games involving pretend pets. They made friendship bracelets. They ate an impressive amount of food. They watched a movie. They giggled. They danced to Train. They had flip-flop cake and watched the Birthday Girl open presents. They said please and thank you. They sort of sometimes included the little sisters. They made new friends. They were fabulous.

And when they left, most of my kids sort of kind of fell apart.

At one point, after too many slamming doors and too many screeches and bellows, Rick went into the living room where the fighting was happening and said wearily: "That's it. We're putting you all up for adoption."

Listening and cringing in the kitchen, I wondered if he might be emotionally scarring them with this bit of sarcasm.

He followed up with: "You decide if you want to be placed somewhere together, or if you want separate new families."

Without missing a beat, and before I had time to form a complete thought about the potential damage he was inflicting, Lady E piped up: "SEPARATE! SEPARATE!"

At least one of them will survive our unique brand of parenting.

* * *

The Tiger Must Be Appeased

I am trying to be better about getting exercise. We have a stationary bike in our garage, and I've been pretty good about riding it most days lately. My challenge is getting my kids to leave me alone while I'm huffing and puffing my way through the routine. They're supposed to leave me alone, but -- surprise, surprise -- they don't always.

Today while I was riding, and during the most difficult, steepest part of the program, Tallulah wandered in. Yes, even though I had told them not to bother me unless 911 needed to be summoned. Again, such a surprise.

"Mommy, where's the paint face?" (That's her way of saying face paints.)

I breathlessly tried to tell her I didn't know and I would find them when I was done. She didn't like that answer, so she hung on the handle bars and commenced begging. Gasping and straining, I told her again that I couldn't help her right at the moment, that she would have to wait.

She was having none of it. After all, she was all dressed up like a tiger, and she wanted to complete the look by painting her face. She started to dig in and rev up her whine. Meanwhile, sweat was dripping into my eyes, my legs and lungs were burning, and I just could not deal with that tenacious little she-who-must-be-dealt-with thing she does.

So I went with the first, most expeditious solution that popped into my head:

"Just...(pant)...use...(pant pant)...markers!...(gasp)"

It worked. She left me alone. She found the markers and did a number on her face:

This little story illustrates the two basic problems with Me Time for Mom. First, Me Time makes me say really stupid things, things I would never say if I wasn't trying to do something nice for myself. And second, the aftermath is a bitch.

* * *

The Top Ten List of Shame

This post is for you, Viv, because a comment you left today put me in shock. Here's what you said, in response to this post, in which I revealed that my homeschooling life has had some colossal-ly bad moments:

I was feeling all left out, the way you have seemingly mastered life since you started homeschooling. It seems like everyone (bloggy pals) pulled their sh*t together all at once, and I still personify calamity and disaster...effectively becoming the odd man out. It is nice to know that you still have days where calamity and disaster prevail...because really, change a few initials and I could have written that, though I would have thrown in a few extra pucks. I feel decidedly less alone, and like maybe there is still hope for me one day after all. ;)

Reading that response made me realize that I have strayed from a tried-and-true theme of this blog: giving people just enough of a glimpse into the wonderful whackness of AIRY5 to make them really, really grateful that they do not have my life.

Does it appear that I have mastered life? Pulled my sh*t together? Eschewed calamity and disaster? Grab a sippy cup full of wine, my dear -- oh, wait, you might be feeding your seventh little blessing, who is all of what, 7 days old by now? -- or whatever beverage is handy, even if it's a juice pouch (but if it is, don't grab it before taking a long drag on that little straw or you know what will happen), and let me fly my freak flag* for you.

Here is a glimpse into my real life, my very own Top Ten list. Here, I give you The Top Ten Reasons It's Clear That I Do Not Have My Sh*t Together.

10. I never close my bedroom door. I wish I could say that this is because I am wholly committed to being available to my children, that I'm so willing to listen to what they have to say that I have an Open Door policy with them. Actually, it's because I tried it once, and felt so ashamed of and rebuked by the dust bunnies, infant socks, paper clips, and children's art projects that are behind it that I vowed never to shut it again. Keep in mind, I have not had an infant for 3+ years.

9. Once or twice (or possible many more), in a mad dash home from the grocery store at 5:45, still needing to make dinner, I have tossed a bag of pre-washed sugar snap peas at the occupants of my car, and called that the green vegetable for dinner. Or for the day.

8. My washing machine needs to be repaired. But I can't call the repairman, because he's a family friend, and I'm too embarrassed by the condition of the garage to get him over here to take a look at it. I mean, I'm fine with twisting myself sideways through various boxes and piles, in order to make it to the washer and dryer, but to let someone else in? I've seen this guy's garage. No thank you. These are the things that make me clean: the threat of abject humiliation. Even still, there's no telling how long it will take me.

7. I found my dining room table today, after over a month of being unsure if it was still, in fact, in the dining room. We had our monthly meeting with our Charter School teacher today, so there you go: the motivation I needed for that particular cleaning job. I still haven't found my kitchen table surface, my bedroom desk surface, my dresser surface, or, apparently, the surface of my self-respect.

6. My 4 year old has made it to preschool on time fewer than 10 times since school started last August. Once or twice, she didn't make it at all, just because we couldn't locate the wherewithal to get her there. I'd tell you how close we live to the preschool, but that would just be embarrassing. Unlike the rest of this list.

5. In one of the most fiercely waged wars of my life, my laundry is currently (and usually) winning. Piles are advancing like disciplined troops intent on wrecking havoc and destruction. More than one clean basket has now been folded, ransacked, re-folded, and re-ransacked more times that I can count. Dirty baskets lie in wait, mocking me on soccer game days with the possibility that the jersey I so desperately need to find is balled up in a damp corner growing new forms of penicillin.

4. When people tell me how great my kids are, I fight the urge to make sure they aren't confusing us with some other family of seven. Really? These fighting, screaming, rude, messy, clueless, lazy, selfish, defiant, weepy whiners? If they're so flippin' great, why do I mostly want to hide in the closet and play single player scrabble on my iPhone? And if they really are that great, then isn't it just the pinnacle of unfairness that my husband and I are the only people they do not share their greatness with?

3. Every time I need to print something from my computer, I have to move three or four piles of crap just to reach the printer cable and attach it to my laptop. Then I have to move a bunch of other stuff to make room to sit down on the edge of a chair covered in laundry, so I can be there to catch the pages as they come out, since the tray got broken by the fierce tiny grip of a child testing the laws of physics. Then I have to wait a kajillion years for it to work, because apparently it's a very Marin, EST-type of printer, and it's all about the process, and letting the process take the time it needs, and giving the process room to unfold in an organic and holistic fashion, and making me want to hurl it out my second story front window. So basically, printing stuff brings out my rage.

2. Every night, I plan to get the kids up by 7 or 8am the next morning, so that we can have a decent breakfast, do all of the morning chores, address our school activities, and have free time in the afternoon. Every morning, I get up early, sneak downstairs to make coffee, and then crouch over my computer reading news, blogs, and facebook, sipping coffee and praying they sleep until 10. My heart sinks when I hear feet on the stairway. Then I stall for as long as possible. Drink more coffee. Throw some toast out there. Adjust expectations downward.

And the #1 reason I know I don't have a damn thing together: Due to the sorry state of laundry in my home, someone in my family recently had to wear underwear intended for a gender not his or her own, because no clean ones in his or her own gender category were available. And no, I'm not saying who.

* * *

*And the Freak Flag reference comes from the lovely Anna Quindlen, in this piece from momfilter. She said this:

I think having bright lines and boundaries really worked for us, that it made our kids strong and secure because they were clear on expectations and responsibilities. But I wish I had been better able to combine that with letting things go a little bit. Nobody really needs a bath every night. Nobody really needs a balanced meal for every meal. I should have let the freak flag fly a bit more. It’s hard to be a Type A mom. I wish I could have been a bit more B plus, for my sake and their own.

I hear you, Anna. But then, I think my own freak flag could probably stand a little vacation from my door post. And I'm not so much a Type A mom, as a Type A-Z mom who can't find clean underwear...for someone.

Bright lines and boundaries? I'm sure they're here somewhere. Maybe I'll find them in the garage on the same day I get the repair guy over here.

* * *

Seeking Instructor for Impulse Control 101

How do we teach our kids a little self-control? How do we teach them to corral their less-than-wonderful impulses?

Like the impulse that tells my son that it's a perfectly fine idea to attempt to choke his little sister for sticking her tongue out at him.

Like the one that tells my daughter that flinging shoes at me from her car seat is fun or that hurtling pencils across the living room is just what the situation calls for.

Like the force compelling them all to simply get louder in order to be heard above the din of other people who are being as loud as they can in order to be heard.

Like the urge to get my response right now to a critical question such as I-know-I-just-bought-an-Ipod-game-and-you-said-I-could-buy-a-song-in-a-few-days-but-can-I-buy-it-now-instead-cuz-i-really-really-want-it, even though, as you can clearly see, I am engaged in conversation with another adult and will (a) not respond in your favor if you interrupt me and (b) not respond in your favor because this question has been asked and answered several times already in a short few hours and (c) want to sell you to a gypsy train if you look at me with that desperate need-to-spend-money-in-order-to-feel-happy, meth-head looking for a fix, pitiful son with a shrew for a mother kind of way.

Like the old tried and profoundly untrue response to having to do daily chores. Really? Really? You are really going to stomp around the house bitching bitterly about how unfair it is that you have to fold laundry? After all these months, and after watching hot lava erupt from the top of your mother's head and sparks fly from her mouth during previous bouts of complaining about this very thing? Do you not remember where this same complaining landed you last time? In a world of misery and screeching, if I recall, so my question to you now is: Really?

What am I doing wrong? Expecting human behavior from un-fully formed people?

Parenting is a mystery shrouded by a veil behind closed doors and speaking in tongues.

* * *

7 Quick Takes: Volume 22

Friday, Friday...so good to me,

Friday, Friday...will you be all I hope you can be?

Welcome to 7 Quick Takes at And I'll Raise You 5. Please visit our lovely host at Conversion Diary for the original 7 Quick Takes. Take a moment to congratulate her on expecting Baby #5! And check out the links to other Quick Takers playing along this week.

~ 1 ~

Today's recommended reading: The Epic of Gilgamesh. One of the oldest stories in the world, Gilgamesh tells the story of a cruel king and the friendship that teaches him to be kind. Rick used to teach this story in his English classes, and it has always been a favorite of his. The kids and I are listening to The Story of the World these days, and this week we heard a retelling of this ancient story that comes to us from 3000 (ish) BC Mesopotamia.

Before Gilgamesh meets Enkidu, he is a cruel and tyrannical king, enslaving his people and taking anything he wants for himself. Everyone fears him. Enkidu is the first to stand up to him by fighting him ferociously when Gilgamesh attempts to steal a bride right from her wedding banquet. They fight almost to the death, but just before they annihilate each other, Gilgamesh realizes that he has met his match. He recognizes that this half man/half animal has saved him from his own viciousness and decides they should be friends. Power and weakness, justice and cruelty, life and death: Gilgamesh has it all. Go forth and read.

~ 2 ~

Today's evidence that I am a bad mother: On this cold, dreary, wet morning, I made everyone a piping hot oatmeal breakfast, generously mixed with applesauce and amply smothered with cinnamon sugar. It's like eating warm apple pie in a bowl, and it was received with animosity.

~ 3 ~

Hmmm, what to do for homeschooling today...that's right, I have no plan. I do believe Netflix's "Watch Instantly" feature was created just for me! Today's educative activity will be to watch George C. Scott in A Christmas Carol. Thank you, Netflix! (Note: I am not paid to promote Netflix.)

~ 4 ~

Today's real evidence that I am a bad mother: I'm trying to force my 4 year old to watch TV instead of saying yes to her repeated requests that I read to her. Too much to do!

Think I'll regret this in 10 years when I get a call from the police department, telling me that my distraught 14 year old girl has just set off a bomb in her school library, screaming about how her mommy won't read any books to her and all books suck and her mommy sucks and WORDS ARE EVIL?

~ 5 ~

I am being defeated by the paper piles in my home. Any suggestions for getting the upper hand in this area will be greatly appreciated. Probably ultimately ignored, but appreciated in the short term at least.

~ 6 ~

Today's confession: Just like Jen at Conversion Diary, I have not purchased one, single, solitary Christmas gift yet. Nothing. Nada. Nilch. The next two weeks are going to be a bumpy ride.

~ 7 ~

Instead of getting out there and shopping, I've been doing a whole lot of Advent-ish waiting* and getting ready. We are using Christmas dinner as our excuse to fix things up around here, painting some rooms, conquering paper piles, and re-purposing our mish-mash of shelves in more efficient and aesthetically pleasing ways. The house doesn't look incredibly Christmas-y yet, but in our own way, we are celebrating Advent by preparing our home for Christmas guests, the ones we will feed and the One who will feed us. And I'm thinking about how to be a sign of hope in the world. Because that's what this season is truly about, HOPE.

"Advent is the spiritual season of hope par excellence, and in this season the whole Church is called to be hope, for itself and for the world. The whole spiritual organism of the mystical body assumes, as it were, the 'color' of hope."

~ Pope Benedict XVI, in his homily at the celebration of first vespers in St. Peter's Basilica, on Saturday, November 28, 2008

So you're not Christian or Catholic? No matter! Perhaps you can still agree that the world could use "hope par excellence" today. For us, we are trying to infuse our home with the color of hope, and perhaps we can take that color out into the world and fling it around a little bit. I've never seen hope on a retail shop shelf, so regardless of the shopping I have not done, I'm happy with how we are getting ready for Christmas this year.

*thank you, KP, for this phrase, which I stole from your FB status. :)

* * *

A Sure Fire Way to Annoy Your Kids, Courtesy of My Father

When I was a kid, whenever I or my sister or brother had the hiccups, we would kvetch* vehemently, as if someone could actually do something about them. "I have the hiccups!" I would exclaim. And my dad would say: "Well, don't tell anybody, or everyone one will want some."

Magic.

Try this with your kids. I have found that it works quite well for many things. Just this morning, I employed this strategy twice:

Mom! I have a snotty nose!

Well, don't tell anybody, or everyone will want a snotty nose.

Mom! Bird poop on my window!

Well, don't tell anybody, or everyone will want some bird poop.

Every time I do this, the kids growl in disgust and hurl vitriole at my dad: "Thanks a lot, Poppa!"

I get a little giggle each time, the kids give up on me in indignation, and I don't have to respond to every little complaint. Like I said: magic.

Thanks Poppa!

* * *

*Spelling has been corrected from original post. See comments. Thanks HM.

Exhausted? Or Enlightened?

Teetering on the edge of the pond, pink Hello Kitty tutu fluttering, my daughter just might fall into that duck-poop laden scum. That would be unfortunate. I’m sitting on a bench about 20 feet away, watching her, and wondering if I am 20 feet away because I am that relaxed as a parent, able to let my kids explore the world and figure out how not to fall in ponds or if I’m simply too tired to stand within arm’s reach of her. Because I am quite tired, really, not so much from needing sleep as from being sick to death of monitoring the movements of tots.

She dashes to and fro, finding sticks to dip in the water and chattering to the weird looking ducks. I would have taken a picture of the weird ducks, but she broke my camera yesterday. But these ducks have strange pompadour hairdos and she finds them charming.

Another mother is there too. She hovers. Her son, although the same size as my daughter, looks a bit younger, maybe less sure of himself on his feet. In her fashionable, vaguely-Indian print maternity tank top, she is waiting, for her boy to get tired enough for his nap and for her second child to arrive. She is more supervisory than I, standing close, speaking to him often, advising caution and care, pulling him back from time to time. He complies. She is clearly in charge.

Little T? Jumps from rock to rock with heart-leaping abandon, and makes me weary from desperately wishing she would listen to one damn thing I say. I could tell her to stop. To be careful. To come away from the edge. But she wouldn’t listen anyway. There would be a fight, she would get ornery and probably embarrass me. She would say something like “No, damnit.” I’ve tried teaching her not to say damnit, and for awhile she was happy to substitute fiddlesticks in its place. But recently, after she once more said “damnit,” and I cheerfully reminded her about fiddlesticks, she flatly pronounced: “Nope. Damnit.” I’m not really up for seeing my four year old do a truck driver impression in front of a clearly more competent mother, so I eyeball the pond and figure that if she did fall in, she could probably stand up, and knowing her, she’d be so spitting mad that she’d probably fly out of that water looking for something to bite. Hard.

And anyway, a bathtub is only a few blocks away.

The whole scene makes me think about how much I’ve changed as a mother over the past twelve years. I was far more vigilant with my older kids when they were tiny, but the numbers are against me now. There’s one of me and five of them*, and I cannot muster the energy to pilot the Mommy Helicopter, and my kids may be running a bit to the wild because of it.

I wonder. Am I less worried because I am more experienced? Or because I’m too exhausted to bother?

*Technically, it's 1 to 5 when my dear husband is out toiling away in the world instead of helping me fight the good fight against our offspring. But then, even when he's around, the odds are against us. It's us against them. War isn't pretty.

* * *

Butter: A Dilemma

I love real butter. Nothing beats a slice of fresh sour dough bread, lightly toasted, and touched by real, creamy butter.

Due to health concerns in my family, I buy fake butter, the Smart Choice brand after trying several. (Actually, I don't call it fake butter anymore, after my husband asked me to use the term healthy butter instead. More appetizing, I suppose.)

So my kids have grown up on the healthy butter, pulling the Costco size vat out of the fridge for their bagels, toast and what-have-you.

I also always keep real butter in the house, because I personally do not (currently) have any health issues preventing me from enjoying its creamy goodness. I also prefer to bake with real butter.

The other day, I made my son some toast, and used the real butter -- no particular reason except that's how I make it for myself. He was in heaven, and kept asking me why his toast tasted so good. How did I do that? When he makes it, it doesn't taste that good!

So. The Dilemma. Do I disclose the delicious secret about real butter? Or do I keep that little tidbit to myself so I don't have to share?

So far, I'm being selfish. But it's only a matter of time before they figure it out. If I'd known how hard it would be for me to share my butter, I might have had fewer children.

What secrets do you keep from your kids? Hiding the whiskey does not count.

* * *

My New Domesticity Plan

I have trouble getting motivated to clean my house. Oh, I do a spit shine nearly every day, and that works decently. But really cleaning it, beyond "good enough," happens once in a dry mattress. We know that having people over is about the only thing that will make us really clean. I like having folks over, because even I prefer being somewhat social to living like a bat, and also because I get to enjoy the benefits of having an orderly home, at least for a short while.

But there's a lot more that goes into hosting people than just cleaning the house. There's the food preparation, the extroverted energy required, the clean-up afterwards, the lost facebooking time, and the list goes on. Maybe there's a more practical way to get myself to clean the house besides having a party every weekend.

I was talking with a friend of mine recently who spent the past couple of years being a foster mom. She was, I'm sure, the best foster mom ever. I can't imagine a better fit for her warm, direct, tough, goofy, unconditionally-lovin' self than helping kids get through a difficult time in their lives.

She recently moved back to California, so we were on the phone arranging for her to come over for dinner with her fabulous son; she and I were pregnant at the same time 12 years ago, so my oldest boy and her son have been buddies since the womb. I thanked her for coming over, since I needed the extra motivation to dig out of my normal clutter and restore some order around here. And then, she mentioned that as a foster parent, she had twice monthly visits from a social worker, which provided her with the spark she needed to gussy things up a bit around her house.

AHA! That's it! All I need to do is turn myself in to Child Protective Services, get myself in the system, and BAM! Twice monthly strangers in my house who I do not need to cook for, entertain, or share stuff with, but whose visits will get me to clean up on a regular basis! It's PERFECT. I'm so pleased.

Now I just have to figure out what to turn myself in for. I'm thinking all the yelling I do is a good place to start.

* * *

Is That So Wrong?

We've kept up our reading of Where the Red Fern Grows; we're about half way through. I'm just thrilled with how into it the kids are. We watch a lot of movies around here, so I was especially psyched when, on the way home tonight, one of the kids asked if we could watch a movie, and when I suggested we read instead, they were all way excited and abandoned any thought of a movie. I was happy, since this meant that I would not responsible for the death of a single brain cell under my roof for this night.

One problem. Little T.


She's too young for this reading-a-real-book-out-loud business. She gets too squirrely, needs too much attention. Earlier in the day, when I was thinking about reading later, I remembered how great reading had been the other night when she landed herself in bed early after being a Royal Pain in the Arse. She got her 1st and 2nd warnings, and then got herself a one way ticket to an early bedtime. She crashed and slept hard. The rest of us got to read in peace. So...I was wondering to myself...would it be really bad to sort of taunt her into misbehavior? You know, sort of poke the bear until the bear predictably lashes out? Could I get her to disobey me, or bug her brothers too much, or jump on the furniture as she knows she mustn't, or draw on a wall or something? If I could somehow find a way to get her in big enough trouble to send her to bed early, that would really make reading easier.

I had my little chuckle about this idea. A mom can dream, can't she?

Well, I should have known that Little T needs little to no encouragement for misbehavior. I hadn't made it past the first page of Chapter X before she disobeyed her dad three times in a row, and voila! She went to bed early.

Sometimes, I just love how awful and how predictable she is! Win-Win for everyone! It worked out beautifully.

We read the chapter tonight about the Pritchard boys. I won't spoil it for anyone. Suffice to say, this one packs a punch. I made it through with nary a tear, but I did get choked up at one point.

* * *

And in other news: it seems we are forever in need of learning the value of Simple Things. This past week, we finally managed to take care of two very small home projects that have made a world of difference in our quality of life.

First, I finally hung a window shade in my kitchen. The window is at my sink, so I spend a fair amount of time there. In the morning, the sun streams directly in the window and beats down on the opposite counter, where we keep our wine and spirits, for lack of a better place. In the evening, the setting sun reflects off of the large white wall of my neighbor's house and blinds anyone standing at my sink (that would be me about 99.99% of the time) and slams more heat and light on our liquor. Heat on wine and spirits is very dis-spiriting indeed, and Rick has been after us for weeks (OK, months or years) to hang a shade or a curtain or something already. I went to Home Depot. I forked over $15 bucks for a cheap shade and the stupid little hardware set. I came home and hung the damn thing. The entire process took less than an hour. The kitchen is now comfortably bright instead of blindingly so. We have a touch more privacy. And the liquor: friends, the liquor is safe. That is a quality of life issue.

Second, Rick cleaned out our shower head. Oh my. What a difference. We've noticed for months that the once robust spray had become mostly one thick deluge of water, lacking force and oomph. Again, we've been meaning to take care of it for the longest time. I saw Rick fiddling with it the other day, and got positively giddy about my next shower. Sure enough, that first "new" shower made me feel like I just had a spa day. After Rick took his shower, we were marveling at the awesome-ness of the spray and he said he felt like he'd just had a vacation. Definitely a quality of life issue. I love that shower head, and I love the man who cleaned it out.

So why do we take so long to do these simple things that make such a difference? I've been on the lookout all week for more of these little jobs that improve life so much. I wonder what will be next. Organizing and hiding the cords behind the TV? Cleaning out the school backpacks that are still on the vent by the front door? Making it possible to close the linen closet without having to slam the door and lean into it fast so nothing falls out?

We are unstoppable. Who knows what we will conquer next.

Every now and then, domesticity makes me feel powerful.

* * *

Pathetic, But Effective

When the first four of my children were all under school age, their TV time was severely limited. They didn't watch any regular "shows," and the TV was never on during the day. They watched a handful of movies over and over and over again, but didn't really know any better and were quite happy in their ignorance.

Enter Child #5. She came of TV-watching age in a household that had discovered I Carly and Sponge Bob, that was deep into Dora and Diego and Max and Ruby. She skipped right over Sesame Street and goes directly for full length movies starring the Teen Idol Du Jour and featuring lots of teeny-bopper behavior. This is perhaps why she once called me "smokin' hot," talks to her stuffed monkey about all her boyfriends, and shakes what her mama gave her with a little too much verve.

She watches too much television. My fault. I let her. I can't stop myself. I resolve to keep the TV off, but I crumble too quickly and before I know it, Miss Spider, Carly, Dora, and Lyndsey Lohan (think Freaky Friday) are taking over my living room. Guiltily, I dash around doing laundry, or returning emails, or weeding the garden, trying not to listen the screams of her dying brain cells as they give up the ghost.

It has to stop and today is the day. We are firmly committed to having a NO TELEVISION DAY today.

But I know myself, and myself is weak. So I did the only logical thing. I disconnected the cable cord and told her the TV is broken. She keeps asking me if it's fixed yet; it's easier to lie to her than to tell her that she is not allowed to watch anything. We've already made it to 10am without Diego.

Pathetic. But Effective.

* * *