Other People's Kids

You know what sucks? Taking care of friends' kids. Not because there are more kids to look after, but because you realize that your friends are doing a damned sight better than you at raising their kids. Yesterday, I picked up two extra kids from school. W is 2 grades older than Ethan, and one is Sam's bromance, T. Their sister, V, is a toddler and stayed with grandma. So, the usual whine and cry of snack is delayed because all kids are chatting happily. There is no bicker and bitch about the day at school. We drive home as I outline the plan for the afternoon: homework, play, dinner, tee ball for S. No complaints. Everyone piles into the house smelling of summer and boystink. S has a meltdown. Probably because he's hungry, but he should always be hungry, so that's really not an explanation. He sits on the stairs cursing my name, parenting techniques and questioning my intelligence. E does his homework as though he's a space cadet, and trying desperately to impress W, his senior and therefore guardian of all coolness. W finishes his homework and cracks a book silently. T watches and asks him questions periodically about Harry Potter. Does W snap and call his brother stupid? Does T physically pester, poke and annoy his brother? No. They have normal, adult verbal exchanges. I look on, mystified. When homework is done, everyone boogies upstairs to play Lego. Like Lego is what the world is missing to create world peace. They are up there, giggling and playing, and actually complimenting each other and admiring one another's workmanship. I can hear mine squabbling. S slips into his uniform without complaint and we all head off to dinner. The OTHER boys both agree on where to eat. Mine bicker. We go with majority rules, and grab burgers and fries. W is very responsible about taking care of some stitches (for a previous injury that I had nothing to do with, thank you!). He swallows medicine, gargles with nasty peroxide and complains NONE. The salty fries, however, irritate his injury, and I offer to stop and get some Advil. This is the response (Brace yourself, as these are words not normally appropriate for a child): "No, that's ok. I'll be fine. I don't want you to go out of your way or spend extra money on me." Just for that, we're stopping. At the tee ball park, the three non-participants play catch with one another nicely in the shadows. No bickering, no drama. They even come over and watch the final inning of S's game without mentioning how boring it is OR how S was the final out of the game. "Good job. Nice game, S." Did E offer S words of praise? Nope. Hell is still toasty. Everyone came home, and W and T went off to bed and shower without a single complaint, even though I know that I sent them to bed earlier and with night time baths which isn't how they do it at home. E and S accused each other of flooding the bathroom, using all the soap and going into one another's rooms without permission. To top it all off, I go up for lights out and W is all snuggled in reading his Bible. "Can I just finish this paragraph?" Of course. I don't need another reason to be struck by lightning in the middle of the night.

Fit the tab into the buckle and pull low and tight across your hips

I am just coming to terms with last Wednesday. And I had a whole long weekend to recover from it.

It started with the guy who came over to adapt my new grill from propane to natural gas. My awesome electrician's son had planned to come do it (and that's some good eye candy), but an unanticipated rewire of a house in midtown and the crap weather of last week made it impossible for him to come by. The electrician, though, didn't want to leave me in a lurch (imagine that, gardener!) and sent a colleague over.

The colleague, though really really nice, kinda hit me by surprise. First off, he was struck by a motorcycle when he was stranded on the side of the road, which left him half-paralyzed a year ago. So, he's still got a substantial hitch in his giddy-up. Two, he brought his chihuahua with him. I was concerned about his steadiness on my uneven driveway and patio. I would have felt terrible if the motorcycle accident had paralyzed him, but my lawn furniture had finished him off. Second, who brings a chihuahua with to hook up a grill?

Clearly, I had no business playing with natural gas (I really need my eyebrows) but I hadn't planned on supervising the whole modification procedure. Two hours gone.

Then, I head off to school for the 3rd, yes 3rd, Thanksgiving celebration of the week. Yes, Virginia, the Pilgrims ate Froot Loops and DID drink Capri Sun out of foil pouches during the first Thanksgiving. You got a problem with that?

THEN, I had to go to the girlie doctor for my annual TSA-style check up. Which, of course, provoked all the usual questions pertaining to my mortality. Especially: if 40 is the new 30, then why do I need a mammogram now? Do the girls not know they are ten years younger than they were a generation ago? Ugh. Although seeing all the mothers-to-be in the waiting room with their babydaddies always gives me a chuckle. There was this woman sitting with her mom-to-be folder cooing over every prenatal milestone with her man beside her: "AWWW. Look what the baby can do at 18 weeks. AWWWWWWWW at 22 weeks. AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW at 28 weeks."

Meanwhile, I'm playing on my iphone because sitting in the waiting room listening to mellow music and doing the online crossword puzzle is the first calm I've had all day. I'm thinking, "wait 'til you get a load of what they do during week 312, lady! I'll give you a hint: it involves permanent markers, hot wheels, and your new upholstery. Sucker."

I'm all proud of myself as the woman with the mature uterus until the nurse asks me to get up on the scale. What kind of sadism is this doctor practicing? And, why, oh why, on my health history questionnaire is there a box to tick off if I wear my seat belt? SEAT BELTS? This is how we assess my quality of life? Do I smoke? Do I drink? Do I wear a seat belt?! For real? How about the box where I check that I do all three. At once. Or if I eat vegetables occasionally. Or if I eat fried foods at every meal. Nope. Seat belts=how seriously you take your health.

After finally escaping with an ego feeling its age and my girlie parts excessively lubed up, I head for the boys' friends' houses. Very nice friends have picked up my kids from school and taken them home to play. Unfortunately, said friends live on opposite ends of the universe. I stop in at the grocery and head to midtown to Friend #1.

Friend #1 is the most optimistic, good natured soul. EVER. It's just really beyond belief how upbeat and positive she is. TOTALLY unlike me. I just sit back in awe, thinking she should be in a zoo or something. Where's the cynicism? The angry humor? The wry and insulting sarcasm?

I have groceries in my trunk, and I walk into her (immaculate) house and agree to chat. But, time gets away from me. I realize I've imposed for nearly an hour while Friend #2 has S at her house. ACK! I rush out and half-drive, half text Friend #2. (And the doctor thinks a seat belt is important. Hah!)

EXCEPT. I accidentally text Friend #1 the message intended for Friend #2. Fortunately, Friend #1 is (as mentioned earlier) perfect, so I had nothing nasty to say, but was a bit frazzled at the mix-up nonetheless.

Now, I'm driving in holiday traffic, panicked, and trying to retext Friends 1 and 2 to clarify the mistake.

Blessedly, Friend #2, KH is the most laid back mom ever. She has boys and babies and chaos and seems remarkably sober and well adjusted depsite it. She called and offered to keep S overnight. Which is AWESOME, since it would have taken several more hours in that traffic to get to her house anyway. She's laughing at my texting gaffe. Her LOL comes through as actual laughing.

Finally, I got home. E and M and I wolf down our belated dinner and chillax in front of the TV. I refuse to tell M of the texting debacle since he is anti-text anyway. Around 10, KH calls me. S wants to come home.

I get BACK in my car, which I have been in for a substantial part of the day, and head off to pick up S. Who has been keeping KH's household up for hours. I apologize, pick up my kid, and head home.

Finally. It's 10:30 and everyone's asleep. I thought of my new scripts (Hooray! Chemical sanity!) to console me and my girls for their medical trauma. I faded into sleep and dreamed of more awkward texting scenarios, wondering if perhaps wearing a seat belt is really my best option.

It's all about perspective

This has NOT been a good week for me, as you know if you have Facebook. There were missed appointments and failed chemistry, over-schedules, under-schedules, nourishment mishaps and general chaos.

By Saturday, I was nearly fetal, rocking in the laundry room, wondering what the hell had happened. The week started off okay. Boys went to school, things were good. And by Saturday, the laundry had clearly embarked on a breeding program that pandas should learn from, the domestic Lego factory has exploded, S is drawing on walls, and my brain chemistry is about as stable as Chernobyl.

Getting to total insanity isn't an instantaneous leap. It's a journey. Wednesday certainly represented stop 1. At that point, it finally became clear that E needed a haircut. Unlike S, whose hair is fine and wispy and curls only at the ends in a most charming 1970s, Greg Brady sort of way:

E's end-of-summer hair is all thick and unruly and not so much attractive, and may have some sort of avian nesting in it, a la high school Greg.
I always cut the boys' hair. Usually, everything turns out ok. But, I think because the cut involved a total reshaping of their hair, things got out of control. In a hurry. The boys look like they encountered a strung-out Flowbee in a back alley.

Flowbee 1, Boys 0.

Unfortunately, the bad haircut epidemic spread like Swine Flu. M's normal easy-peasy clipper 'do looked more like Wrigley Field's checkerboard outfield than hair. While a groundskeeper would have been proud, M is not terribly fond of the effect for the first day of classes.

In the end, they'll have to do what everyone with a bad haircut has to do: wait. Wait. WAIT for it to grow.

At least I learned my lesson for the week. I pretty much gave up after that. I started no projects, undertook no crafts. Because, apparently, when you're off, you're really OFF. The bad news for E is that I didn't figure it out until his hair looked like a cross between Adam Lambert and Calvin.

Yup. That's about it. Poor thing. Oh, well, I don't feel TOO bad about it. And this probably makes me the worst woman, mom, human in history (well, maybe not worse than Hitler, or Attila the Hun, or whoever invented reality TV) but It's not my hair, after all.

If it were MY hair, this would be a MAJOR EFFING TRAGEDY.

This is the End.

I don't want to be too Chicken Little-ish about this--but the end is near.

This is how I know--it's 7:28 AM. I already want to kill my kids.

This is how it started:
S runs around with Clooney--the time is barely 6 AM. They are chasing each other around my bed, on to my bed, off of my bed, around the corner, up the stairs, down the stairs over and under the table downstairs. (Wonder why S always has stitches in his head?) Finally, at some point, I asked if they could not thump quite so hard on the floor.

Immediately after: the heaviest rope toy we have thumped down 14 stairs.

E comes in and asks me to cut a watermelon for him. I ask about the time. It's 6:35. Who, besides a starving child in Somalia, needs a fresh watermelon cut for him before 7 AM? Mind you, I bought special chocolate chip muffins for the kids so they could obtain their own butt-crack-of-dawn breakfast specials. They can have a nosh and then I'll make a healthier breakfast when I wake up. Or not. But fresh cut fruit waited until 7:17. At which point, I had to beg E to put down his book and eat his much desired watermelon.

He ate two cubes and went back to his book.

Sometime during the cutting of the watermelon, S screams like a girl. I run in, expecting profuse amounts of blood, and find only a cockroach (a large one, the size of a small hummingbird) twitching, gasping in the throes of death and under intense scrutiny from S. E, shrieking like a diva, has already left the room. S is contemplating the thick body, the 'very fragilest antennae' and the desperate, uneven spasm of the legs. E said he wouldn't leave his bed perch until the thing was gone. S said we shouldn't get rid of it that it was 'intgergesting.'

I smacked it and flushed it. End of cockroach.

In the interim, S has had a hugely high fever since Friday. We fought it all day Friday, and yesterday it flared up in the afternoon, as fevers often do. This morning, the poor thing is covered head to toe in a rash. He often gets these towards the end of a virus, but they itch him nonetheless. I sprayed some Benadryl on there and ohmygod, you have never heard such a sound. Apparently, the skin is raw or he's been scratching, or it's not the kind of rash you should spray Benadryl on. But he was hopping and whimpering and screaming, and writhing. (Kinda like the cockroach, actually) I'm blowing and shh-ing and blowing and shh-ing.


In the end, I gave him some liquid Benadryl. Which, I am sure, is only going to succeed in making me drowsy.

So, now it's 7:44 and they've fought about where they're going to play. And what they're going to play. And the dog is tuckered out from the chase of this morning. And now I'm up. And the day has begun.

But it's one of the last, I promise. The Apocalypse will not be ushered in by four horsemen. It will be brought, kicking and screaming, by my two boys trying to ride an 11 pound dog, wanting a ridiculously sweet snack.

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaack

So, didya miss me? Didya?
In the post-diluvian, parental invasion chaos, I haven't been to the computer much. Except to visit Facebook, play Bejeweled, monitor the oil spill, laugh at cats in clothing and type up a million sign up sheets, notes to school, notes to moms, thank yous, requests for money, and organizational charts, lists, and calendars.
So, the end of the school year is like tax season for accountants. This year was punctuated with the added emotional burden of S's graduation from preschool. True, we now celebrate a graduation from a school that didn't exist 40 years ago. Our standards have lowered. Let's be honest. More than 60% of Mobilians won't finish high school. We have to get our celebrating in while we can. And while I hope that S (and E for that matter) will be celebrating many more educational milestones, this one was a tear jerker.

In honor of the newly-updated house, I have touched up the cinnamon. It's sleeker, cooler, and more in line with the GORGEOUS-ness of my house. So, yah. The modesty hasn't changed. There will be pictures. Immediately AFTER the housekeeper comes. There's no way I'm posting pictures the way it looks now. It's the weekend. Everyone's been home for like 3 days. Ew.

Also, we are in the midst of putting a new liner in the pool. Which I would also photograph except that the pool man is an unprofessional slacker who has left every tool he ever owned, along with all the parts, accessories and hardware strewn throughout the pool so that the empty pit is a death trap and the surrounding metallurgy is a tetanus hazard. Nice.

And in the end, today is notable for one last reason. It is my birthday. Another one. On the one hand, I am thankful I keep having more. On the other hand, I keep having more. Talk about your double edged swords. To celebrate my birthday, I've made some resolutions.

1. To express myself more candidly. Stop laughing. Seriously. I have come to terms that my opinions and ideas are largely unpopular in this region. I'm not going to stifle them any longer. I'm here. I'm a paradox. The completely intolerant liberal. Love me or leave me.

2. To find more happiness. Stop laughing. I'm trying to reconcile this to number 1. I'm hoping that being more open with my identity will foster in me a more relaxed sensibility. This, in turn, will lead to a lower stress level and a happier moi.

3. I will be more fun with my kids. I once saw a mom bravely eat Bertie's Every Flavor Beans from the Harry Potter movies. She ate ear wax and vomit. And laughed her ass off. I should be able to do that.

4. I will fund pharmaceutical research into making a new medication for myself and people like me. The new drug will have the mandatory 'X' in its name: Chillaxin. Chillaxin is for people suffering from anxiety, OCD, depression, children, husbands, birthdays, insufferable regional politics, unacceptable carbon-based fuel disasters, summer schedules, carpool, lack of carpool, stacks of laundry and housework. Chillaxin should NOT be taken by people who are pregnant or who may become pregnant, as those women clearly need institutionalization. Chillaxin may cause side effects, including but not limited to: incurable needs for naps, addiction to wine and/or hard liquor, intense cravings for cookies, irritability, unexplained credit card usage, and sexual dysfunction. Chillaxin has not been tested in humans. Chillaxin is a narcotic-based product. Women taking Chillaxin will require additional competent supervision for their children. Do not take Chillaxin if you are: single, childless, male, have normal blood pressure, or normal hepatic function. Do NOT take Chillaxin and operate heavy machinery (including washers, dryers and vacuums.) Chillaxin has not been approved by the FDA. But its developers are not afraid to threaten the FDA into compliance.

So, we all have goals. I'm glad to be back. See you tomorrow.

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.

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.

How to take 15 years off your life in 10 easy steps

1. Spend every minute of every day telling your child to stop climbing on the furniture and cabinets. Your child will ignore you, but as a parent, you must continue this message ad nauseum. (Life lost: .5 years)
2. Repeat every day for months. (Life lost: .5 years)
3. Since your child is ignoring you, he will then climb onto the highest perch he can find in your house. In some cases, this may be book shelves, curio cabinets, bunk beds, cabinets; perhaps he will swing from the shower curtain rod. Regardless, the height of the child's climb must be no less than twice his own height. Additionally, the landing surface beneath him must not be cushioned in any way. (Life lost: .5 years)
4. Child must complete step 3 while you are momentarily talking with your spouse about your other child who has probably done something heinous that day. The possibilities for the other child's misbehaviour include, but are not limited to: cheating on a test, failing a test after not studying, bullying a classmate, beating up on a classmate, kissing a girl, failing to wear his school uniform, failing to clean his room. (Life lost: 1.2 years)
5. Child's dangerous climb must be attempted during doctors' non-working hours. This includes, but is not limited to: after bedtime when he was supposed to be sleeping anyway, weekends, early morning, evenings, holidays, three day weekends. Alternately, child may attempt climb during flu season, chicken pox epidemic, lethal Chinese goat pox pandemic, or some other time when every patient in the physician's office is a snotty, contagious petri dish of disgusting. (Life lost: 3.2 years)
6. Child will land on his or her most vital organs and either bleed profusely, not bleed at all (even more alarming), lose consciousness, become disoriented and confused, vomit, have entrails violently explode out of his abdomen, or in some other way scare you to death. You, however, must not reveal your panic at seeing your child's interior, but rather remain calm and get him/her to stop crying so that the blood stops squirting out like the Trevi Fountain. (Life lost: 3.2 years)
7. You will escort your child to the nearest emergency room, where the wait will be horrific. Every surface you see will be crawling with bacteria, virus, or something worse. Elderly people in wheelchairs will have drool and snot the color of Shrek running down their faces. They will be sputtering and coughing and hacking while making feeble attempts to raise their veiny, blue, emaciated little T-Rex arms to cover their toothless mouths. Infants and toddlers with wildly inappropriate haircuts and clothing will be screaming and puking or running around, eating old Cheerios off the floor while their siblings scream and puke. (Life lost: 2.2 years)
8. You will wait while CBS's entire prime time programming runs through. Clearly, you will realize why you never watch Katie Couric do the news, and why the local newscasters are small-market failures. Eventually, your name will be shouted, mispronounced, and repeated through the halls of the hospital so that you may fill out reams of paperwork, have your child's vital signs assessed (good thing he wasn't really dying), fork over your exorbitant copay, and return to the waiting area where your seat has been usurped by a morbidly obese mullet wearing a sweatshirt with a dwarf on it that aptly says, "DOPEY." Upon seeing mullet and her daughter flush with what must surely be leprosy, you decide to stand and wait the remaining hour on your feet. Your child, of course, is trying to go to sleep. It is now bedtime, however, you are convinced he has a concussion, and periodically shake/pinch/soak his face in cold water to keep him awake. An hour later, a nurse will again mispronounce your name loudly through the now-even-more-crowded-than-before waiting room, and you will triumphantly proceed through the mass of dying humanity to a waiting bed... (Life lost 1.6 years)
9. ...Where you will wait for another hour. The storybook you have re-read six times will have lost its appeal, and you will find yourself explaining hepatitis for fifteen minutes to your preschooler because he asked about the sharps disposal unit and hell, you have nothing better to do. Now that you are officially inside the fortress of the ER, you realize that while the stinky and fetid were outside in the waiting room, the truly diseased were behind those double doors. Moaning from the bed adjacent to you will tempt you to peek behind the curtain, however, you must resist this at all costs. What you see will not be un-see-able, and you will forever have the vision of an obese diabetic with open leg and foot ulcers, struggling to breathe under an oxygen mask, with matted hair and nasty clothes, and you will be thankful that you are only here because your child has a death wish, and not because you/he/any one you truly love is very ill. (Life lost: 1.0 years)
10. The moment you have been waiting for...the doctor arrives! You accurately (you don't want the doctor to think you were neglectful), but casually (no one wants to be an overly alarmist/worry wart/helicopter parent) explain your situation, fully expecting to be told everything is fine. Instead, you will be told that your child requires a CT Scan, has a concussion, possibly a broken nose, and that his sinus is filled with blood such that it is impossible to see if the bone behind the sinus cavity has fractured, though it might have and thus, be the source of the blood. For the next 15 minutes, you will wait for the tech to roll your child into X-Ray. You will be shocked to realize that brain hemorrhage was not one of the things you had anticipated. After the scan, you will wait another excruciating 15 minutes to learn that, in fact, his brain is alright. Well, technically there is nothing physically wrong with it, but the part of his brain that compelled him to climb/jump/fly is clearly overactive. The doctor is unable to see that lobe of the brain or identify the Kennedy Gene that your child could not have inherited from you. You will be given directions to avoid all pain medication for 24 hours, and best of all, you will be told to wake your child every hour for the entire night to make sure that he is readily responsive. (As if any child is readily responsive in the middle of the night. Even after extensive shaking/jumping on the bed/whisper screaming of his name.) The next morning, when your child looks as though he has gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson, but is otherwise fine, the whole scenario will seem a vivid hallucination. Only the bags under your eyes and your shortened life expectancy will be evidence of the hell your child has put you through. Again. (Life lost: 1.1 years)

**Editor's Note: Yesterday, S fell off the banister and landed hard: nothing but face. He did go to the hospital, and the CT was negative. He had a concussion and we were up all night, but thankfully he is ok today except for a massive bruise along the ENTIRE right side of his face.

Finally, math I can do!

Kids babysitting kids is my favorite thing. It appears to defy all logic, and yet it represents prism-like simplistic beauty. I have taken my kids and friends' kids in all permutations and combinations these past few weeks, and I have come to some mathematical conclusions.
Theorem #1:
Having one of my children at a time is enjoyable.

Theorem #2:
Having two of my children at a time is not enjoyable.

Theorem #3:
Having one of my friend's children, and none of mine is enjoyable.

Theorem #4:
Having two of my friend's children, and none of mine is not enjoyable.

Theorem #5:
Having two of my friend's children and two of mine is very enjoyable.

Theorem #6:
Having one of my friend's children and two of mine is enjoyable.

Ergo, having four children is much easier than having three (they compete for one another's attention.) Having three children is easier than two, especially when those two are mine. Having one child is the easiest of all. Which affirms the egos of all those only children out there, and confirms the argument of every first born who claims that his/her sibling ruined everything.

Peer babysitting, the foursome combination, is by far the best. The faces and toys are new. The games are more fun, and the refereeing is minimal. I can poke my head in, demand all murder stop, and then leave them be for another half hour. With the twosome combination, the bickering is relentless, the arguing is petty, and the nerves are jangled, at best. The twosome of other people's children is tricky when navigating the rules of punishment. I am reluctant to punish other people's children, but often feel compelled when they are demolishing my house. And of course, the children I know tend to be charming and funny and bright and lovely when I am with them in an individual setting. (I qualify that statement because I am sure there are god-awful kids out there who are not fun to be with at any time. Thankfully, I don't know any of those.)
So, if any of my friends are interested in the geometry of peer babysitting, let me know. I am willing to use my children as guinea pigs for testing your own theorems!

May the Force (and dryer sheets) be with you

Just before bedtime tonight, S came running down the stairs in clothes completely different than a) the ones he wore to school b) the ones he changed into after school (why?) or c) the pajamas he was supposed to have put on for bed.
He was wearing a brown Chewbacca shirt with brown sweats, and desperately searching for his lightsaber. He blew by me, as I was folding laundry, headed for the playroom. He ignored the heaps of crap on the floor and humped on to the couch, removed one of the cushions, peered into the behind-the-sofa-cushion chasm of mystery and looked disappointed. "What's up?" I ask, suspiciously. "Where's my lightsaber?" S asks, accusingly. First of all, what do I want with a lightsaber. Second of all, what kind of psycho specific memory recalls that a lightsaber was at one point between the sofa cushions and the place where popcorn kernels go to die? Third of all, why does a third costume change of the day require lightsabers?
This development will require more questioning.
"Um. Why do you need a lightsaber?"
"OK. If you don't have the lightsaber, do you have a brown marker?"
Trying to squelch the panic in my voice, I start mental math. Brown outfit, brown marker, lightsaber. What do these things have in common? Brown....outfit....lightsaber....marker? Outfit...lightsaber...brown...marker? Is he a Jedi UPS delivery guy? What the hell was going on here?
"Why do you need a brown marker?"
"I need to draw a beard."
Alarm sounding.
"On what?"
"Me."
"OK. You see, we SO don't need to be doing that. Why do you need a beard?"
"Who am I?"
Trick question. Jedi UPS delivery guy is probably not the answer. But Jedi has to be right. Nobody but comic book nerds and Jedi carry lightsaber. And poor S hasn't figured out just how not far Star Wars is going to take him with the ladies.
"A Jedi?"
"Which Jedi?"
Jedi with a beard. Not Samuel L. Jackson. Alec Guiness? Beard. Ewan Macgregor? Beard. Liam Neeson? Beard. Shit. No help here. Random guess.
"Obi Wan?"
"Yes. The brown is like the cape and the pants. And I need a beard and my lightsaber. I want to show E and Dad."
"Great costume. They'll love it. Without the brown marker, right?" Slight threat in the voice. "And after they see it, the costume goes back in the drawer because it's clean, right?"
"Yah, yah. ya...." the voice trails off as he goes racing through the kitchen in search of brother, dad, and lightsaber.
I go back to folding laundry, and realize that tomorrow I will be folding Obi Wan's worn for 2 minutes sweatpants and teeshirt. Because there is no Force in the galaxy that is going to get that outfit back in the drawer.

Good Jewish Mothers Are Always Prepared...

Yesterday, I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to busy to post. In fact, I was so distracted that the chicken soup I started making stayed on the stove with the burner on for 5 hours while I was out with the kids doing music class etc. I had completely forgotten about it. Surprisingly, my soup was not ruined, nor did my house burn down. Woohoo!
And that's where my luck ran out yesterday.
Kids home and in bed. TV on. M home early. All is well. Then, E puked. Hurled. Vomited. Booted. Yakked. Threw up. All of it. All over. Until his poor little body had nothing left in it, and he was bringing up bile in the midst of dry heaves. Fever soared. Dixie cup of water came back. Nothing stayed down. Including the poor child himself. Up and down. In and out of my room. Miserable.
Sleep? No way. By 6 this morning, I was at the grocery store for Pedialyte, ginger ale, and massive amounts of Lysol. I want a decontamination zone right outside E's room. I think I've already scrubbed the outermost layer of epidermis off my hands. Positive thinking.
Ironically, flu shots are being given at M's work today. I think we might get immunity the hard way.
So, there will be plenty of time for me to post today. I will be here all day. Cleaning up sheets and towels from last night. Tending to poor E. I assume I should keep S home today, too. Just in case? My only outing today will be to the pediatrician. Hopefully, she has some magic cure that the media has been to distracted to publicize. Doubtful.
At least I still have chicken soup.

Technicolor Torture

Some things just don't go together. They really just shouldn't even be mentioned together in the same sentence. Nuts and gum. Mayonnaise and picnics, Circus Peanuts, and well...anything.
This is my least favorite combination right this minute: crayons and my brand spankin' new high efficiency dryer.
I need not elaborate.
What is with my kids? Sure, I should have checked the pockets (though my kids hardly EVER put stuff in there) but WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Why? WHY? WHY?
My washer and dryer are shiny new. (Except for the dent put in it by the delivery man...) and so pretty. I sometimes just pet them when I walk past. The stainless steel drum of the washer is pristine behind the perfectly sealed glass. It's perfect.
Except for the orange and navy crayola-thon that went through the dryer yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, it was in a load of dark laundry, so you can't easily see the marks haphazardly drawn on EVERYTHING in that load. M's underwear looks like a Skittle farted in it. E's uniform has been spiced up a bit with wax confetti. My running shorts are going to melt multicolored sweat the next time I take them out.
But, oh. The dryer. My beautiful, pristine, white dryer. Rainbow Brite puked in my beautiful dryer after a late night with some Lucky Charms. My dryer...is...defiled.
Sniff.
I got out the Magic Eraser. (Isn't that Mr. Clean sexy?) I set to work inside my dryer. The drum light kept switching off. My neck was all twisted. I had a crick in my back. Cursing, pissed, mad as I've ever been. I've run stickers through the wash before, and in fact, my old dryer still bears a glittery cat by the lint filter. That was ok. I've run rocks, and playground gravel, and money galore. But never crayons. Crayons, of all things...not something like Play-do that gets HARD when it gets hot, but something that melts all freaking over everything.
In my new dryer.
My kids are a menace to everything new and shiny. Sure they break their own stuff, but that's not enough--now they have to break mine.
Instead of doing laundry yesterday, I spent my time cleaning the laundry MACHINE. That's just unfair. Now, I have to decide if it's clean enough to run again. The whites won't be as lucky, and I just can't bear to think of sleeping on Crayola-24 pack sheets.

Pulp NonFiction

I think I need a lawyer. And a good one, too. Like TV sleazy defense lawyer good. Because I think some one in this house has made a deal with the devil. And we gotta get out of that contract.

This morning, E takes dog out for constitutional in back yard. Comes back ringing the doorbell. I, being snappish, answer the front door, and say, "WHAT? Why didn't you come back in the back door?"
"Because the cat ate a squirrel and he probably has rabies and I don't want to touch it."
"Don't be ridiculous, the cat ate that squirrel a long time ago. He'd be foaming and dead by now if he had rabies."
"But MOM."
"Come on in, put the dog in the box, it's time to go to school." We gather the stuff for carpool.
I open the back door, and two cats are sitting there, looking royale.
At the bottom of the step. Disemboweled. Dismembered. Squirrel.
"Let me ask you cats something, do you see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"No. Do you know why you don't see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"Because storing dead squirrels is not my business."
Cats stare blankly.

I think some one has signed a deal with the devil, and dead vermin are the signing bonus. Since the Terminix god, I mean guy, came, cockroaches have been crawling out of the walls to die. (I don't mind cleaning those up at ALL.) But now, cats serving us extra rare squirrel pate seems a little excessive. I mean, is this our incentive? Aren't we supposed to get lots of money or sexy dates, or something like in the movies? No one ever said anything about dead squirrels in the contract-with-the-devil movies. I'm talking to you, Brendan Frasier.
The cats' pride made it even worse. They were so pleased that they had brought us most of the squirrel. Like, "what? You aren't happy? We only ate two legs and a kidney. We saved you the best parts! C'mon..."
Of course, the cats don't understand the explosiveness of the S situation. S sees that dead squirrel, he's gonna freak. I call M. The cavalry is at work. The cavalry is not gonna come and clean this up. It's all me. Shiver.
I gave the squirrel a fitting funeral for such an ignominious death. I scooped him with a garden trowel onto the plastic clam shell container of the new toilet flusher I bought, and dropped him in a double-layer Target bag and sent him off to the trash bin.
Just call me The Wolf.

From an Alternate Universe

My goodness. What a busy day. I woke up so cheerfully when the alarm clock chimed this morning at 5:00. It was as though I had slept among clouds. I was able to run 3 miles this morning without so much as an ugly thought crossing my mind. My legs carried me, and the uplifting music on the ipod reminded me that indeed, aspiration is inspiration.

By the time I came home, the boys were stirring in their beds. Their angelic lashes sweeping and fluttering on their delicious cheeks. Rise and shine, little ones! How I love waking them and helping them dress and brush their teeth. And this morning, we thought it would be silly to sing songs like Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke as we dressed. The older one has a charming Cockney voice. Everything went amazingly smoothly this morning. Except, shucks! I stubbed my toes. On days like this, I reconsider our choice to have only two children. It's a daily miracle to watch them grow and change.

After the kids and hubby had left, I tidied up; although they had left hardly any evidence they had whirled through here at all. I started a delicious dinner. I am very excited about it--everyone is sure to love a roasted red pepper and tomato chicken cacciatore. The boys are SUCH adventurous eaters.

After school, everything was organized so well, that all of our extra curricular activities went swimmingly and we had time to spare. A mother at our playgroup was so frazzled--so much to do, so busy, so frenetic. I told her to find her inner Zen and do more with less. Serenity is a daily gift. Although not everyone, sadly, can live their lives with the focus and the inner quiet I am blessed with. In fact, at the little playground after school, I heard some child, clearly unloved, unsupervised and not told every day what a precious little soul he is, playing with my son. That child, making gun noises, and playing so roughly, actually said, "let me go, asshole. I'm here to kill some wookees."

Honestly. Some people are just letting our entire society's fabric rot down to its core. Where are we, if we lack civility, peace, and love for our children.

Concrete Thinking

So, S has had a big couple of weeks. First, he started 4K and has learned to write his name and be a big boy. He also got the chance to play soccer with the 5 year olds because his coach thought he was a little bit above the 4 year old level. (Which of course, S had to confirm by spending the entire soccer game on Saturday looking at the clouds.) Then, his music teacher asked to move him to the next level class in her sequence.
She approaches me, "I don't think S is really into imagining and playing with us. And the class for his level is really all about imaginary play. Today, for example, I asked the class if the crickets in my pocket made a staccato sound or a legato sound. And his response was, 'c'mon. We know there are no crickets in your pocket!' I think he might be a little too concrete for that class, and possibly, mature enough for the next level. And while I am happy to move him up, I think you really need to spend time at home cultivating an imagination. Where would we all be after all, if Thomas Edison didn't IMAGINE the light bulb? Sure, we need people to build the light bulb, but children are truly losing the capacity to imagine."
OK. Go ahead, and move my child up. And I don't want to be contrary, because I know my child is imaginative. (Actually both of them, are) And, furthermore, I know that I am not simply a parent in denial who cannot handle a constructive suggestion from the music teacher. But...
People wonder all the time about their children's propensity for success; they wonder how successful, imaginative, creative, brilliant, their children are. I hear things like, "MY child can read at the fourth grade level and he's only 5." or "My child is fluent in six languages. Children pick them up so readily when they are 3." or "MY child can hit the ball out of the park in the t-ball league and he just started last week." I understand why parents brag, I probably brag about my children, too. I understand that sharing your child's success affirms your success as a parent. I KNOW everyone needs that affirmation. But, I have to say that when it comes to imagination, my S is not coming up short.
Here's what I got for you, music lady: S doesn't lack imagination--he just lacks the time and patience for your small scale, rinky dink insect in the pocket gag. He has Dr. No, Bond Nemesis, Take Over The Planet With A Death Ray Imagination. He hasn't got time for shadow puppets, he is cultivating big plans for an underwater lair and minions. He's seen it all, done it all, and is on to The Next Big Thing. S is going to be controlling a corporate empire of newspapers, diamond mines, and water farms which will only be shared with those hoodlums willing to part with one hundred million dollars.
How do I know this? HOW do I know that S's plans are on such a grandiose scale and so damn evil?
Allow me to share:
S has had a messy day. Not a particularly accident-filled day, just a lot of reckless behaviour that has resulted in my cleaning up several doozies. First off, he spilled an entire bowl of cereal this morning on the floor. So, I got out the mop and cleaned it up. The mop and bucket were still out, S was playing in the bucket's bubbles (disobeying instructions), and tipped over the bucket. I decided that he could clean the mess of sudsy water. I was very clear, "get out one towel and dry up the floor." I came back to find one WEEK'S worth of bath towels, just folded from the dryer, still warm in fact, spread all over the floor. In addition to the entire family's bath towels, every single rag from the rag cupboard was out. TWO LOADS FULL OF TOWELS WERE SPREAD OUT ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR.
I flipped.
But, you see, in his evil genius imagination, that is exactly what he had planned. A child with no imagination might have thrown a temper tantrum, or even used my best towel or favorite shirt to mop it up. But only a child with BIG PLANS in mind could execute such hostility with such flair, such panache as to completely send me over the edge.
Me, laying there on the table, with the laser about to fry me in half: "Do you expect me to punish you?" Sam, laughing maniacally: "MWHAHAHA. No, Mama Bond, I expect you to go insane."
Imagine that.

Everything's coming up Julie

(Hallelujah chorus plays in background)
School has started! School has started! Scho-oo-ool has started. Of course, E has developed a life threatening case of coincidental ear ache. So, I am rushing him to the doctor (tomorrow). I am giddy. Beyond giddy. I am thrilled. The prospect of carpool lane is glorious. Who cares about the stupid half hour wait? Small price to pay for an entire morning of sweet freedom. I find myself singing for no reason--then I remember--E's at school and I am singing!
LALALALALA
School for S doesn't start until next week, but he's pretty happy to be by himself for a little while.
Everything is starting to come up Julie again. The house is returning to some sense of normalcy. All I have to do in the bathroom is patch the ceiling and paint it. (Seems small after everything else I've been through...did I mention I found f'in wallpaper on the ceiling? I cried.) I should also seal the grout, but I bought the aerosol kind that takes 2 minutes. The house no longer reeks of some polluting adhesive, I no longer have to balance precariously in the kids' bathtub to shave, and there will be a mirror to style my hair in by Saturday. The cabinet refacer dude is going to come and take my cabinet doors away and refinish them, and all will be well with the world, my bathroom will be all new, and I will be able to go potty in the middle of the night, without having to navigate the obstacle course of Hot Wheels in the hallway.
I am bursting with happiness.
The next time I decide to do a project, somebody, PLEASE stop me. One of you kind readers stop by my house and slap me. No more projects. Although I WAS thinking that the kids' bathroom could use a little updating....
LALALALALALALA
My manicure no longer has grout around the cuticles. My toes no longer have mastik stuck to them. My bed no longer has the crusty dusty crap from the floor in it. My housekeeper is here, and in this glorious post-renovation hell, looks like Jesus.
LALALALALALALA
All my paperwork for crap is done and filed away. All my back to school shopping is done. I have decided to go to a personal trainer 2 days a week once S starts school so that I can work on getting skinny again, so I can feel good about myself. I am going to cook at home more, eat out less, and be healthier for all of us.
LALALALALALALA
My car is cleaned out, vacuumed, and emptied of all swatches, samples, and testers. All summer crap is out of it, and it is filled with story books and entertainment for whichever brother has to sit and wait for the other to finish some activity. We have started soccer for S, E's soccer starts in a month, every one is signed up for music, and I have a new book on my Kindle to amuse me.
LALALALALALALA
The dog is getting groomed this week, and has successfully transitioned out of my bed at night into his kennel. No licking, smacking, scratching, walking, whimpering, snoring canine in my bed!
LALALALALALA
Now, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is Ana going to scream up the Gulf and level my house? Probably.
Oh, well. I'm singing today. Maybe in the rain tomorrow.....
LALALALALA

Music to my ears

Worst sound at 4:32 AM (Sun): that hollow, churning, rhythmic gulping sound that dogs make right before they puke.
Worst sound at 3:30 PM (Thur) while people are tearing up your bathroom: Clunk, "I ain't never seen THAT before."
Worst sound at 4 AM (Sun)after being up with puking dog: "DAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDDY. (Scream whisper) SHHHHHHHHH. Don't wake up Mommy. Is it time to go to Waffle House yet?"
Worst sound (FRI) while bathroom is in throes of demolition and the pool man is cleaning the pool: "(doorbell) Ma'am. I just don't think this pool liner is going to last much longer. We can maybe pull through til the end of the summer, because we're just about done...but it isn't going to last through the fall. It's got to be replaced. We can do that for you...the price is just...."
Worst sound at dinner time (SAT): Clink clink--empty gin bottle.
Best sound yet: 7:30 AM (Sun): beep beep--coffee's done.
The dust is an inch thick all through my house from the sanding and finishing of drywall. I need a respirator just to sit and think about cleaning it. (The only thing I can think of is Darth Vader on a mad cleaning spree.)
Bathroom re-do is becoming a THING. In related news, court grants M easy divorce on grounds of INSANE wife.
Oh, well. Coffee's made.

Stormy Weather

There is a folk legend that says you can count the seconds between a flash of lightning and the initial clap of thunder to determine how far away a storm is. This piece of information stems from the very real fact that light travels faster than sound. Pretty basic.
There is a lesser known corollary to this rule that says the volume of the thunder clap is directly related to the speed of the footsteps from a child's bed to his parents'.
This morning at 5, that flicker of light woke me, so that I was already braced for the subsequent thunder and the subsequent patter from S's room to mine.
Of course, then, the bed was more like a pit of snakes than a bed. S is wiggly, especially when he is trying to manipulate his body into such a position that he can cuddle the dog. The dog, already startled and uneasy about the thunder resists cuddling, and perches himself on my head. This brings the child closer to me, and in a cascading chain of events, everyone is suddenly ON ME.
Which happens to be one of my least favorite things EVER. I hate having my personal space invaded, which is partly why I hated being pregnant so much, but that is a different (and much longer) story.
So, after about 5 minutes of being kneaded in the kidneys by S's ankle, I sent him back to his room to weather the storm alone. I suppose he fell asleep again, but I can't be sure, as I waddled into the bathroom to pee, and promptly went back to sleep.
M woke up early this morning, as he was expecting a call from a service person, which (surprisingly) never came. So, S and he did their early morning business while I slept in. I have had a cough for about 5 weeks now, and it is migrating to my sinuses, so I slept 'til 7. Then, the subcontractor I was expecting to demo my bathroom came. And demolished my bathroom. Did I mention DIY reassembly of bathroom? Perhaps that was a tactical error.
An early start to an annoyingly out of synch logistical day. And more storms expected tomorrow...it's a metaphor.

Fake TV Shows I Suspect My Children Are Watching

I carefully monitor my children's television intake: they watch only Noggin or PBS or Nick Jr. Sometimes, if E is desperate, I will let him watch something violent on Cartoon Network. (I swore I never would.)
There are all kinds of studies that demonstrate children are deeply affected by what they see on TV. Violence, behaviour modeling, every aspect of their personality is altered, however minutely, when they watch TV.
But, I am beginning to suspect that my children are watching TV that I have not approved. I am not sure when they find the time (in between pestering me and pestering me?) to find these shows, but they must be--for I can think of no other source for some of their more "colorful" behaviour.
First, How to Throw A Celebrity Tantrum. There must be a show with a bunch of starlets whose names I only vaguely recognize and aspiring leading men who have that floppy, ridiculous hair and somewhat effeminate faces (probably because they are barely pubescent) who show their bad behaviour when the clerk at Gucci doesn't have the belt/purse they are so desperate to drop a couple of grand on. But, my children have this petulant whine and stomping foot combination that reeks of spoiled star. S will lay on the floor and in total monotone, repeat endlessly, "But I'm still hungry," until he is either yelled at or fed. Ridiculous.
Second, Becoming A Lawyer in 30 Minutes per Day. This must-be infomercial-type programming was hosted by Billy May until his recent passing. The show teaches lawyer-ese, negotiation methods, and how to appear as though you are offering a service when really you are giving your client the shaft.
Third, I Live Like a Millionaire, (but make no money). The kids have parties, playdates, swimdates, and restaurant luncheons behind them, and three vacations ahead of them. They wake up and ask, "what are we doing today?" E claims that we are eating out less often, until I remind him that I take him and his brother out to eat lunch three days per week! They have full housekeeping, laundry, chef services, companionship and entertainment budgets. They have nearly any Netflix movie a kid could dream of, a Blu Ray disk player and big screen to watch it on. And the words "Thank you" are becoming less and less a part of their vocabularies.

So, I am thinking of pre-programming the DVR with some shows I'd like them to see:
SuperNanny/Nanny 911. I'd like them to see what it would be like to have some one whip them in to shape. It'd be nice to have a lovely British woman who doesn't take any BS come and whip my little darlings into shape. I picture jaws agape and defiance. But slowly, that triumphant conclusion where a child no longer treats his mother like a short order cook is so enviable.
Second, Any Soap Opera. I'd like them to remember that there are always going to be children who will need therapy more than they.
C-Span. My children need to learn that not everything in this world is entertainment for them.
Dirty Jobs: As a friendly reminder that if they don't love us, treat us nicely, and respect us, we will spend their college savings on a 365 day long cruise, and they will find themselves shoveling pig manure into heaps for some energy product that THEY could have invented if only they had treated their parents better.

I think I need a programming gig at Fox, no?

The Songs of Summer

So, we are now in the throes of midsummer. The mercury is high, the humidity is higher, and my patience is on a hair trigger.
When I look at the calendar, I realize that these are the dog days of summer. We, as parents are over the novelty of spending time with our dear little angels, and our dear little angels are over the novelty of not having school. We are getting on each other's nerves. As I speak to other moms, I realize there are a few methods of summer torture shared by young children everywhere:
"It's not fair." My dad had a million puns to offer up in response to this ubiquitous whine. Most frequent was: "if you want fare, take the bus," which as a child, I found agonizingly annoying. It is still pretty irritating when I think about it. Oh, hell I hate that complaint. Everything is essentially fair in the long run. Sure, one may be permitted to watch TV now while the other one must clean his room, but eventually, these things all even out. Why can't my kids get it? "I asked you to clean your room, and you didn't do it, so I took all the toys from the floor and am keeping them for 3 days." What about that is unfair? What grand injustice could that represent?
"Can I...?" This seems to be the only phrase that my children know. Before I can even mutter "good morning," before I can even pour that first, desperately needed cup of coffee, I have been asked "can I?" 137 times. "Can I watch TV?" "Can I play on the computer?" "Can I have cookies for breakfast?" "Can I be finished with breakfast even though all I ate was half a cookie?" "Can I play alone?" "Can E play with me?" "Can I? Can I? Can I?" My interior response is invariably something along the lines of "Can I duct tape your mouth shut?"
"I'm bored." How can a child of mine be bored? There is a playmate whining the same thing in the room next door. There is a park outside, there is a closet full of toys, there is a library's worth of books to look at. My sister and I used to play spy games, chase games, bike games, ball games, made-up fantastical adventures outside. Whether we were at home or at my grandmother's house, we played imagination games outside. Children seem to have lost this capacity. They literally collapse to the ground and droopily wave their limbs about like ancient Roman patricians, beckoning, "entertain me minstrel, for I could not possibly amuse myself."
God forbid I ask them to do something for me. If I announce a mandatory trip to the grocery, the protest that immediately erupts is something like oppressed that of Iranian voters. A spectator would think that I asked them to hike up Mt Everest in shorts, without a sherpa or oxygen. The complaining. The whine drone, "whyyyyyyyyyy doooooooooo weeeeeeeeee haaaaaaaaaaave tooooooooo goooooooooo?" (Because you are going to want to eat some time in the next 24 hours, no?) "wwwwwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhy caaaaaaaaaaaaaan't weeeeeeeeee waaaaaaaaaaait in thhhhhhhhhhe caaaaaaaaaaar?" (Because if you sit in the car in this heat for 15 seconds you will melt like the Nazis in Indiana Jones.) "Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhy is it ssssooooooooooo boooooooooooring?" (Because they didn't install a Wii in the produce section for your royal highnesses.) Worse than the grocery, of course, is asking them to clean some portion of the house. Forced-labor diamond miners in Africa have a life of luxury compared to my kids, if you ask them. The groaning, the gagging, the abject misery of picking up one's own toys is deafening. The agony of stooping to pick up yet another action figure is paralyzing. Their tale is tragic.
Whine. Bicker. Fight. Whine. Bicker. Fight. WhineBickerFight. This is the the natural rhythm of mid-summer. I find it difficult to wake up each morning with a fresh attitude towards those darlings because twelve hours is not enough time for me to reset my mood. So every day, I feel a little crankier. A little less patient.
By the way, E says he feels like I've been sitting at the computer writing this for 120 hours. He says I'm never getting up. Can he plllllllllleaaaaaaaaase watch TV now?
Can I have my FREAKING XANAX YET?!? I'm going to have to email a Dr. in Mexico or something aren't I?