Tips from the Trenches: A Guide to Practical Parenting

Ah, peaceful slumber. Saturday morning. Cozy bed. Warm. Soft. Pillow. Best moment ever.

"Mommy! Rose (the hamster) is stiff! She isn't moving!"

Snort. Gulp. Too early for death.

"What? Is she alive?"
"Yes. She's just standing on the couch. Not moving. I think she heard something."

Emma is a bad sleeper. Waking up multiple times a night is more common than sleeping through. She's been in a wake-up phase recently and usually once I'm "on to her" I can get some reprieve by telling her at bedtime I am nearby, but will not come unless it is important. I make her repeat that she will not call me if she wakes up. Usually, this makes a small amount of difference.

So last night, as I was kissing her good night, I reminded her that I wouldn't be coming in. She agreed and said "only if I'm sick." "That's right. I'll come if you got sick and needed me to give you medicine or something." "OK, Mommy. Night night."

Then, at 1:32 AM, I'm pulled from a rare deep sleep by Emma yelling "Mommy, I think I'm going to be sick!"

I leap out of bed before I'm even awake and rush to her room to find her all cozy in bed waiting for me.

She repeated herself and said, "Mommy, I think a drink would make me feel better."

In a daze, I handed her the cup that was FULL BESIDE HER BED, told her that she was naughty, and went back to bed where I tossed and turned for the next 2 hours until I finally passed out.

Looking back on it now, I should have spiked her drink.

After several unreasonable early morning requests in lieu of sleep in my cozy bed, I lost my temper with Emma this morning and told her, "Don't drive me! I'm not a bus!"

I was worried that she wouldn't get the point. It was a somewhat abstract reference. My worry didn't last long because it was until about 10 minutes later when...

EMMA: Mommy, please can I be the boss?
ME: Of course, you can pretend to be the boss. You can play whatever you want.
EMMA: No! I want to be the real boss!

Well, Hell just froze over and I'm officially an adult. All in one day! Middle-age-ish came to slap me hard in the face today when Jack's friend, I'll call him Waldo, came over to play after school.

When I sat down on the couch to take a breath and sit in peaceful cartoon bliss for a moment while the kids sucked on their Incredible Hulk Popsicles and chomped on their Swedish Fish (courtesy of Costco!), my big fat butt hit the "off" button on the remote and the TV was torn asunder. The complaining took mere seconds to errupt.

In the stress of the moment, I couldn't get the remote on the right setting to turn it back on. (We have one of these. Surely, it should be obvious why immediate gratification was a little delayed since I do not possess a PhD in remote science.) After taming my dismay with a few unhappy grunts, Waldo pipes up....

"It's ok. A lot of ladies have that problem when they get old."

The best part was that, when what he said finally sunk in, I told him I was going to tell his mother what he said. At which point, he said "No, don't! My mom will kill me!"

Well, you know what they say....payback's a bitch.

When left to their own devices children will create their own functional microchosm. It took my kids less than an hour to come to this point.

After a busy Thanksgiving, I was taking a little time out in my bed reading and listening to the kids play. I knew my time was up when I hear the following conversation:

JACK: Hey, Emma. Let's go outside.
EMMA: OK.
JACK: We can play deer hunter. You are the deer and I am the hunter.
EMMA: OK.

Sounds of back door opening.

JACK: I'll shoot you. When you get hit, you lie down. OK?
EMMA: OK.
JACK: Now, run! Fast!

Isn't there some book about that?  If not, I'm gonna write it.

If you are new to my blog, this little story should clue you in to what I'm up against on a daily basis.

A few nights ago, I was reading to the kids from a series that I enjoyed when I was growing up, The Mr. Men series by Roger Hargreaves. Since I was a kid, the series has expanded quite a bit to include the "Little Miss" stories. Basically, each story has a simply drawn character called "Mr." or now "Little Miss" Something. The "something" describes a characteristic or personality trait, such as "Happy", "Mean", etc. and the stories tell about an experience each character has based on his/her character trait (or flaw, in some cases). These are low-end British classics that many of the Brits in my generation were read as children, but I digress.

So there we were reading Little Miss Magic which is about a character who has magic powers through which everything she wants to happen does. In the story, she uses the power for good and to accomplish some basic tasks, such as "toast" makes her bread toast or "boil" makes her kettle boil.

At the end of the story, Emma (4-years old) stood up and realized she couldn't go where she wanted to because my legs were in her way. She yelled, "Move!" and, in surprise, I moved my legs. (Normally, I would demand that she say "please" no matter how rude she is being. After all, I am perfect.)

Anyway, after quickly moving my legs, she announced, "That's magic!" and walked away.

Imagine the insight I got from that little encounter. God help me!

As I stuck the meat thermometer in the london broil last night, Emma pops up and asks me what I'm doing. I explained that I was checking to see if the meat was hot enough to eat. To which Emma asked, "is he sick?"

One of the very best parts of being a parent is that you get to say all the cool things that you never thought you'd ever say. You get to mix up words that were never meant to occupy the same sentence and you might even get to have a laugh while you're at it.

Who wouldn't laugh if you could spend you whole day saying things like:

• The rhinoceros can come, but the giraffee and the lion have to stay behind to have a bath.
• Oh, hello Mr. Spiderman. Would you like to have some tea?
• Get down from the roof before it collapses.
• Not everyone wants to be shot at from a car. It wouldn't be fun for them unless they had a gun of their own. Right?
• If Barbie was pregnant with hamsters, she would definitely make a great circus act.

This is all fine and good until it comes back to bite in the proverbial a%@. Like today, for example, when my 7-year old said, "Mommy, let's dial down the crazy for a minute. OK? I am trying to say something." I mean really, what can you say to that?

For those of you who think I'm too "soft" as a parent, this will help you reconsider.

3:00 AM Monday

EMMA: Mommeeeee!
ME: (Snort. Groan. Slobber.) What?
EMMA: Mommy, can you tickle my back?
ME: No.

See, I told you!

ME: Where's Bubbles?
EMMA: Eating Goldfish.
ME: Where?
EMMA: In the bag?
ME: Don't put Bubbles in the Goldfish bag.
EMMA: Why?
ME: She might poop on them.
EMMA: I don't care.
ME: Well, do you want to eat goldfish covered in hamster poop?
EMMA: Maybe. I don't know.

Bubbles

After two spectacular weeks at the beach, we came home last night, relaxed, went to bed, and woke up this morning blissfully unaware of what the morning would bring. Lucky me was going to get the morning "off" because my husband is visiting and was going to take the kids to have breakfast at the ILs.


Unfortunately, the shoes were not beside (or in) the cages and, for that matter, neither were the hamsters. After spinning around to pin both children in my sights, I made the assessment that the only visible hamster present was "Bubbles" (the remaining baby hamster from our recent hamster stash). Bubbles was in the tender loving care of the kids, but the other two "grown-up" hamsters, Sugar and Rose, were nowhere to be seen.

The conversation went a little something like this:

ME: WHAT!?! WHERE ARE THE HAMSTERS?
SON: Um, I don't know.
DAUGHTER: Me either.
ME: Where was the last place you saw Sugar?

For a while now, I've been having this conversation regularly.

CHILD: Who's coming?
ME: No one. I can't hear you very well though. I'm vacuuming.

I finally had the conversation in enough details that I figured out what the heck is going on. (Yes, I'm a little slow.)

ME: I'm going to tidy up you room.
DAUGHTER: My animals?
ME: Yes.
DAUGHTER: My books?
ME: Yes.
DAUGHTER: My ponies?
ME: Yes.
DAUGHTER: Even the big ones?
ME: Yes.

Pause.

DAUGHTER: Who's coming?
ME: No one.
DAUGHTER: (disappointed) Oh.

(Insert the Ah-ha! moment here.)

ME: What!? Do you think that every time I clean someone is coming over?
DAUGHTER: Yes.

Some people can be so stupid.

Don't forget to vote in my sock poll on the right.

CRASH!

SON: I'm ok.

BIGGER CRASH!!!

SON: I'm still ok.
ME: What are you going?
SON: Nothing.

Pause.

SON: Don't come in here.

One of my favorite things to do these days is to listen to my budding three-year old lyricist working on her portfolio. While she's not quite the next Hal David, she does come up with some interesting stuff. Here's a sample of her next big hit.

Don't get splinters
In your eyes
Because it will hurt
A lot
And it's spring
Beautiful spring
The grass is green
The flowers are sweeeeeeeet
And you'll have to
Go to the doctor
The buterflies are everywhere
They fly on my head
The grass is green
The flowers are sweeeeeeet
And the doctor is not

This morning on the way to school Jack, who is in first grade, announced that it was "black top day" today. Like a fool, I asked what that meant and he explained that black top day was when the first graders had to play on the playground black top so that the third graders could play on the playground equipment (slides, swings, etc.)

A little confused, I felt relief, at first. I was glad that someone had created a procedure to minimize bullying during recess. Then, upon reflection, I was just confused. Wait a second, I thought. We're talking about first and third graders here. What the....

When did elementary school become so risky and hard to manage that a few playground monitors can't keep up with the bad guys on the playground? What happened to hoping for the best and training them for the worst? (e.g Tell a teacher if someone does something you don't like.)

I don't want my child to be bullied or to bully someone else, but how are they ever going to learn to handle bullying if they don't have exposure to it while the bullying is on a first/third grade level. I don't want Jack's first encounter with a mean kids to be on the bus as the child pummels him to a pulp. I want him to get used to setting boundaries now!

Not only that, but isn't this also the time when children should be required to be together so that they can start taking care of each other? If we segregate them, aren't we giving the third graders more power? Aren't we just telling them, hey, look at how much we fear what you can do?

Come on, people! Let's be reasonable. Isn't there a better way to teach kids about life while also keeping them safe?

Emma adores her big brother and he knows it. Jack spends far too much of his time recently expertly taking advantage of his god-like status with Emma. Usually, it goes something like this:

JACK: Emma, let's see if Tom and Jerry is on Cartoon Network.
EMMA: Ok. Yeah!
JACK: Oh, look it's not Tom and Jerry, but it is Chowder! Yeah! We love this show!

This is followed by Jack excitedly jumping around until Emma catches the wave herself and forgets that she really wanted to see Tom and Jerry in the first place.

Note the expert use of the word "We" and the fact that he roped her in to changing the channel by luring her with her favorite show.

Another conversation I hear regularly usually starts with hushed discussion in a nearby room.

JACK: Emma, do you want a Twix?
EMMA: Ok. Yeah!
JACK: Me, too. Go ask Mommy if we can have some.
EMMA: Ok...Mommy....

Another variant of this discussion is:

JACK: Emma, do you want to go to Toys R Us?
EMMA: Ok. Yeah!
JACK: Me, too. Go ask Mommy if we can.
EMMA: Ok...Mommy....

Emma can also be used as a courier service.

JACK: Emma, do you want a paci?
EMMA: Yes.
JACK: There's one on the floor in my room.
EMMA: Ok.
JACK: When you are in there, can you bring me Marmalade (Jack's lovey)?
EMMA: Sure!

I feel really sorry for Emma some times as she is clearly being used to serve Jack's Greater Plan. However, I think I feel more sorry for Jack when Emma finally figures it all out. I think I'd better get my earplugs ready for that day.

Let me preface this by saying that I have (one of) the best babysitters. I've been quite lucky with sitters for my kids and my current one is not an exception. Thus far, she has never once been unavailable to sit. She is 18, has reliable transport, is CPR/First Aid trained and certified AND she also went through a background check prior to her name being referred to me. So all in all, I can't complain if she doesn't take the kids dinner plates to the sink after she puts them to bed.

Now, on to the real reason for this post.

Tonight I got invited out on a "girls night out" for dinner and drinks at a local pub. I was again lucky enough that it was Saturday and my sitter was available. She arrived promptly at 6:30 and the kids flocked to her sides. All was good.

I rushed off to get dressed and "put on my face" (I store it in formaldehyde in my bathroom medicine cabinet). I was ready to pop out the door, said an emotional "see ya" to the kids, and headed for my coat. Fifteen minutes later I was still looking for the damn thing and it isn't like I have many places to look. I knew that I had brought it in from the car with me earlier, but where the heck was it!?

Finally, I gave up, grabbed a non-coat alternative, and left. By this point, I was running late and dashed out in a hurry.

To make a short story even longer, I had a lovely parenting-free evening. Conversation flowed like conversation...of 4 tired mothers trying to make it until 9 o'clock. Breast feeding. Potty training. School. Husbands. All the great non-parenting-related stuff. I'd had a long day so I decided to call it a night and head home after a few hours.

I pulled up in the driveway only to find a homeless person asleep on my front lawn. In a big heap. A little surprised, I got out of the car and approached the homeless person...uh....heap of clothes....uh....my coat. On the ground for hours since I must have dropped it on the way in earlier.

In my defense, I did after all have 3 coats, one large mommy-sized handbag, 4 Target bags, 3 Chic-Fil-A bags, 4 empty juice boxes, and a bag of potting soil in my arms when I came in.So I can't possibly see how I didn't notice it falling by the wayside somewhere along the tromp up the hill to the front door. A normal person would never have let that happen, would they?

Anyway, I picked up the coat, dusted it off, and went inside to send the sitter home. When I came in I showed her the coat and said, "Guess where I found my coat!" She said, "Was it in the car?" I replied, "No. It was on the front lawn." "Oh," she said, "I saw that when I came in."

Oh, boy. I've been waiting nearly 7 years for this question. I've been reading, researching, and reflecting on this question so much that I could testify as an expert in any court in the country and today I was up to bat. Now, I bet I know to which question I am referring, but you would be wrong. Compared to this question, that question is a walk in the proverbial park.

We just finished our pleasant Friday afternoon diversion to Emma's ballet class and a swim at the pool followed by a trip through the McD's drive thru. As we're heading home, there is contemplative silence interrupted only by the snuffling and slurping sounds associated with Happy Meals. Suddenly, Jack pipes up.

"Mommy? Where does chicken come from?"
"Uh, um, chicken."
"Well, how do chickens lay chicken?"

Shit. All that research for nothing. I gave it my all and now what? Am I really going to have to explain where we get chicken? That we eat? Perhaps I can turn it into a "chicken or the egg" discussison. No, that would be wrong. Better that he learn it now and from me than in some other more shocking way....

"Uh, um, well, I can tell you, but I don't think you would like it?" And, I don't think you'd ever eat again.

Pause. More contemplative silence.

"Um, no. Never mind. I don't want to know." Damn. I chickened out. Can't believe I chickened out. Oh, well, maybe next time.
"Are you sure?" Please, please, please.
"Yes, I don't want to know."
"OK, well, let me know if you change your mind."

Whew! Dodged that bullet. Please, God, don't ask me where beef comes from.

Conversations at my house right now are a bit like some new-fangled method of torture/resistance training. They go a little something like this....


JACK: Mommy, make sure you tell them I want a 6-piece nuggets Happy Meal, not a 4-piece.
ME: I will, Jack.
JACK: Mommy, what happens if they give me 8?

Or...

ME: Come on', guys, we're going to be late for school.
JACK: What happens if we are not late?

Or...the most common to be use in just about all situations where a parental demand is made, such as:

ME: Be careful not to get that Sharpie on the dining room table?
JACK: What happens if I do it by accident?

Or...

ME: Don't hit Emma on the head with that.
JACK: What happens if I do it by accident?

Or...

JACK: (sitting in the driver's seat of my car) Mommy, what does "D" mean?
ME: It means "Drive" and it you move the stick to "D" the car drives. Don't ever touch that stick.
JACK: What happens if I do it by accident?

You get the picture.

I've heard about these things, but until now have not really borne witness to the true "developmental phase" as advertised in the books. We've had the occasional annoying or weird phase, but they are not as complex or persistent. This one is like his brain turns off and the compulsion to ask the question wins out.

The frustrating thing is that there is no way to answer these questions because they just lead to more questions. Most of which begin with "what happens if". It is truly a vicious cycle. When I speak, I get this wrenching panic because I never know what will happen next. It's starting to wear me down. (And, I didn't have much further to go in the wearing down department really.)

The other thing is that I'm starting to become afraid that I'm not helping him develop whatever skill he is trying to develop because I'm so annoyed by it. What is I say the wrong thing and cripple his critical thinking skills forever? There goes college. There goes the high-paying job that will keep me in my retirement.

So now I'm wrecked with anxiety about the guilt of potential parental failure. Why does parenting have to be so damn complicated?

JACK: Mommeeee. I'm hungry.
ME: We're going home right now. We'll eat when we get there. (Note: Home is 1.5 miles away.)
JACK: But I can't wait!
ME: I don't have anything, Jack. You'll have to wait.
JACK: Do you have anything in you bag?
ME: Let me look.....yes! Pretzels.
JACK: Nuh-un.
ME: Oreos?
JACK: Noooooo-wuh.
ME: Goldfish?
JACK: I don't want Goldfish.
ME: Gum?
JACK: No.
ME: Fruit roll up?
JACK: No.
ME: Well, that's it.
JACK: But I'm hungry and I can't wait.
GRANDPA: Jack, Mommy is not a supermarket.

Boy, wish I'd heard that sooner. I just renewed my contracts with my suppliers.