According to an impromptu survey I conducted this morning outside of S's school, the most disgusting sound in the universe is the sound of husbands eating carrots/salad. While I can say that is annoying, I am going to ignore the survey, and write about the sound that irritates ME the most in the universe. Because, let's be honest, this is all about ME.
I propose that the most revolting sound in the universe is the sound of a dog licking itself. Perhaps it's disgusting because of what they are licking, or maybe it's just that overly wet sound of their tongues, or maybe some combination of the two, but it sends me up a wall. Blech. This sound is infinitely amplified when it is done in my bed, on my pillow, at 1:30 in the morning. What diurnal animal practices personal hygiene at that hour? Who needs to practice personal cleansing at that hour? My dog eats squirrel poop for an appetizer and then needs to be CLEAN at 1:30 in the morning? I don't think so. Squirrel poop nullifies any right that dog has to cleanliness of any sort.
To be fair to the dog, though, his moist licking might not have been so irritating or so revolting had I not already been awake. I was so exhausted last night that I might have actually slept through it. But, naturally, I was awake. Again. For the 1890th consecutive day of my life. Last night's parade was S rather than E. S was in his bed moaning at 1 AM. I heard him through the dimness of deep sleep and went to his room to investigate. He was wide awake: not groggy, not disoriented, not potentially sleep walking or talking. AWAKE. Like it's the middle of the freaking day. He informs me that there is something spooky in his room. As if the vague "spooky" wasn't enough for me, he then offers me a comprehensive, thesaurus-quality list of other words to describe his room: eerie, creepy, shivery, scary, haunted, horrifying.
I do the traditional mom consolation, snuggle for a few minutes and return to my bed.
As I lay down on what I think is my blankie (see yesterday's post), I realize it's Clooney. We are currently trying to train Clooney not to sleep at the head of the bed, but rather at the foot or somewhere in between. He's just too hot and restless to have on my pillow, wrapped around my head like a little hair turban. So, he crept up while I was out. I pick him up, move him down to my knees, and settle back into bed.
Five minutes later, S is moaning again. I decide to ignore, but moaning escalates to the dread, "mah-mie, mah-mie" lilting call. It's worse than being paged at the airport. I go back to his room, offer consolation, pat him in the bed, pull up the covers, and assure him there is nothing spooky or nearly spooky in his bedroom. In fact, I turn on the light to the lowest level and agree to leave it on so that all the bogies will hate the light and run away. I crawl back in to bed. Clooney is on my pillow. Licking himself. Thoroughly.
I move him down to my knees and try to snuggle in. But the licking continues. I reach down and flip him over. The licking resumes. I reach down and push him. Licking pauses, resumes. I try to dislodge him with my foot. The licking stops while he regains his balance, and then continues. For EVER. Finally, after what may have been 3 minutes or an hour, it stops. I am so irritated that I am having trouble going back to sleep, but am drifting...drifting....
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump
The scratching starts.
By the way, I remembered the word diurnal while I was lying in bed thinking of this morning's post. My brain can actually work at that hour. Freaky.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Too Old to Knit Your Own
Tonight, I got Dressed Up for a shindig at M's work. It was probably a lot more fun for me than for him and his colleagues, because I was there to socialize with people I hardly ever see, and they were all there having dinner with the same crowd and talking shop.
At our table was one of M's colleagues who is a really thoughtful parent. She seems to have this overarching philosophy to her parenting style. To me, this is remarkable in two ways: she has cultivated and managed to adhere to a parenting persona--a philosophy which saturates the way she deals with her children all the time and, also despite being a working mother she has a pervasive calm that clearly reveals she's not just in "survival mode" with her kids--a trait I respect tremendously.
So, at dinner, we were having the standard small talk about children, and she revealed this very sweet anecdote. She explained that both she and her husband remember the trauma associated with the (inevitable) wearing out of their security lovies of infancy. He, apparently, lost his pacifier in a sibling tug of war and she wore her lovie out. Now, as so many parents are, she is determined to spare her beautiful girls this painful milestone. She has been tenderly mending her daughter's lovie so that she will be able to outgrow it on her own terms rather than at the whim of the washer/dryer.
The earnestness of this mom and her effort to avoid recreating this childhood drama struck me as so beautiful and intimate. It was a nostalgic moment to a time when articles were mended rather than tossed. But also, it was a stand against the recapitulation of childhood rites. Of defying convention and preserving the idyll of youth for a moment longer. And I thought that this effort, so clearly articulated and so gently rendered testified to this mom's philosophy, to a coherent plan to raise children.
And then, naturally, my thoughts wandered to the completely non-coherent "plan" of raising my children. Of winging it, day by day. Of the mercurial inconsistencies with which we deal with our own kids. And how, in some zany way, this reflects the way I was raised.
Now, let me say this before my mother calls me and chastises me for publicly criticizing her parenting plan: I clearly admire colleague's thoughtful plan. I think it's a great gift to her daughters and will yield positive results. Our "plan" and the one with which I was raised are merely different. I refuse to pass judgement on any one.
My kids also have their security blankets (in their cases, they both have blankies). My mother bought each of them several in the event of loss or damage. While this certainly lacks the olde tyme nostalgia of repairing a lovie, it is certainly more practical. I see no end to the lovies. Both boys still seek them out before bedtime, and are insistent that we travel with them. I have no plans to ween them from their lovies or in any way interfere.
That being said, I should probably reveal this teensy detail: I still sleep with my lovie. Sort of. My lovie from infancy went with me to college, through marriage, and through my first son. After 30-ish years, it began to wear thin, and I was concerned about irreversible damage to it. So, last winter, I knitted a new one. It's a similar size, though different in color and texture, but it serves its job just fine. My sister, for the record, also sleeps with her lovie. When she and her fiance were married, my parents gave HIM a lovie just like hers because lovies are (truth be told) nice to sleep with.
But this leaves us with the fact that in our thirties, my sister and I still have attachments to our security blankets. Normal? Certainly not. Going to change? Hell, no. My blankie still serves the same purpose it did 30 years ago: it is comforting. Its smell, its coolness, its softness, all are familiar and positive. I sleep better with it than I do without it.
Is this a failure? A failure to move away from parents? A failure to soothe my fears and anxieties as an adult? Is it a failure of my parents to remove it from me at the "appropriate" developmental moment? By sparing me the trauma of taking it from me, did they instead condemn me to its necessity? Should I recreate that parenting decision or should I tell my children at the "right" time that they are too old for it? That their lovie is beyond repair? That all of the tears and frustration and love and security that they have poured into and extracted from that simple soft fabric are gone? Deposited in the landfill or some mothballed box in the attic?
In what I consider an era of stunted adolescence (adult infatuations with video games, "retro" cartoons and fashions, and a pervasive nostalgia for simpler times) I can see the argument for removing the lovies. For taking the safe haven of home to introduce a child to maturation and independence. I can see that indulging children can be construed as the first step in a lifelong obligation of indulging and supporting adult children.
But at the same time, this is an era of premature maturity. A time when adolescents are challenged by emotional and physical choices and opportunities not previously seen until college or perhaps ever. Can extending the comfort and bliss of childhood a little longer possibly be a bad thing? Can a sleeping child cuddled into his blankie be stunted? Couldn't even Freud argue that sometimes a lovie is just a lovie?
But, then again. When my sister and I are together at my parents' house and we head off to bed in our jammies with our blankies, my dad the "child expert" sighs and says, "How could I have raised children who never outgrew their transitional objects?"
How could he, indeed.
At our table was one of M's colleagues who is a really thoughtful parent. She seems to have this overarching philosophy to her parenting style. To me, this is remarkable in two ways: she has cultivated and managed to adhere to a parenting persona--a philosophy which saturates the way she deals with her children all the time and, also despite being a working mother she has a pervasive calm that clearly reveals she's not just in "survival mode" with her kids--a trait I respect tremendously.
So, at dinner, we were having the standard small talk about children, and she revealed this very sweet anecdote. She explained that both she and her husband remember the trauma associated with the (inevitable) wearing out of their security lovies of infancy. He, apparently, lost his pacifier in a sibling tug of war and she wore her lovie out. Now, as so many parents are, she is determined to spare her beautiful girls this painful milestone. She has been tenderly mending her daughter's lovie so that she will be able to outgrow it on her own terms rather than at the whim of the washer/dryer.
The earnestness of this mom and her effort to avoid recreating this childhood drama struck me as so beautiful and intimate. It was a nostalgic moment to a time when articles were mended rather than tossed. But also, it was a stand against the recapitulation of childhood rites. Of defying convention and preserving the idyll of youth for a moment longer. And I thought that this effort, so clearly articulated and so gently rendered testified to this mom's philosophy, to a coherent plan to raise children.
And then, naturally, my thoughts wandered to the completely non-coherent "plan" of raising my children. Of winging it, day by day. Of the mercurial inconsistencies with which we deal with our own kids. And how, in some zany way, this reflects the way I was raised.
Now, let me say this before my mother calls me and chastises me for publicly criticizing her parenting plan: I clearly admire colleague's thoughtful plan. I think it's a great gift to her daughters and will yield positive results. Our "plan" and the one with which I was raised are merely different. I refuse to pass judgement on any one.
My kids also have their security blankets (in their cases, they both have blankies). My mother bought each of them several in the event of loss or damage. While this certainly lacks the olde tyme nostalgia of repairing a lovie, it is certainly more practical. I see no end to the lovies. Both boys still seek them out before bedtime, and are insistent that we travel with them. I have no plans to ween them from their lovies or in any way interfere.
That being said, I should probably reveal this teensy detail: I still sleep with my lovie. Sort of. My lovie from infancy went with me to college, through marriage, and through my first son. After 30-ish years, it began to wear thin, and I was concerned about irreversible damage to it. So, last winter, I knitted a new one. It's a similar size, though different in color and texture, but it serves its job just fine. My sister, for the record, also sleeps with her lovie. When she and her fiance were married, my parents gave HIM a lovie just like hers because lovies are (truth be told) nice to sleep with.
But this leaves us with the fact that in our thirties, my sister and I still have attachments to our security blankets. Normal? Certainly not. Going to change? Hell, no. My blankie still serves the same purpose it did 30 years ago: it is comforting. Its smell, its coolness, its softness, all are familiar and positive. I sleep better with it than I do without it.
Is this a failure? A failure to move away from parents? A failure to soothe my fears and anxieties as an adult? Is it a failure of my parents to remove it from me at the "appropriate" developmental moment? By sparing me the trauma of taking it from me, did they instead condemn me to its necessity? Should I recreate that parenting decision or should I tell my children at the "right" time that they are too old for it? That their lovie is beyond repair? That all of the tears and frustration and love and security that they have poured into and extracted from that simple soft fabric are gone? Deposited in the landfill or some mothballed box in the attic?
In what I consider an era of stunted adolescence (adult infatuations with video games, "retro" cartoons and fashions, and a pervasive nostalgia for simpler times) I can see the argument for removing the lovies. For taking the safe haven of home to introduce a child to maturation and independence. I can see that indulging children can be construed as the first step in a lifelong obligation of indulging and supporting adult children.
But at the same time, this is an era of premature maturity. A time when adolescents are challenged by emotional and physical choices and opportunities not previously seen until college or perhaps ever. Can extending the comfort and bliss of childhood a little longer possibly be a bad thing? Can a sleeping child cuddled into his blankie be stunted? Couldn't even Freud argue that sometimes a lovie is just a lovie?
But, then again. When my sister and I are together at my parents' house and we head off to bed in our jammies with our blankies, my dad the "child expert" sighs and says, "How could I have raised children who never outgrew their transitional objects?"
How could he, indeed.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Pantry Diving
My kids are a little bit like hobbits and Winnie the Pooh when it comes to eating...breakfast, tensies, lunch, onesies, late snack, dinner...a little smackerel of food here, a little smackerel there.
It is 8:15 and S is on breakfast #3. I feel obligated to feed him in the mornings, because he never eats very well, and breakfast(s) is/are the most important meal(s) of the day. Today, he had an apple toaster pastry, which he ate, but to which he gave lukewarm reviews; oatmeal, because that's what his brother had; Cheerios, because after cleaning up two breakfasts, that's all I was offering.
Theoretically, the way the kids eat is healthy: small meals throughout the day prevent you from loading up on one fattening meal (this is how I eat, by the way). However, how can children survive on pure carbohydrates? That's all mine ever eat! Fruit, sure. Crackers, chips, foods of an unnatural color, fruit-ish snacks, granola bars, bagels, cereal. My kids have never met a refined carb/sugar they didn't like. Protein is another story altogether. Meat? Nope. Chicken? EWWWWWWWWW. Yogurt? Not unless it's florescent pink and comes with a cartoon character on it. (i.e., carbohydrate) Fish? If it's deep fried.
Every food not happily disguised with dressing, breading, ketchup, food coloring or chocolate is a struggle. Apparently, S eats better at school when he is presented with limited options, but small consolation this is to me. MK said she broke her son of the juice habit over summer by only offering water. This is my current plan. More water, less sugar, and no smackerels.
I assume this will last about two days or until I have to check the children into the hospital for dehydration.
S has finished breakfast #3, and is off to school, where he will happily receive his tensies. I, on the other hand, have been washing clothes, linens, dishes, and picking up the remnants of weekend revelry and have not yet had breakfast #1.
Unless cup #5 of coffee counts.
It is 8:15 and S is on breakfast #3. I feel obligated to feed him in the mornings, because he never eats very well, and breakfast(s) is/are the most important meal(s) of the day. Today, he had an apple toaster pastry, which he ate, but to which he gave lukewarm reviews; oatmeal, because that's what his brother had; Cheerios, because after cleaning up two breakfasts, that's all I was offering.
Theoretically, the way the kids eat is healthy: small meals throughout the day prevent you from loading up on one fattening meal (this is how I eat, by the way). However, how can children survive on pure carbohydrates? That's all mine ever eat! Fruit, sure. Crackers, chips, foods of an unnatural color, fruit-ish snacks, granola bars, bagels, cereal. My kids have never met a refined carb/sugar they didn't like. Protein is another story altogether. Meat? Nope. Chicken? EWWWWWWWWW. Yogurt? Not unless it's florescent pink and comes with a cartoon character on it. (i.e., carbohydrate) Fish? If it's deep fried.
Every food not happily disguised with dressing, breading, ketchup, food coloring or chocolate is a struggle. Apparently, S eats better at school when he is presented with limited options, but small consolation this is to me. MK said she broke her son of the juice habit over summer by only offering water. This is my current plan. More water, less sugar, and no smackerels.
I assume this will last about two days or until I have to check the children into the hospital for dehydration.
S has finished breakfast #3, and is off to school, where he will happily receive his tensies. I, on the other hand, have been washing clothes, linens, dishes, and picking up the remnants of weekend revelry and have not yet had breakfast #1.
Unless cup #5 of coffee counts.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Goodbye, Dorothy Zbornak
You of the toupe'd ex, the completely Jewish child of a Sicilian midget...you of the punchline and wry one liner...you of the sensible shoes and flowing housepants...of the ridiculously sensible, tall, and funny.
You are the result of my Facebook quiz, "Which Golden Girl are you?"
When I was 10, you were my favorite.
So long, Dorothy. May heaven be nothing like St. Olaf...
You are the result of my Facebook quiz, "Which Golden Girl are you?"
When I was 10, you were my favorite.
So long, Dorothy. May heaven be nothing like St. Olaf...
Friday, April 24, 2009
Blood suckers and kids
Sorry about yesterday, folks. I had a Bob the Builder Day...the kind of day where my mantra is Can she do it? Yes, she can! Sorta.
In the morning, I had to carpool, clean, laundry, make a hot entree for 10 people (more on this later), get groceries, deliver a FedEx that came to the house to M at work. But, then my afternoon redeemed everything: I sat by the pool and supervised the kids in the backyard. Which was overwhelmingly good. Except for the mosquitoes. Poor S was eaten alive by the things. I don't really know what to do about it. I don't like to spray the yard, because 1. the spray kills every bug--good or bad, not to mention frogs and lizards. 2. It builds up in the yard and could be washed into the pool, and of course, the streams and lakes and Gulf 3. The mosquitoes will just move to my neighbors' yards.
But, on the other hand, those suckers (hehe. Pun) are just driving my baby nuts! Plus, they transmit icky disease. Any one have any ideas short of nuking the joint?
OK. the entree for 10. Once a term, the teachers at E's school get "homemade" lunches from various moms. They get to eat at nicely set tables and visit with one another. Volunteer parents "kid sit" the classrooms while the teachers eat. It's really very nice. Only, yesterday as I was making a huge pan of food, I was feeling a little bitter. I'm over it.
And, finally, in the category of "concrete thinkers." This morning, M and I were discussing parental things regarding movie night and weekend plans. As he was walking out, he says, "when we get it worked out, we can tell Ethan." So, of course Ethan wants to know what we can tell him. M responds with, "You are on a need to know basis. Do you need to know?"
"I know how to run the bases without the coach telling me."
(Insert bah-dum-bum drum here.)
In the morning, I had to carpool, clean, laundry, make a hot entree for 10 people (more on this later), get groceries, deliver a FedEx that came to the house to M at work. But, then my afternoon redeemed everything: I sat by the pool and supervised the kids in the backyard. Which was overwhelmingly good. Except for the mosquitoes. Poor S was eaten alive by the things. I don't really know what to do about it. I don't like to spray the yard, because 1. the spray kills every bug--good or bad, not to mention frogs and lizards. 2. It builds up in the yard and could be washed into the pool, and of course, the streams and lakes and Gulf 3. The mosquitoes will just move to my neighbors' yards.
But, on the other hand, those suckers (hehe. Pun) are just driving my baby nuts! Plus, they transmit icky disease. Any one have any ideas short of nuking the joint?
OK. the entree for 10. Once a term, the teachers at E's school get "homemade" lunches from various moms. They get to eat at nicely set tables and visit with one another. Volunteer parents "kid sit" the classrooms while the teachers eat. It's really very nice. Only, yesterday as I was making a huge pan of food, I was feeling a little bitter. I'm over it.
And, finally, in the category of "concrete thinkers." This morning, M and I were discussing parental things regarding movie night and weekend plans. As he was walking out, he says, "when we get it worked out, we can tell Ethan." So, of course Ethan wants to know what we can tell him. M responds with, "You are on a need to know basis. Do you need to know?"
"I know how to run the bases without the coach telling me."
(Insert bah-dum-bum drum here.)
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
A Thousand Words
It is picture day. Why do the companies even bother? E invariably comes home with a proof that is un-purchaseable. He usually has a Heath Ledger as the Joker smile--looking crazed, and just slightly bemused. "Casual" is not a word in E's photography lexicon. Which is unfortunate, as E is one of the most photogenic kids ever.
S, on the other hand, after I go 10 rounds over what to wear, invariably looks sweet in his pictures. He projects this casual sweetness that makes you want to scoop him up. Which is funny, because S is one of the least photogenic kids ever.
So, yes another dichotomy in the list of things that make my children polar opposites. And the clothes! What a fight with the clothes. I am tempted to let them wear whatever they want to wear so that when they look back as adults, they can say, "what am I wearing?" And I can reply with "hobo chic." God forbid we wear collars on picture day. Or solids. Or not plaids with stripes. Or something without a hole. (but it's my favorite!) I am tempted to allow it. Then, later, take them to a studio for pictures befitting grandma. Wouldn't it be great to look back at your school pictures and realize YOU were the one who dressed you like a total dork, not your mother?
I have this plan to pull out childhood photos for my grown child's fiancee and say, "see? He thought his teddy bear tee shirt (backwards) really went well with these purple too-short sweatpants (backwards) and awesomely with these blue dinosaur sandals?"
E went through an extended pirate phase when he was about three. He went to school in his red boots (often only one--it was his peg leg), his three-pointed pirate hat, his sweatshirt (backwards), two or three t-shirts (he often couldn't decide, so he'd wear them all), sweatpants (always too short) and occasionally, an eye patch. You have to love Montessori schools, where they "fostered" that kind of "free thinking" and let him wear it, too!
My school pictures are historically awful. There were the Dorothy Hamill haircut years. There was the year I had no front teeth and Mom put a bow tie on me, there were the braces and acne years. Even my senior year in high school picture, which was put in the Northwestern Facebook was not so great. When M and I started dating, he didn't want to show that photo to his friends. Something about big cheeks, big hair, giant pumpkin head.
So, I am sensitive to the kids' school photo issues. I certainly have my own. When we get the proofs back, we'll see. Psycho Joker or sweet little boy? You never know...
S, on the other hand, after I go 10 rounds over what to wear, invariably looks sweet in his pictures. He projects this casual sweetness that makes you want to scoop him up. Which is funny, because S is one of the least photogenic kids ever.
So, yes another dichotomy in the list of things that make my children polar opposites. And the clothes! What a fight with the clothes. I am tempted to let them wear whatever they want to wear so that when they look back as adults, they can say, "what am I wearing?" And I can reply with "hobo chic." God forbid we wear collars on picture day. Or solids. Or not plaids with stripes. Or something without a hole. (but it's my favorite!) I am tempted to allow it. Then, later, take them to a studio for pictures befitting grandma. Wouldn't it be great to look back at your school pictures and realize YOU were the one who dressed you like a total dork, not your mother?
I have this plan to pull out childhood photos for my grown child's fiancee and say, "see? He thought his teddy bear tee shirt (backwards) really went well with these purple too-short sweatpants (backwards) and awesomely with these blue dinosaur sandals?"
E went through an extended pirate phase when he was about three. He went to school in his red boots (often only one--it was his peg leg), his three-pointed pirate hat, his sweatshirt (backwards), two or three t-shirts (he often couldn't decide, so he'd wear them all), sweatpants (always too short) and occasionally, an eye patch. You have to love Montessori schools, where they "fostered" that kind of "free thinking" and let him wear it, too!
My school pictures are historically awful. There were the Dorothy Hamill haircut years. There was the year I had no front teeth and Mom put a bow tie on me, there were the braces and acne years. Even my senior year in high school picture, which was put in the Northwestern Facebook was not so great. When M and I started dating, he didn't want to show that photo to his friends. Something about big cheeks, big hair, giant pumpkin head.
So, I am sensitive to the kids' school photo issues. I certainly have my own. When we get the proofs back, we'll see. Psycho Joker or sweet little boy? You never know...
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Duh? Huh?
I actually feel drugged this morning. I am slow, and dopey, and disoriented. While I hate the feeling, I am optimistic that some one is trying to slowly poison me to death.
I generally try to say away from potty humor, because I realize not everyone shares my German amusement with the scatological. But, last night after dinner, we took a family walk around the cul-de-sac to facilitate digestion. Along the way, I hear significant tooting, but refrain from commenting so as not to potentially embarrass M. As M is talking, he tries to urge the culprit to apologize by prompting, "excuse me, by the way," to which E says, "no dad, it was me."
This, in a nutshell, is children. Their entire knowledge of the world is based on a single false assumption: that parents are morons.
Did E not get that? Did E think that M was apologizing for a toot he did not commit? Did E think that M would toot and NOT notice? Do our children consider it a small miracle that we don't walk into walls and drown in sinks on a regular basis?
I think E's superiority phase is one of the most annoying phases we've come across with the kids. He constantly correct us, tells us the "facts" and feeds his brother misinformation. He is high on his soap box, and oozing self righteousness.
So, right now I have been thinking of many phases we've outlasted. Certainly this superiority thing is irritating. More irritating than the clingy phase? The calling me by my first name phase? The ignoring me completely in favor of dad (and vice versa) phase. Is it harder than S's I'm never going to sleep again phase? (Oh, wait, we're still in that phase. Not so much a phase, but a mission statement.) Worse than the independent dressing phase (hobo chic, I call it)? Worse than the "I can't do it" or the "Let me do it" phases? I just don't know.
Don't you feel that as soon as you have figured your kids out, they've moved on to something else? And underlying it all is this fallacy that THEY know more than YOU about everything. I think sometimes it's all a big joke. That kids know the power they wield over parents and amuse themselves and each other by torturing us. Do they have secret meetings to discuss their plans and successes? Little midget doors they sneak through, with a secret little handshake, little chocolate milk bartenders in their little speakeasies? At least the thought of that amuses me...because being chronically stupid in my child's eyes is wearing thin.
I generally try to say away from potty humor, because I realize not everyone shares my German amusement with the scatological. But, last night after dinner, we took a family walk around the cul-de-sac to facilitate digestion. Along the way, I hear significant tooting, but refrain from commenting so as not to potentially embarrass M. As M is talking, he tries to urge the culprit to apologize by prompting, "excuse me, by the way," to which E says, "no dad, it was me."
This, in a nutshell, is children. Their entire knowledge of the world is based on a single false assumption: that parents are morons.
Did E not get that? Did E think that M was apologizing for a toot he did not commit? Did E think that M would toot and NOT notice? Do our children consider it a small miracle that we don't walk into walls and drown in sinks on a regular basis?
I think E's superiority phase is one of the most annoying phases we've come across with the kids. He constantly correct us, tells us the "facts" and feeds his brother misinformation. He is high on his soap box, and oozing self righteousness.
So, right now I have been thinking of many phases we've outlasted. Certainly this superiority thing is irritating. More irritating than the clingy phase? The calling me by my first name phase? The ignoring me completely in favor of dad (and vice versa) phase. Is it harder than S's I'm never going to sleep again phase? (Oh, wait, we're still in that phase. Not so much a phase, but a mission statement.) Worse than the independent dressing phase (hobo chic, I call it)? Worse than the "I can't do it" or the "Let me do it" phases? I just don't know.
Don't you feel that as soon as you have figured your kids out, they've moved on to something else? And underlying it all is this fallacy that THEY know more than YOU about everything. I think sometimes it's all a big joke. That kids know the power they wield over parents and amuse themselves and each other by torturing us. Do they have secret meetings to discuss their plans and successes? Little midget doors they sneak through, with a secret little handshake, little chocolate milk bartenders in their little speakeasies? At least the thought of that amuses me...because being chronically stupid in my child's eyes is wearing thin.
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