Worst Mother Ever

A month of Christmas television specials have already come and gone since Thanksgiving, and my three kids have seen exactly ZERO of them. Well, Nora did see the Grinch on video one day because we own it, and all three of them saw part of Elf at their cousins' house on Thanksgiving. But that's it. By contrast, when I was a kid I flipped through that thick TV Guide like it was a dog-earred Bible. I had the whole week scheduled out. The toughest nights were those on which two equally AWESOME Christmas shows were airing at the same time. But today, in a tech-crazy world of streaming and on-demand programming, my kids could conceivably be watching Christmas shows all day, every day. But their ingorance is my bliss. I have checked the listings online often during the past month, checking for a show they could watch together. But whenever I softened enough to think I would let them stay up to watch something, I changed my mind well before 8 o'clock. Aidan doesn't even know about Jim Carey's character in Pet Detective, yet he mimics it beautifully every night between 6 and 8. All three of them are wild that time of night, and it's all I can do to get them up the stairs by 8 pm.

Save the Drama for your Mama

I don't have enough drama in my life. Clearly, it's just another day in the life when my daughter Nora mutters, "I hate my mother". I know she's the baby, but she doesn't get whatever she wants. Instead I see her at the end of a perpetual queue - always waiting to tell me something. I triage her with a finger to my lips and a nod to one of the older kids to continue with their monologue of the moment. Poor Nora, I think. But she is no shrinking violet. She mutters and retaliates, moans and complains. I don't really know what to do to fix it (I've tried a bunch of things). Of course, not all drama is bad drama. I'm fortunate to have children who can't go an hour without singing. In the car, I get to listen to the Willy Wonka soundtrack. Track numbers are shouted from the back seat and I scramble to find them. Around the house, everything is a dance number or a comedy sketch. Zany one-liners are regurgitated ad nausea. Lucky me!
Check out Rowan at her cousin's graduation party this summer.

Home Schooled

I have just experienced an epiphany bubble. If I had to do it all over again, I would (alright, maybe could is the better word here) have home schooled my children. My kids begin arriving home at 3:15 and this process wraps at around 3:55. They drag out snack until about 5 pm. Then we need to shake a leg because we're usually due at some sort of team activity by 5:30 which doesn't end until 7 pm or thereabouts. Then onto homework, flute/sax, math facts, yucks, dinner, crazy nonsense, and don't forget the micromanaging through every ridiculous detail of their lives. Here's me (and don't forget to come up for air because you are merely reading this, not saying it in one robotic monologue like I have to do), "hang your jacket on the hook, put your shoes away, hang up your backpack, put your lunchbox on the island, put the icepack in the freezer, get out your homework and show me what you have to do ...". Truth be told, they are fried. I can tell because they can't listen to one another without attacking, deflecting or crying (or all 3 at once!). But if I home schooled them, we could waltz around the grocery store comparing prices and ingredients. We could find FUN ways to master math facts and read about myths and legends. We could spell, and write letters to friends and congressmen. We could whip up something fun in the kitchen (and maybe even eat it). Now home schoolers, don't take offence. I am not built to home school. The stress of it would most certainly paralyze me. However, it is a little sad that there seems to be so little time left after the school is done with them, and yet there's still so much left to do.

Back to School

So the kids have been in school for just over a week and I'm not nearly approaching any sort of daily rhythm yet. Day two or three I grab a quick osmosis dose of Faith Middleton's Food Schmooze on the radio. I'm only half listening because I'm kind of sick of the perpetual orgasm Faith has while talking recipes. Then I hear her say, "It's back to school and were thinking sandwiches and homemade bread". Well that's just about all I can handle. Come on Faith? While I'm busy pushing a variety of store-bought breads - trying to spice them up with Nutella and Fluff - Faith is busy stoking her olde world oven, at least in a virtual way. So here's what I have to say: My kids have proven time and time again that they eat differently at school than at home. For the years they've been in school, they've snubbed apples, cheddar slices, organic yogurt, turkey breast sandwiches and homemade soup. So in an effort to avoid my starving child's inability to learn in class, I'll send just about anything if I know they'll actually eat it.

Rich Girl

My lovely visionary announced today that she was going to have her lawn mowed by other people and have her grass fertilized everyday. She said that she would color her toilet water blue and that she would be rich to pay for it all. Ready to pounce with a moral lesson about hard work, I asked -

"How will you do that?".

"What do you call those things that suck your blood?"

"Leaches?", I guessed. "Yes, I'm going to be a leach hunter. They get paid a thousand dollars a day."

Good to know...

Thank you Dirty Jobs.

Guns ~ for the kid in you

Is it wrong of me to use an image of my son toting a gun as the cover of his birthday thank you notes? But nothing better captures the revolutionary spirit of Aidan's sleepover birthday extravaganza than this photo of him sizing up his next target (in this case, me) using a Nerf weapon. Are you picturing a half dozen 8-9 year old boys infiltrating splinter factions in every pocket of my yard with varying degrees of Nerf artillery. And it seems like only yesterday that I bonded with other new moms at play groups over our tacit commitment to raising nonviolent males based on our loosely researched position to keep all manner of toy guns OUT of our homes. It was our responsibility after all. Violence was not something we were willing to condone. Since then, as most mothers of boys become quickly schooled, weaponry has spawned itself. Seemingly benign Legos and Lincoln Logs render themselves rifle butts or better still, nature lends a helping hand by improvising with limitless sticks. Wrap them up with some electrical tape, and you've got something high-end, specialized. After awhile, the battle to sequester young boys from their weapons of choice becomes pointless and you end up with photos like this one and mail them to friends. Voila!

Calling 911

While driving alone in the car the other day, my phone rang and I answered it. "Hello", I said. The unfamiliar voice identified herself with the state police and asked, "Are you alright, is everything alright? We received a 911 call from this number." Flabbergasted yet sure this wasn't a prank, I responded, "Gee, I don't know how that happened. I'm sorry. I'm fine, every one's fine." The call ended cordially and the caller was so nice that I didn't even feel guilty. But after I hung up, I looked at the display on the phone and read the words, emergency mode activated. So that was it. Who knew I even had an emergency mode on my phone, and God help me should I ever need to activate it. Oops! The next thing I did was laugh out loud as it occurred to me that I had butt-dialed 911. That's right, the phone was in my rear pocket while I was driving. I laughed harder when I thought that I had just birthed song lyrics. "I butt-dialed 911" could so readily echo the flippancy and begrudgingly likable melody of "I kissed a girl and I liked it".

Lions and Tigers and Beers, Oh My

So I just checked my blog (like I do). And for those of you who have ever noticed the ads running alongside my posts, you should see what's up there right now. I'm trying not to read too much into it, but it's not that easy. Currently there are a total of five ads and each one is related to drinking and alcoholism. In order, they read: Alcoholism Rehab Center, Stop Drinking Alcohol, 12 Step Alternative, Tired of Drinking, and Alcoholism Natural Remedy. So what the kooky marketeers at Google Ads must be saying, based on my posts, is either that I can't conceivably come up with such brilliant blogger crap without first tossing some back, OR that I can't possibly limp through my dizzying oy vay daze without getting my drink on. Now if I can only find that camera...

Another Would-be Empire Vanquished

Yesterday I came across some signs hidden away in my linen closet. What an absolute riot. A few years back I had heard about family behavior codes at a time when I was desperate for a stab at even modest control over my three kids. I grabbed some sharpies and went to town scribbling an all-purpose mantra for daily life defined by GOOD behavior. I remember having a ribbon attached to them and hanging the signs on a doorknob in the upstairs hallway. When things got out of hand (or should I say - several times a day), I would run and grab a sign from the doorknob and start pointing and reading (with ENTHUSIASM) through the list. I don't recall that it helped to change behavior, but it probably helped me a little as a prop. It gave me a script which kept things from going from bad to worse. I had to photograph them so I would always remember how ridiculous this parenting gig can feel at times. The signs will be repurposed, but they will always make me laugh.

Dumber than a Fifth Grader

My daughter invited me to attend fifth grade again. I told her no, I must decline her generous offer. Don't get me wrong. Who wouldn't want to push dinner prep and laundry aside week after week to dive into some math? And those who know me best know that I'm itching to identify some greatest common factors in fractions. But like I told her, if I don't get the grades, I'm not doing the work.

White Whale Continued

I while ago, I wrote about something I don't do well as a mother - bathing my children. Short of risking people thinking that there's only one white whale floating in my pond, let me enlighten thee. I'm a bit embarrassed as the things that escape me tend to be pretty basic, and yet I've never nailed them. For instance, bundling. I have never been a mother that fusses over getting every appendage covered before heading out somewhere, even in the bitter Vermont winters that our two oldest children weathered the first years of their lives. As infants, my kids were on the less is more program because their mother didn't go the extra mile with the sherpa surrounds. I relied on them. Certainly, if they could cry to nurse, than they could cry if they were too cold.

All you need is love

I remember collecting wisdom about having children before I ever had children. One thing sticks out in my memory as universal advice (voiced heavily by my parent's generation). I think it's a cliche, but never-the-less, it was something I really latched onto. The advice was this: Just love them, that's all they need.

Really? That's all they need. O.k., I guess loving them covers some ground like feeding them, keeping them close to you in a parking lot, and discouraging them from eating glass. But what about the rest of the crapshoot? I spend way too much energy (and it's riddled with tension like I'm about to explode) on correcting and admonishing behavior - ultimately (and hopefully) molding some kind of useful human being that won't need to be locked up down the road. Honestly, I couldn't begin to list the other stuff that I need to do to in addition to loving them. I guess the message was that the love part is a bare necessity and everything else is icing. Huh?

Your Moment of Zen...

I'll leave you with this. I long for the day when I thought I could lose weight by cutting my hair. Seriously, I'm up at least 5 pounds, maybe more, thanks to winter indulgences such as cookies and chocolate. Cutting my hair won't make up the difference I need. I'm so desperate that I've stopped drinking the magical elixir - Coca~Cola. And I'm quitting my gym membership because they no longer have a magazine rack - no more People Magazine. On the upside, shop vaccing my basement full of water and hauling buckets has brought me closer to my goal weight in short order. Yahoo!

All in a name

I have a problem. The name of my blog is no longer working for me. In fact it might be working against me. First of all, (and this may come as a big shocker) I'm not Jewish. The other big problem with calling my blog Kids Today Oy Vay is that I often find myself wanting to write about something other than kids. So as I poured pancake batter this morning, I wondered outloud - "I think I want to rename my blog". Now six year-old Nora, always willing to contribute, suggested, "You could name it Kaden, that's a cute name for a blog". Well darn it, she's right. Kaden is a cute name, and not just for a blog. However, I want a more clever name - something that underscores the themes about which I write. So if anyone reading this post has a good idea (and you may need to go back and read some of my older posts), please send a comment with your suggestion. I would really appreciate the collective brain power.
P.S. And if you think I should keep it as it is, tell me.

Eureka!

I finally figured out the IFs and WHENs of my blog sessions. When I feel like a crappy failure of a mother, I dry up and no words come. But when I feel decent about the things going on and all family members are nearly on the same page, I can write. So, can you guess what mode I've been in since March 2nd? That's right, crappy failure of a mother. When I look back on my life since becoming a mother, a huge paradigm shift took place the moment my children entered school. When I began to regularly turn them over to someone else for the first time, it was as if they suddenly became mini-me's. If they didn't behave well (and I had the pleasure to hear all about it), I wanted to shrink into a ball and slink away unseen. I felt shame and guilt, while a burning need to make things right oozed from my every pore. For the first time, there was another arbiter. And for the next several years, there will always be some other adult outside of our family to evaluate, monitor and even judge my kids. It's hard for me to separate myself and remember that I can't make my kids behave a certain way. Sure, I can discipline behaviors, reiterate rules and dispense lectures from the hip. I can bribe and motivate with creativity. But, alas, at the end of the day, I must remember that we (they and me) are not the same.

Ludicrous

A few months back, my husband and I witnessed the most ridiculous television commercial. It opens with a couple of young kids watching TV in a dark family room. Next you see the kids levitate ala superman as they are slowly sucked toward the TV. Just when I think, good, somebody out there gets it - here's a mocking commentary on the evils of television and its suffocating grasp on our children, the mom and dad pop their heads into the shot with a cheery, "Hey kids, we've got donuts" (or something like that). Now we see the vortex of television go limp as the kids run toward the Dunkin Donuts contraband delivered by their folks. That's right kids, not only do you win, but you can have it all. Watch all the television you want AND feast on fatty fried donuts.

Got Smarts?

Well it's official. My ten year-old daughter is smarter than me. I knew it would happen, but I was blindsighted by how quickly it morphed from a nagging fear to an absolute reality. I'm not exactly upset by this news. I think it's great. My daughter has a sophisticated world-view and an incredible wit that will render her more capable in just about any situation than I have ever been. In terms of genetic hand-me-downs, she got the best of both me and my husband and I am grateful. You go girl!

School is out...

I've just spent nine straight days with the kids (winter break) and witnessed an astounding array of bad behavior. An hour ago, Nora accidentally hit Aidan with a carrying tote for a stuffed dog. As Aidan began to cry, Nora beat him to the punch with a much louder and more emphatic outbreak of tears. "I'm so sorry Aidan", rang out from the upstairs hallway. Meanwhile, Aidan was now in the kitchen, with no sign of tears or injury. While Nora cried her guilty heart out, I validated Aidan's miraculous recovery and directed him to tell Nora that he was alright and that he accepts her apology. A moment later, I heard Aidan say, "Nora, I'm alright and I expect your apology". Well, that just about says it all - I'm out.

Fiddler on the Roof

I'm writing tonight while listening to the original sound recording of Fiddler on the Roof. My mother used to sing me to sleep with a track from the show called, Do you love me? I used to feel so special as my eyelids grew heavy. This week has been school vacation week for my kids and we've had some good times, Boston Science Museum and the amazing Harry Potter exhibit and bad times, poor Rowan's first tooth extraction. That part happened this morning and that cursed baby molar proved to be a rough one. I expect I'll look much older tomorrow morning. On the plus side, Nora thinks we should all head to the Plasma Hotel for a few days of respite - you know the one, where Eloise lives. I suppose it could be a handy spot to lay low if we experience some blood loss on the way.

Instant Bonus Room

You know you're desperate for "space" when just days before your big New Year's Eve party, your husband suggests you invite your favorite contractor over for a quote to create a bonus room by bumping out the back of the house. Oh my God. Yeah, and eight years from now we'll be footing an extra $75K a year bill for the oldest child to head off to college. Is my projection that ludicrous? And two years after that, another kid will go, and so on... Anyhoo, I saved the day by suggesting that our guestroom be converted into an upstairs den/playroom instead. In the eight years we've been in this house, I can count on one hand the number of times our guest room has gotten any action and it's really dropped off lately. We've noticed that if people can get home to sleep in their own beds, they will. I got to work right away knowing that the $2000 I might spend to furnish this room would be a far cry from any would-be bonus room construction costs. During the course of a Sunday, I heaved and hauled and solicited the help of underdeveloped muscles (not mine) to carve the space for our new room all the while relocating the middle child to another bedroom. The result has been nothing less than magical. My kids go nuts for change. The furniture arrived two weeks ago and we just painted the walls an outlandish shade of green and bought a second TV. Wallah - our mini bonus room looks amazing and middle child loves his new digs with its crazy jogs and angles. Everybody wins.

More Sugar Please?

In our house, waffles and confectioners sugar have become a welcome duo. Funny how sleepovers and morning-after breakfast at the homes of friends can so readily broaden our kids' worldview (and expectations). For months my youngest has called the tantalizing powder "infectioners sugar", but this weekend she asked for "perfectioners sugar". I didn't know if she was just stepping up her request (perhaps suggesting that I'd been buying generic or something), or if it had finally reached a supreme place of status for her. And I really don't know which will eventually do more harm - infectioners or perfectioners. Thank God I discovered a simple way to record these hilarious gems without missing a beat. Whenever one of my kids says or does something that I want to remember, I walk over to the wall calendar in our kitchen, grab the hanging marker and jot it down. The result is brilliant because I know down to the day what happened and when. At the end of the year when I replace the calendar, I grab an index card and transfer the highlights so I can record them elsewhere. Ta-da!

Seeing Dollar Signs

My kids are well on their way to developing a full-blown complex. I can't help myself, but in my world everything has a dollar value. When my son pours more orange juice for himself, I remind him, "Go easy on the juice Aidan, you know that bottle cost almost six dollars?" Or on the weekends when we have waffles and pancakes, I'm such a nut case when they go for more maple syrup. I'm all like - "Whoa! Easy with that stuff. That stuff is like spun gold - it cost sixteen dollars". Shamefully, I even perpetuated my daughter's preference for the fake stuff - Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth can thank me later for the increased revenue. Granted, I am a child of children of the Depression, but this is getting rediculous.

How do they make me?

One of my children asked me once, "does it hurt when they make you?" When you're in the thick of in-fighting with your siblings, or worrying about where your next snack comes from, how do you even think to ask that question? Consider for a second the things a small child may have seen being made. An assembly line churning and freezing ice cream at the Ben & Jerry's Factory, or maybe they witnessed horseshoes being shod or glass being blown at Sturbridge Village. Ouch! Both of those require hellish fire and some of it with pounding. No wonder...

See how menacing Ella looked in those early days?

Sick of you, sick of me

I took a look at some of my earlier blog drafts. When it comes to doling out daily doses of punishment, my puppy isn't quite as unrelenting today as she was in August.

What can I say, pneumonia and a new labrador puppy combine for a cocktail without FDA approval. Ella, please take Aidan's leg out of your mouth. What began as an ordinary summer has turned into a battle of wits. I fight my dog for alpha status with one hand, and nurse my squatter of a cough with the other. When the doctor said I had pneumonia, my ever-present cough and pathetic show of frailty finally had scope. I spent my days sighing, crying, and cursing. When I felt brave, I would escape to walk the dog only to have her beat the crap out of me all the way home. It's a good show over here on Carriage Drive, watching me in all manner of embarrassment trying out some new training technique or another on the front lawn with the dog. Today I discovered that if I spray my hand with diluted white vinegar and shove it in the dog's face, she'll start to sneeze. Note to self, buy more vinegar.

Where is the Isle of Me?

Nothing gets you focused on the right stuff - yourself that is - like the promise of a new pair of shoes. It doesn't take much when you are 5 (or 50). Last night during a trip to Marshalls, the greatest store in the world, my girls and I were there to cruise the shoe department. All business as usual in a retail setting, looking for bargains and nothing less, I was whipping up and down those aisles when I heard 5 year-old Nora (audibly frustrated) say, "Where is the aisle of me?" Well I've been asking that same question for forty-one years. I heard that the folks from Lost may have found it once, but that was just a rumor.

Laughing at nothing

If a housewife laughs at her own joke and no one is around to hear it, is it funny? No, really, I need to know. And yes, I did just call myself a housewife.

My daughter is sitting beside me and just asked, "do other people think your blog is funny?" "Of course", I couldn't get the words out fast enough. By the way, if anyone is wondering why I've been writing again, I decided that I had to change the way in which I approach this silly blog. For one thing, I'm writing during the day instead of at night while I'm still fresh. I'm also keeping the posts shorter and fretting less about them. Don't forget to leave a comment if the mood strikes. Thanks for reading.

Nora getting ready for work.

All in a day's work

When I played Moms yesterday with my kindergartner, she told me she might be quitting her job. I asked if she and her husband could make it without her salary, and she said, "oh yes, he makes a thousand dollars". I stared at her, choking back the laugh, when she added, "a day". "Oh", I smiled, "well that's a significant income, you guys would be fine if you were to quit."

Ella Bo Bella

What a morning! I had to drop three kids off at two schools and bring a pup to doggie daycare. Am I one of those people? I can't believe I'm actually paying somebody to wear out my dog. She's only been twice before today and must be getting used to the idea of being shipped off for a few hours. When I made my second school stop this morning, I had Ella in the car. I tried to restrain her as two kids unloaded, but she broke out and went running up the school sidewalk, right up to the front door. What a scene... cars, buses, kids, parents, mayhem. It was absolutely hilarious. In short order, I gathered her up in my arms and carried her back to the car. I was so embarrassed, but glad for the laugh.

Up all night

Let's see, what happened today? Well, it started with a bang at 4 am when my daughter woke me with her cries - turned out her arm was asleep. At least her arm knew what to do in the middle of the night. After 60 seconds of soothing her and waking her arm, I went back to bed, but couldn't fall asleep. Instead, I lay in bed and listened to the wind and rain, praying that the basement wasn't filling with water. I was panicked, yes, but couldn't convince myself to leave my cozy, if not sleepless, nest to walk downstairs and check. Hours later, vindication. When I finally made it down the two flights, I found a dry basement.

If only I had a fancy house

If you have a fancy house, please don't invite my 5 year-old over for a play date. My post-playdate debriefing sessions with Nora go something like this... Me, "Did you have fun at (fill in the blank's) house?" Nora, "She has a fancy house, I want a fancy house." Then there's ten minutes of whining, followed finally by an admission that, while our house is nice, so and so has a nicer house. You can see where this is going. There is no place to hide here and certainly no way to win. If she only knew about a little thing called spectrum, my words might begin to make sense to her. The way I see it, that day is still about fifteen years away.

Remembering Rudy

My dog Ella was born last May, so she is not yet a year old. She's coming along, growing tall and bringing moments of pure delight (well, not always). For those of you who don't know, our last pet (beloved Rudy) died last spring from cancer after loving us unconditionally since 1996. But when you grieve something you've lost, there's no speeding up that process. Remembering Rudy is something I fit into everyday, no matter how much I have to do. And the great thing about remembering someone in this way is that you don't have to include it on a to-do list, or even set aside time to do it. It just happens at its own speed and with its own sense of grace. Thank goodness for that...

Winter *ucks!

I feel as though I won't survive the rest of January with a positive mental attitude. It's weird how December seems to just fly by thanks to a few holiday decorations, a party or two and time spent buzzing through stores like a lunatic. It doesn't seem to matter how low the temperature drops in December either, I just clip along. But come January, things begin to look different. The first week or so, I'm good -I catch a little of that, "let's organize our whole life and things will be swell" syndrome. But after that, I'm done. February I can handle. Maybe it's the short month, or maybe I know that March always follows, and no matter how awful March has ever been, I still picture myself flying a kite wearing only a sweatshirt (and pants) come March. But until then, I'm taking long showers and looking really dumpy with lots of goofy mismatched layers, socks and slippers.