Declaration of Sane Semblance

When in the Course of homeowner events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the plumbing joints which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, gravity, and the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to insanity.

Resolved: Home ownership sucks. Mondays suck. Clumsy children suck.

We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men (but not all plumbing fixtures) are created equal, that they are endowed by
their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness (and the Pursuit of ER visits).

Thus, is the Preamble and first paragraph of the body of my Declaration of Insanity.

Our weekend ended with my washing machine exploding. Literally. And I am not saying literally but meaning figuratively. I mean, I heard a noise, and I went into my laundry room, and the spin cycle was blasting water out of the front door of the washer. Once I was able to tell the HAL computer to turn off the frickin' thing, I was able to open it up and see that the gasket in the door was shredded. First, when did washing machines require a computer that tells ME that I can't turn IT off? Hello? Who's in charge here? Second, did I accidentally run a load of ninja blades? Something for sure got stuck in there, and did its best to break everything. Fortunately, the warranty actually covered the trouble and this morning's sun rose with the lonely Matyag man and his hound dog sitting on my porch waiting to work.

Monday started off with a bang. Specifically, the bang of S's head on an oak stair. Despite S's proverbially hard-headedness, the stair won. Back to the emergency room. But, S, who is eternally optimistic, says, "it's okay to go back to the hospital, Mom. You don't mind driving." As if that was my problem. We waited at the ER, and I asked for a plastic surgeon acquaintance of ours to do the stitching, but he was busy inflating some one's boobs (presumably) so he couldn't see us til later. We slapped a Band-Aid on the booboo and headed to Wendy's for lunch. A couple of hours later, we were at the doctor's office, getting 4 stitches in S's beautiful face. He is determined to ruin that beautiful face, as if it were his life's mission. When he starts to drive, I'll have to keep an army of professionals: orthopedics, plastic surgeons, lawyers, insurance reps, and car repairmen on retainer before I can let the kid out of the driveway.

MEANWHILE, back at the ranch...M calls me to let me know things have turned sour. Presumably with the remodeling. I get home and it is raining. Inside the guest bathroom. A lot. And, apparently, it has been doing so for a while. Not like a seeping brown stain on the ceiling after the kids have been splashing in the tub. Like the weather gods laughingly kicked off hurricane season in my ceiling. The ceiling, the walls, the cabinetry. RUINED. We're on our hands and knees upstairs looking for the source. Much like a TV procedural, we formulated scenarios and pointed our fingers at several suspects. Wrongly. Because in leak hunting, as in TV, the first three suspects you bring in are innocent. It wasn't the plumber who installed the new toilet. It wasn't the shoddy silicone work in the two-year old shower. It wasn't the new sink in the boys' bathroom. Thankfully, it wasn't the work I did last summer in the bathroom.
It was a faulty fitting in the shower in the boys' room. The plumber discovered that this morning after cutting holes in every bathroom in the house. To be repaired. Later. At my expense.

While it was nice of the plumber to be here so early in the morning, it didn't help us much that the water was turned off at the main all night long. The boys got to bed before we shut off the water. But M and I went through our late night routine in the great outdoors. Where I was reminded again how much easier it is to be a man with external plumbing of his own. What happened outside, up against my house in the flower bed is between me and my God. And, possibly, my ankles.
When I woke up this morning, there was a chair up against the window in our bathroom. Question silently posed to M: answer silently given. Mother nature called him, and he needed a booster seat to answer outside the window.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of
Our House, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of this House, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent ; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the homeowner kingdom, and that all political connection between them and the oppressive crown, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy
War (against flood), conclude Peace (with all appliances), contract Alliances (with all utilities), establish Commerce (with all painters, contractors, carpenters and handymen), and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do (live peaceably in modern home). And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

During Normal Business Hours

So, in other news, my washing machine broke. OF COURSE my washing machine broke. Because everything is finally put back in the kitchen, and because I have mountains of dirty laundry, including TBall uniforms and PE uniforms that are to be used today. Because I have NOTHING better to do than to wait for my repair man, who has graciously given me an appointment window of 8AM to 5PM tomorrow.,
8 AM to 5PM is not an appointment window, it is a business day. I booked my "window" online, but had I been able to speak to a real-life actual human being, I would have pointed out that the point of scheduling appointments is to narrow down the entire business day into smaller sections of time for which a person could reasonably expect service. No real, live humans are to be found on the Interwebs.
What if everything ran on the cable-guy/repairman schedule?

"Sure, you may come see the doctor. She'll be in from 8 until 4 on Mondays Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She has surgery on Thursdays and Fridays, but she already has 36 people lined up on those days. Those patients are living in a tent city in the waiting room."

"No, ma'am. I am not late for school. This class runs for an hour--an hour long appointment window, in which I clearly arrived at minute 57."

"Your due date? Your baby is expected some time between January and November! How exciting for you!"

"I understand your emergency. Yes, please keep giving CPR. Help is on the way. The ambulance will be there soon. I expect them to get there between 6 minutes and 120 minutes."

"Say cheese. Now hold it for the next 17 minutes."

"Thanks for tuning into NBC. Conan or Leno will be coming on within 4 hours of prime time."

"Glad you could join me at Notcinnamon. Next blog will be posted when I have something to say."

Democracy: So Easy A Caveman Can Do It?

It's official. Civilization is over. Gone. Done with. We can now go grab our spears and loincloths and find a 2 bed/2 bath luxury cave with a view.
I try very hard not to blog about politics. I respect people's privacy when it comes to their personal and political beliefs. I would hope that others would respect mine.
I don't want this to be a forum for advertising my political beliefs, either. Right now, though, I want every one to SHUT UP. I can't tell if my issues with politics are regional or national or global. I don't know if the poor behavior of my fellow citizens is regional or national. I can't tell, because my view is limited. But, from my standpoint, civilization has crumbled.
We, as a nation, are just plain disrespectful. We couch our disdain for each other in superficial pleasantries, which we abandon readily. We shout at one another, we shout over one another so as to drown out the opposing voice. We dismiss opinion rather than considering it. We hear rather than listen.
This healthcare debate, which finally appears to represent the interest of a narrow majority of the population, has brought out the worst in so many people.
Some among us have decided to be vocal in our discontent by shouting falsehoods and calling one another names. Some have decided to demean the President by refraining from using his title. Some have decided to turn on each other and point fingers of blame. Citizens are hoarding weapons and ammunition for the impending apocalypse or in case of federal weapons laws. They're hoarding their money in case of social programs' failure. From here in Alabama, it appears the End Is Near.

What I see here looks like Neanderthals have taken over the political debate. We have nee-ner nee-ner, my brain cavity is bigger than yours bumper stickers. We have Oh yah? Take this woolly mammoth bone and shove it stickers. We have public temper tantrums and private temper tantrums. We have rumors started in the cave painting room. It's chaos.

While everything falls apart, and while my house is in tatters, I am going to daydream about my new cave. I'm guessing that since we are going to be a family of vegetarians. Not big hunters, us. I want a cave with a natural spring so we can have indoor plumbing. Our cave will be all granite (even the walls and ceilings). We will have a Clooney rug. We will have a steady fire and nicely knitted cat-shed-fur caps. My children will go to cavemangarten and learn the basic subjects of hunting, gathering, and cave maintenance. S can take his TBall bat, club a girl over the head with it and we'll have a feast to celebrate his new bride. E can choreograph our first rain dance. I'll knit and cook and wash everyone's fur wraps. M can go out of the cave each day and teach people to speak instead of grunt.
Cave life will be good. Our friends Betty and Barney can come over for a nice brontosaurus steak. As long as nobody talks politics.

Don't look under here!

Martha Stewart has somewhere among her alphabetized, laminated files, a list of all the chores you are supposed to do in your house and how often you're supposed to do them. I'm sure. In fact, on her website, I found no fewer than eight separate checklists for homekeeping: linen closets, kitchens, baths, periodicals, craft supplies and more. I found a list of six chores I should be doing every day. These include picking up clutter, sorting the mail, making the beds, cleaning as you cook, wiping spills and stains while they're fresh and sweeping the floor after dinner is cleaned up. I would also add doing a load of laundry, but that's just me. The picking up clutter one amuses me the most: we are instructed to scan a room every time we enter it, look for things that are out of place, and put them in their places immediately. (Okay, I guess I could do that) But here's the kicker: insist everyone in your house do the same.

Stop laughing. Seriously. Now.

My children have never met Martha Stewart, so they do not know they should fear her. Nor has Ms. Stewart ever met my children. And she has only one daughter, who by all accounts is nearly as perfect as her mother. So, in short, Ms. Stewart has never encountered a room resembling an exploded Lego factory, TBall equipment that seems to roam the house of its own accord, school supplies, coloring books, crayons, Bakugan, books, and other assorted crap that accumulates in my house. I have this sneaking suspicion that Ms. Stewart's daughter had tea with her dolly queen and made scones out of organic imagination. So, while theoretically picking up a room every time I walk into it seems like a good idea, it also seems, you know, theoretical.

Another one of my favorite 'homekeeping sites,' flylady.net suggests that every day I have a gleaming kitchen sink. Her rationale is that a clean sink will deter me from letting dishes pile up, give the kitchen an overall impression of clean and order. In fact, she posts 31 Baby Steps to achieve cleanliness in your house in one month, putting an end to "CHAOS: Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome." These baby steps include keeping a control journal, picking out the next day's clothes before bed, cleaning one area intensely for two minutes, and establishing a day's order to help make every task small so that all the jobs don't morph into one overwhelming episode of reality TV about hoarding.

Before I proceed, I'd like to address the vocabulary from these expert house minders: "homekeeping" "control journal." Homekeeping? Really, Martha? Living in the Hamptons with designer velvet furnishings and white carpeting is homekeeping. Trying to keep two domestic terrorists from turning the whole house upside down every day is sustainable living: as in, I try to sustain living every day.
In the end, I should be, it appears, spending more time on homekeeping than I actually do. Which is alarming, because I spend (it seems) an awful lot of time homekeeping. How could I ever do my six daily things from Martha, my 31 Baby Steps to a zen house from flylady, make a 30 minute meal from Rachael Ray, follow my Your Baby Can Read instructions, train my dog to not run out an open door like the Dog Whisperer, domesticate my children with the help of Super Nanny, find out what books to read from Oprah, landscape my backyard like Ty Pennington and still have time to watch my beloved Bones?

To quote another TV nugget of advice: CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY!

This morning when the tilers came to demolish my existing tile, they had to remove the toilet, the washer, the dryer, the dishwasher, the trash compactor, the refrigerator, and the stove. So, you know, nothing I use or anything. While those major appliances were out of commission and away from the walls, I thought, "I bet Martha Stewart has advice for the maintenance of these things. I bet I can clean them and prepare them to be put back to work even better than before."

I was thinking about vacuuming dryer vents, refrigerator coils, wiping down areas never exposed to my sight.

When they pulled the refrigerator away from the wall, I thought I would cry. There was matted, dusty, dingy....fur?....that most closely resembled road kill. And not small road kill, either. Like big, dead, well-fed raccoons. These were not your ordinary dustbunnies. These were dusthares. On steroids. My vacuum choked and sputtered and had to be emptied every other minute.

And the worst part was, I kept thinking, my house is clean. It is. It's swept, vacuumed and mopped 3 times a week. My house is clean. I run dishes. I run the laundry. My house is clean. I clean out the pantry. I sort through the trash. I don't let piles of crap grow and grow. And yet. There I was. On my hands and knees, wrestling with dustbunnies bigger than Clooney under the fridge.

The dirt is here. I have seen the heretofore invisible enemy. And it scares me.

Storage Woes

So, it's only been two weeks since work began on the house. And in that two weeks, we've really been fortunate. The workmen have been amazing--helpful, neat, knowledgeable, diligent, prompt--everything you hope they'll be, but never expect to find. The budget is even moving along okay. Not exactly perfect, but certainly not alarming in any way. And the disruption has even been tolerable. Each night, the house is swept and tidy, and although there is a lot of dust, it isn't floating through the air, per se. I've been able to fulfill responsibilities outside the house, leave people working, and know that the work will proceed even if I'm not supervising.
I cannot emphasize enough how I feel like I rolled the contractor dice and came up a winner. Hardly ever happens to me, and I am really appreciative.
However.
Of course, knowing this house and its checkered history, when the carpenters demolished the existing entertainment center in the family room, they discovered that there was no parquet floor under it. Bare concrete. I went to a few flooring stores, and the carpenters contacted people in the trade, but all new parquet is made in 6" x 6" squares, not the 4" x 4" squares of my existing floor. Because the carpenters are really forward thinking and helpful, they suggested we pull up the flooring from the storage closet in the family room.
Great idea!
Yesterday, when they were ready to proceed with that step, I had to empty out the closet. In front of them. They were here, and they were chivalrous enough that they didn't want me to carry the contents by myself so they offered to help, but that just made it worse. Of course, this closet is the only closet that is not in a bedroom, so it is a catchall for all kinds of crap. The thing is, these are things I considered important enough to put away, right? And yet, there I was, in a closet.
This closet, when I'm trying to cram stuff into it, is the size of a porta potty, and when I'm taking stuff out of it (in front of other people,) defies all laws of physics and perhaps may be an endless wormhole to another corner of the universe. I was mortified.
A giant Rubbermaid tote filled with electronics including two VCRs, a surge protector, three bases for phones that have no batteries, and about 24 miles worth of wire, cord, and tubing. There was another giant Rubbermaid container with broken electronics, including 2 cameras, a cell phone, a Sonicare toothbrush, and a computer keyboard. There was a wire filing basket with gift wrapping supplies. Of course, the last time I put that crap away, I couldn't have bothered to wrap the silver curly ribbon back around the spool. I was wrestling with unruly curly ribbon and found myself handing the whole box to the carpenter. Really? A grown woman collecting curly ribbon? On purpose? It was embarrassing. Then, there were landfills worth of plastic bins, cubbies and totes. I should own stock in Rubbermaid. I have extras, but they weren't stacked neatly. And there were lids falling all over. And, then, of course were the 15 air vent filters I bought at Home Depot. They always run out of my odd size, so when I go, I have to buy the whole case, and it was crammed in there with the rest of the crap. There were some compact fluorescent light bulbs that I didn't know where to throw out (they have mercury in them!), all the CDs that we have put on the ipod, but don't want to throw out in case the hard drive gets damaged, and an entire moving box full of VHS cassettes of old TV shows, Northwestern games, movies, and concert footage.
At some point in our lives, we thought it rational to keep these things, pack them up, and move them around the country (more than once).
Why?
And, more importantly, why did I find myself wrangling spaghetti-like telephone wires in front of a total stranger? Why did I feel like we should keep my first digital camera that holds like 10 mgs of photos? Why?
That freaking closet took FOREVER to empty. Every inane thing that came out of it made me want to sink farther into the floor we were trying to salvage.
All of that stuff is currently residing in the foyer; my secret hoarding out for the world to see. I want desperately to be able to sort through it before I put some of it back. I'll get some shelves for it all, to help organize.
And some Rubbermaid totes. Surely, those will help.

Two If By Air: The Inlaws Are Coming

Nothing makes me crazier than my family. And I mean this in a good way, mostly. And since my family live across the country in the land of fruits and nuts and crazy liberal Californians, I am made crazier pretty infrequently.

I should clarify that I am pretty crazy even when my family doesn't come to town, but that is another story.

So, I guess if my parents lived in town, I wouldn't care if my house was dirty when they came over. I guess if they came over ever day, some days would be cleaner than others and holidays would sparkle. But, since they don't come over, I feel compelled to put my best foot forward and demonstrate through cleanliness that I, in fact, have my shit together.

In reality, the few days before my family's arrival are a tornadic symphony of NOT having my shit together. At. All.

And this time, it's worse. My family room looks like this:

and the dust and mess this generated is everywhere. The DVDs that used to be in the storage cabinet are in the guest room. As are the pictures that used to be on the walls, the coffee table, the lamps, the pillows, the EVERYTHING THAT USED TO BE IN MY FAMILY ROOM. This picture, which could be a metaphor for me and my totally untogether shit, distinctly says, "Do not invite people over. Your family room is still naked." Ironic that it is the family room that is in total chaos.

And yet, my family arrives today. My family room looks like that. The dust is a quarter inch thick over everything in the house. I have tile/floor/fabric samples strewn pell mell. I have sawdust as thick as autumn leaves in the carport. I have heaps of drop cloths and used paint cans on the porch. So, naturally, this morning, I am running around with a broom and a mop and a dust cloth trying to clean. It's like post-Katrina New Orleans and I'm gonna clean it all with a sponge.

This is nuts.

Even more so than usual.

Alright. I gotta go. I can at least empty the sink of all the dirty dishes.

There are certain things I will not do:

1. Pet, look at, admire, or in any way associate with amphibians.

2. Clean a grease trap.

3. Smell something my kids tell me to.

4. Eat meat from a can.



Other things, I am good with. I changed diapers for 6 consecutive years. No problem. Dog poop? Covered. Nasty mildewy unidentifiable things? Got it. Spiders? Eight legged memories.



One thing above all else, I will not handle. I have had a problem with it since I was a child. It borders on phobia, though phobias are irrational fears. And, in my very unbiased opinion, this is a very rational fear: vomit.

Dog vomit is borderline. After years with Maddie, I realized dog vomit was a fact of life, and could pretty much tolerate it. In fact, toward the end of her life, vomit was so regular, I would hear her preparing to puke, and would just throw my hands under her muzzle to catch it, so as to avoid mess.

Milk-fed baby vomit is acceptable. God knows, S brought up rivers of it. On me, on furniture, on dog, on carpet, on clothes, on just about anything you can imagine. Curdled milk is its own grossness, but it doesn't cross that border into partially digested human food.

When vomit happens, as it occasionally does, I scream for M. No matter what he was doing, or where, he must address the vomit issue immediately. With bleach, or the most powerful cleaner the surface will tolerate. And air freshener. And laundry. And bath for the vomiter. He has to do all of that. Immediately. Thoroughly. A whiff of vomit and I am done for. Bring me the bucket. I do not clean it, wipe it, hold other people's hair for them while they do it, or in any way contact vomit.
In fact, once in high school, a friend combined expired, unrefrigerated Long Island Ice Tea mix, cantaloupe, and clove cigarettes. I think it was the cloves that pushed her over the edge, but in any event, rummy cantaloupe wound up all over the floor. I have not eaten melon since then.

Sunday night, E begins crying that his tummy hurts. He's writhing and cramping on his bed. I console and comfort and snuggle until I hear that tell- tale churning in his stomach and throat. I'm half way out of the room by the time the vomit hits the floor. (Thank goodness we no longer have carpet in there.) M, vomit cleaner extraordinaire, swoops into the rescue. He's wiping, throwing away, toweling, spraying, and cleaning as I airdrop cleaning supplies. Finally, 45 minutes of the Oscar show later, M and I are back in bed, and E feels better all tucked into clean sheets. Two hours later, I am awoken by S running in saying his stomach hurts so bad. Warily, I bring in a bucket, tuck him in some blankets, and let him sleep on the floor. I am not even back in bed when I hear a grizzly sound:
the sound of a dog about to vomit. I try desperately to grab Clooney and take him into the bathroom, but with S on the floor, and the bucket, and the disorientation of the middle of the night, I have no chance. He barfs on the rug. M wearily gets out of bed and begins the cleaning ritual.
S, meanwhile is whimpering and suffering, so I carry him to his bed to sleep so that M can try to rest at least some before Monday. I lay down next to S and some indeterminable time later, he rushes out of bed. Fortunately, he is an old vomiting pro. He makes it to the bathroom, and bullseyes it into the toilet. Woohoo! I spend the rest of the night cuddling him, and we are all undisturbed until morning.
Then, yesterday. Yesterday, S managed to put down two un-iced cinnamon rolls. And some apple juice. Everyone, including the dog, was vomit free all day, which is good, because my vomit cleaner upper was at work, and I'd hate for him to have to come home to clean! But, just after 4 PM, just when I thought we were in the clear, I hear the worst sound from upstairs. I was just sitting at my computer, and I heard liquid hit the floor upstairs. Lots of it. Like some one turned on the hose. I bolt up the stairs, and the unmistakable scent of Apple Jacks hits me. Fortunately, S's vomit was only apple-jackey, because I was able to clean it up all by myself. I got it all wiped up and the floor scrubbed and the linens washed. Just in time for M to walk in.
"S puked in our room," I say.
Unbuttoning his cuffs, looking weary from a long Monday, he sighs, "I'll go clean it."
"I did it already." I am bursting with pride.
"Great. Sigh."
It's not like I accomplished a great feat. In fact, it wasn't that hard at all, because there was no stink. But I was still pretty full of myself. Sometimes overcoming a fear is more of a personal celebration. But M didn't look like he was ready to give me an award or anything.

Babies Babies, Everywhere!

The official start of spring is nearly upon us. The time of year when flowers bloom, the air is rich with the scents of thaw and growth, and when farms and forests everywhere witness the birth of ridiculously adorable baby animals.
I notice on Facebook pages of friends, that many, many people I know are celebrating spring with their own ridiculously cute human babies.
I stare into baby-eyes in full screen photos, or squint at thumbnails. I cock my head sideways to try to decipher ultrasound pictures. New baby girls born into families of boys. More baby girls added to families of girls. Baby boys with mischief already sparkling in their new, toothless grins. Babies, babies everywhere!
And, of course all of these new babies are born as we celebrate the spring birthday of S. Five years ago, we welcomed our fuzzy little spring bundle. Round, and soft and smelling sweet. Now, he is all Lego-playing, stitches-requiring, tball-playing boy. There is no baby left.
As I see my smaller baby--my last baby--grow into boy, I have a sense of why some of my friends are having more. That ephemeral sweetness of a baby. The tiny sigh accompanying a full tummy, the tiny fingers clutching mine. All of that is behind us. And some part of me misses that.
But then, THEN, another realization strikes. It's all behind us! The next time I change diapers, it will either be on a grandbaby or myself! No more crappy silicone spoons falling down the garbage disposal. No more rotten sippy cups under the car seats. No more hours of rocking an inconsolable baby in the middle of the night. No more piles of throw-up covered onesies. Aha! Done! Bazinga!
Nostalgia remedies itself.
Sure, I have pangs. Last night, as I scooped a sleeping S out of my bed to return him to his own, I nuzzled his soft cheeks and thought of how cozy it was to snuggle a sleeping child. But I'm over it.
I am so proud of who my boys are and what they can do now. I love watching E read everything he can get his hands on. S swinging a bat vaguely in the direction of the tee is perfect. I am relishing these accomplishments. They are the hints of the full potential these boys can achieve. They are tangible to me in ways that the accomplishments of infants--grinning, crawling, babbling--are not. And while those baby milestones are significant, these new ones are for us all to enjoy together. Even the boys realize the significance of their new found abilities.
Yesterday, S was laying in the floor of the bathroom while M was readying for work. M playfully heaped his towel upon S's resting body, and S responds with: "So this is how it's going to be on my birthday? Covered with wet towels?" And I realize that we truly are shaping this child and his humor and view to life. And I love that there's going to be one more wry person in our family. Another soul who can look at his life, himself, and laugh. I know that S was the perfect spring addition to our family.
But when I recall that first spring with S, that second spring with S, indeed that third spring with S, I know that he is the perfect last addition.
Happy Spring, babies everywhere! Happy Birthday, S! Here's to knowing you'll never be a middle child...

Parenting Dilemmas

There are times as a parent when we need to crack down. Lay down the law. Toe the line. These are the moments that try us, test us, require us to prove our mettle. These are the flashes in which we soar or fail, pat ourselves on the back and say, "we are great parents" or hang our heads in shame.
These moments happen 20 times a day.
Recently, I have been reflecting on the punishment situation. I have yet to devise a punishment for my children that does not take me down as collateral damage. This dilemma has been mathematically identified and is famously known as E=MC2. (Educational opportunity=Mommy's Co-suffering squared).

• "You may not watch TV for 3 days" = three days of "Mommy, I'm bored. Can I play on your computer?"

• "You may not have dessert for 3 days" = three days of "Mommy, I thought you said I was supposed to eat MORE calories."

• "You may not have Wii for 3 days" = three days of "Mommy, I'm bored. Can I play on your computer?

In fact, this weekend, M punished E no Wii or TV for the weekend. E sagged with disappointment as his hopes of a family Mario Tourney faded. M, feeling proud, walked away from E satisfied that the appropriate punishment had been meted out.
"What about Sunday?" I ask. "What about it?" counters M, his eyes showing his mental calendar check. "Hockey. USA vs Canada. You're going to want him to play Wii and leave us alone." "Crap. I'll have to think of something else." We then wait for E to come and beg us for a commuted sentence, and we 'begrudgingly' exchange Wii for no dessert for the week. Phew. Hockey crisis averted.
What to do? Why is it so hard to punish children? I have considered spanking, primarily because it is fast, vivid, and then over with, the only consequence to me being a red palm. But, then I find myself with a whole new dilemma: how to spank a child for hitting his brother? Do you actually say without irony, "I am going to whack you three times so that you know that using your body to express anger is wrong?" I don't think I can. I have been known to spank, and I use this in the dire circumstance of (usually S) doing something so dangerous that I want him to associate it with severe pain. I usually whack the top of his hand to remind him that the stove is hot and climbing on it is not a wise idea. At least I know my whack isn't going to send him to the ER, which is more than I can say for the stove.
Another dilemma occurs with preemptive action. This, too has a mathematical description: The New Deal Conundrum. Much like the executors of the New Deal, parents must often assign jobs to keep children busy and out of trouble. These jobs are usually non-essential and should not result in further work for parents. (For example, I once mistakenly assigned S to wash the floors in the bathroom. Every bath towel in the house later, I had managed to absorb most of the flood he created. Make-work project fail.) Occasionally, when faced with actual labor, the household power structure realigns as the children realize THEY are united against US. This power shift, coupled with their shared sense of injustice prompts them to play wonderfully together. Often "clear the table" will result in an hour of quiet and happy Hot Wheels races. Or "bring down the laundry" generates an afternoon of imaginative play. Of course, our goal is achieved: the kids are out of our hair and doing something productive. The downside is that they completely ignored us. They did not learn about working together on an unpleasant job, nor did they complete the task I set aside for them. But, as everybody knows, you don't disrupt happily playing children. It's a golden kind of silence, a nearly sacred gift of peace and quiet. You don't barge in on that to get a few dishes cleared. So, I concede, do the job myself. At least when I do the job myself, it is done correctly, and while they play, in silence.
This all reminds us that it is all balance--a system of give and take (mostly give from the parental side) and we must be willing to trust the system flow. Children, who have nothing else to do with their time than plot against us, have surely identified our weakness and knowingly capitalize on it gleefully.
Parenting is a learned art, a methodology practiced rather than mastered, and defined by (hopefully) mini failures hidden by overall success. Being a child, it seems, is an innate knowledge, an instinct so deeply embedded in our collective humanity, that kids are born experts. Thus, parents start with an immediate handicap.
We select our battles, we try to model behavior, reinforce good behavior, punish sparingly and effectively. I take comfort in the words of the lonely gambler, "you gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away, know when to run."
Some days, though, I know they're chasing me.