They Don't Let 30-ish-Year-Olds in the Science Fair

After Buddy's spring concert, there was an announcement. Regarding the third grade science fair.

"Yippee!!! I get to be in a science fair!!!!" I cried out.
Josh's head snapped toward me and his eyes narrowed.

"I mean Buddy. Buddy gets to be in a science fair. Buddy. Yeah."
Josh's eyes stayed narrowed.
I have a history.

Friday, a packet 18 inches thick was sent home with eight million rules and three papers to be signed by parents. The phrase "showcasing the child's work" was printed in bold on several pages.

However, a third-grader can't be left to the wolves entirely, so I started googling. Would you believe in the entire World Wide Web there are only two original science fair ideas? One was an experiment on which type of music most effectively calms cats. The project involved riling a series of cats up with a vacuum cleaner, playing music, and then timing how long it took the cat to stop pacing and meowing with it's hair on end, so it was quite promising. Unfortunately we do not have a series of cats, so it was out of the question. The other was, "which grows faster, hair or fur?" and required the shaving of a patch on the student's head and a patch on the student's Chihuahua. I decided not to pitch this idea to Buddy.

So I sighed and tried brainstorming. Sadly, I tried brainstorming with a nine-year-old whose friend and he did not stop laughing and passing gas until 11:00 the night before.

Po.op.
What do you mean, "po.op."
I want study which dog food makes the most po.op.
No.
Why?
Your teacher will never approve it (notice the deft taking the blame off myself- now that's parenting).
Why?
Because we don't have a way to study po.op output without contracting a variety of viruses.
Pe.e, then.
No.
Urinals.
No.
Toilets.
Ok. What do you want to know about toilets?
(Thinking) Nothing.
Ok, so now what.
Toilet paper.
What about toilet paper?
Which kind is the thickest and sucks up the most pe.e.

Alright. Now we're getting somewhere. At this point, however, I did not realize Buddy had become serious. Several times over the weekend I tried to get him back engaged in brainstorming and several times he said, no, I'm going to do toilet paper.

How about geraniums? How they grow with and without light?
No.
Mold? You could grow mold on bread.
No.
Timing hamsters in a maze?
I can have hamsters!
No.
Oh. Toilet paper.

And so another dream of parental greatness died.

At the dinner table I announced that Buddy had his science fair idea. Again with the narrowed eyes. Josh insisted Buddy recount verbally how he arrived at his idea.

"I said po.op and then pe.e and then urinals and then toilets. I didn't want to know anything about toilets, so I said toilet paper. So we're going to find out if the more expensive toilet paper is thicker and sucks up more pe.e. But don't worry. It'll just be yellow water."

I stuck out my tongue at Josh.

My Life is Nothing if Not Ironic

I have often said, and I hold by it, that I would have been more than willing to go through another round of labor with each child (well, in the case of the girls, any labor at all), if what came out at the end was an individualized parenting manual. Would it be awkward? Certainly. Would the spiral binding be extremely uncomfortable? Without a doubt. But it would have been so useful in the quest to be four different sets of parents living under one roof.

Because that's what my children seem to need: four different sets of parents. That's how completely different each of them are.

Tuesday is dance and piano day. At least it was. I do not like dance and piano day. Every. Single dance and piano day, Princess has a tantrum to and from school, and Buddy has a whine fest at home as we pack up his piano book. Especially if he has not practiced that week. Learned that lesson the hard way. Anyway. In January I finally noticed that the after-school car rages defiantly had a pattern: every Tuesday. No other day. While it was a relief that they were down to one day a week, I felt it needed to be addressed, so I asked Princess what was bugging her about dance. She gave me a couple I don't knows and some shoulder shrugs and some nothings, and then came out with, "I don't like it that some people are better than me."

In reality, Princess is pretty on par with the girls in her class. But, you know, there's always The One. When you're an adult, The One usually has expensively highlighted hair, lots of time to spend on the treadmill, a handsome husband about whom you can find nothing to snipe, three kids, and two dogs. She has a bunco night, and all  her excellent desserts are from the new Ina Gar.ten  cookbook. There are kid The Ones, too though. The One in Princess's tap class is a charming little girl with tons of energy and charisma who always knows the answer and practices incessantly outside of class. And you just have to get used to The One, because not only is she always going to be there, but her hair is going to look exponentially better than yours as you age. Ahem. Not that I have issues.

So I tried to have a talk with Princess about finding joy in doing your personal best and improving through practice. I reminded her that car tantrums are not an acceptable way of venting one's anxiety, and I warned that we would need to make a decision about dance soon, as recital preparations were underway. She said she wanted to keep going to lessons and she would let me help her do breathing exercises on Tuesdays.

Only she didn't. She missed four lessons in a row because she either was unable to get dressed for lessons or unable to ride in the car safely (read: screaming, flailing, and throwing things). So this week I said, I'm sorry, but we're done. I'll keep helping you learn to manage your anxiety, and probably in another grade you'll be able to do it so well we can try dance again. She shook her head no several times, and a tear ran down her face. It was a struggle for me. I loved having her in dance. It was hard to say we're stopping.

AND, because life is like that, on the VERY SAME DAY I had this conversation with Buddy:

Me: You're going to piano.
Buddy: But I hate piano! Why do you keep making me do it? I hate it!
M: Because there are two things parents make their kids do no matter how much they hate it: school and   piano.
B: Why do you want to make me do something I haaaaaaaaaate?
M: Because everything is easy for you. It's good for you to practice working on something hard.
B: But whyyyyyyyyyyy?
M: I'll tell you why. Because adults who have had everything easy have big adult temper tantrums when they have to do something hard. And they are NOT pretty. And I don't want your wife to leave you. So get in the car.

Sometimes I get the sneaking suspicion I'm being laughed at on a cosmic level. But maybe I'm just paranoid.

When Logical Consequences Rain Down From the Heavens

Two neurotypical children are hailed from the Wii to put away their laundry.

Two neurotypical children are back downstairs on the Wii unnaturally quickly.

One neurotypical child should be, because she is too young for an allowance so only has to put away underwear and pajamas. The other has been taking seven shirts down every morning and lining them up on the floor to choose one and not putting the rest back.

The neurotypical mom yells down the stairs, "if I find out anyone's laundry isn't done correctly, that little girl will lose the Wii this week."

Seven-Shirt-a-Day Neurotypical child shouts, "it's done correctly!"

This morning, the neurotypical mom opened the girls' closet and went, hmm.


Tomorrow is going to be a snow day.


MWAAAAAA HAAA HAAA HAAA HAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Cover Your Mouth

The Cuddle Bear handed me a Thanksgiving Present. She had worked hard on it, just for me. I looked down at my hand. In it was a small, cut-out circle of posterboard with a little smiley face drawn on it in crayon. I smiled and opened my mouth to thank her. Before I had the chance, she said:


This is for you, Mom. It's a mouth cover. You can put it over Princess's mouth so she can't bite your hand. Maybe you should keep it in the car, for when she screams.


This is my fear: that the environment I raise my children in will grow bitter, resentful, angry, twisted adults.
This is my hope: that the environment I raise my children in will grow compassionate, proactive, loving people.

Which one will it be?

Whirlwinds

Yesterday's weather forecast was full of superlatives: "epic," "historical," "hurricane-strength winds," "20-foot waves," and tornado watches. To all of which I said, "meh."

We live near Lake Michigan, so the forecast is all about "lake-effect" this and "lake-effect" that, and none of it ever happens; it bounces right over us and hits with full fury 20 minutes east. However, a tornado spotted 30 minutes south of us is enough for a Tornado Warning in our county.

So when I heard that the children had to sit in Tornado Drill Mode for two hours yesterday, I knew two of my three school-aged children would come home wigged out. I just wasn't sure which two.

I picked up the kids at the end of the day and said, "well! I heard you had a not-so-much-fun morning." In reply, I got grunts and a couple detailed accounts of said two hours, which may or may not have been accurate (I'm particularly suspicious of the tale of sitting with books on their heads for the full two hours). And then, as if on cue, Buddy began snapping at his sisters. Enter wigged-out child number one. After a bit I said, "hey Buddy. I think maybe the tornado warning was a little scary. So watch your words, because it's not your sisters' faults." And Buddy growled that that wasn't it. In fact, he made it very. clear. that he was not afraid of the tornado. Alrighty, then. The snapping continued, so I reminded him that no matter what was on his mind, he had better guard his words so he could avoid consequences for them.

We got home, we spread out, things were quiet. Then we left for Princess's tap class, during which Peanut does her weekly homework. Except, enter wigged-out child number two. For the entire half-hour, Peanut fussed and flailed around on the floor proclaiming ignorance regarding odd and even numbers while I knitted and dropped occasional nuggets like: "please fuss in your level one voice," and, "would you rather lay down on that bench? It seems like this is just too hard right now," and, "since you say you didn't learn this at school, maybe you could write Mrs. O. instead, and suggest she teach you this again." We went home and had dinner, which Peanut decided would be appropriate to eat by sticking her finger in the middle and slurping the soup off it. I did a lovely impromptu puppet show about manners with her spoon, which she apparently did not appreciate, since she gave me full eye-contact while she stuck her finger back into her soup.

Let's just say she was asleep by 6:45.

The rest of the evening went without incident. It is telling of some of the changes beginning around here that Princess was not one of the two-thirds wigged-out children. But when I tucked Buddy into bed, he tried to make me promise that I would make sure Jorge was safe if there ever was a tornado or fire while Buddy was at school. I told Buddy I couldn't promise that, but he could be sure that I would as far as it was possible, because I love Jorge, too. We were silent for a moment, and I said, "were you worried about Jorge during the tornado warning?"

And he curled up again me and shook a little and said, "no, but I couldn't stop thinking about my sisters. I kept thinking I was hearing their voices, but I couldn't go help them."

We talked for a while about all the provisions in place to make sure our family is safe in an emergency, even when we aren't with them.

But I don't take mental health lightly anymore. Later I got down on my knees and praised God for a child who can feel his feelings and trust me with them. For a child who can give and receive love and feel responsibility for others.

My heart is full.

Homework: The Darkness Dispels

Homework.
Homework.
Homework.
Homework.
Homework.
Homework.

Anyone seeing a theme here? Something entitled "Homework Sucks at My House?" I'll tell you right now, my list of complaints about Laundy is waaaaay longer. We'll discuss laundry another time.

September began a new year with a new teacher. I reviewed my options, and selected "proactive" over "let's see what happens." I spoke with Princess's teacher, reviewed Homework Sucks at My House in gory detail, and we developed a plan called Anyone Who Doesn't Turn in Their Homework Thursday Has to Finish it During Recess on Friday. I love this plan, because the main part is Mommy Doesn't Have to Fight About It.

So far, so good. Of course, so far, review work. This week was Rules and Arrows. Now, let me say, I have the utmost sympathy for Princess, because when Buddy came home with this last year, I did not get it. Yep. I am freely admitting that I did not get second grade homework. That was when I started keeping the notes they send home to the parents explaining how to do the math problems. Yep. For instance, this week's note would inform a parent that for this series of numbers: 2 4 6 8, +2 is the rule. So Princess had some trouble, but kept it up until the "challenge" question that involved filling in blanks and figuring out the rule. Blank, 20, 30, blank, 50, blank. Princess decided the rule was +20 and went from there. She worked on it remarkably long without attitude. I sat by her the whole time reading pretending to read a book, and saying only, "check that one," and "show me how you figured out 30+20=20." She started to disintegrate, spouting, "but I did that"s and "I need help." Both secret code for, "where is someone I can trick into doing this for me while making them thinking they're teaching me?" I said satisfying things like, "of course you do! That's why I'm right here," "huh, that didn't work, did it?" and, "I wonder what the problem is."  I found it interesting that she figured out if she counted by tens it came out right, but didn't apply that knowledge far enough to figure out she needed to change her rule. I geared up for the explosion, rehearsing in my head how I'd handle it.

It never came.

Taking a risk, I said, "Hmm. It seems to be working when you count by tens. I wonder what you could change to make that work."

She changed the +20 to +10.

I stared at her. "Princess! Do you know what you just did?"
"What?"
"You finished it! Correctly! Without a fit!"
She stared at me.
"WOO-HOOOOOOO!"

Princess about jumped out of her skin.
Then a h-uge smile spread across her face in slow motion.

Go play.

Privelege

We live in a community that grows a lot of produce. We also have a community of migrant workers. So, every year at right about now, many of my children's friends and classmates move to Florida and return in the spring. Today Princess mentioned that her teacher told them that a classmate had moved to Florida. Buddy said, "Mom, why do some people have to move a lot?" I reminded him that people who pick fruit and vegetables for a job move to wherever the fruit and vegetables are growing; otherwise they wouldn't have any work and wouldn't be able to buy what they need. And Buddy said, "but why don't they just work in a bank, like Daddy?"

When you get a question like that, you have a lot of choices for an answer. It's so tempting to blow it off and give a semi-fake answer, because it's such a difficult subject. Because, why doesn't everyone just work at a nice, steady, year-round, clean, over-the-poverty-line-incomed bank? Because they can't, that's why. Because my children come from a family where both parents have four-year degrees. And that family comes from family that could provide and/or assist that secondary education. Those families have at least two generations behind them that had enough to eat. That weren't worried or afraid on a regular basis. That had warm homes and safety. My children have privelege.

The problem with privilege is that it usually goes unrecognized. I know it's "normal" for children to only see what they don't have comparatively, but I don't want that for them. Especially for Buddy, who has know nothing but minor and temporary inconvenience. Never need. Never fear. I want them to know we have the things we do because we're lucky. Not because we did something right or better than someone else. Lucky. Lucky we come from generations of work ethic. Lucky we haven't felt we'd give our children a better chance by moving to a different country that doesn't speak the language we speak. Lucky we had parents able to care for us and teach us how to function in a society. Lucky we were born where we were born when we were born. That's it. Lucky.

Buddy's questions stopped after I told him what college costs. That gave him something to chew on for a while. But the conversation isn't done. It never is.

Benign Neglect

Until maybe this year, I've identified "gardening" as a hobby (or interest, because people with four kids don't have hobbies). I thought I liked it, but was just really, really bad at it. Recently, though, it occurred to me that I don't like gardening...I like pulling weeds. It's really satisfying after one didn't do all the things one wanted to do when one's daughter tells one that one is not "treating her like (one) wants to be treated." One can do all those things to the weeds instead. But even the weeds get overwhelming after a while, and usually by July I've left the garden to fend for itself.

You'd be surprised what shows up in a garden that's not being actively taken care of.

The last two weeks have stunk. It's hot. It's so humid I can barely breathe. Josh is really busy at work, and we've both been working whenever possible to get the rental ready. The kids fight and gripe constantly. Princess has been off the charts. So, after an enlightening conversation about my psycho controlling intense and hand-on personality, I backed off.

I pretty much did not parent today.

Well, not really- I helped Buddy get ready for his camping trip and took the kids to and from soccer camp and warmed a can of soup fed them lunch and took them to swim and cooked dinner. But other than that, I laid sprawled out on the sofa with my dorky math puzzles (say what you will- they relax me) and ignored the children. If they came to tattle, I said, "oh. Would you like to play next to me?" and they'd leave. They played outside. I said nothing. They fought. I said nothing. They did gymnastics on the stairs. I said nothing while wondering if a trip to the ER would be worth the parenting vacation. And you know what?

They were fine.

Better even. They worked their crap out on their own. They asked me to play a game and they did. I went and got some cherry tomatoes from the neglected garden and shared them.

And now I can breathe through the humidity.

Fighting the Balance of Nature

Everything in nature strives for balance. And apparently the natural balance of my household is five people who use the toilet. Because, of course, just after writing a celebratory post about Princess is the time I discover that Peanut has not been wearing und.erwear.

Why? Because she doesn't have any left.

Friday is usually Kiddo Laundry Day, so in many alternate universes running out of un.derwear would be excusable. It would be excusable in this universe as well, except that in this universe, Peanut has FOURTEEN PAIRS OF UND.ERWEAR.

So, the only conclusion to draw is that she is bringing nature back into balance.

Oddly, I have handled four years of Princess's anti-toilet behavior (mostly) in a stride. But Peanut performing the semi-typical behavior of wetting her pants because she doesn't want to be bothered to stop what she's doing to participate in basic hygiene is making me lose. my..... whatever.

The Und.erwear that Wasn't losing of the whatever happened last night at bedtime. Which, incidentally did not a peaceful bedtime make. This morning when Peanut wanted to get dressed, she asked me for un.derwear. I stared at her. "Peanut, we talked about this last night. You haven't been using the toilet as much as you should so you are OUT OF UND.ERWEAR!!!!"

"But it's morning now."

(Long pause for more staring) "Peanut, how do you think your und.erwear gets clean again? Do you think it dances out of your hamper at night, twirling and pirouetting to Tchaikovsky as it goes, washes and dries itself, and skips back humming a jaunty tune? I DO NOT DO LAUNDRY WHILE I AM SLEEPING!"

Probably a little too sarcastic, I am thinking.

I'll be patiently (cough) sitting two on a potty timer for a while, I guess. Although not at the same time. You can thank me for placing the universe back in harmony.

Parenting the Masses

I had an epiphany this morning. About a lunch box.

I would describe my "real me" parenting style as Permissive Disciplinarian. I'm good at disciplining my children, because I'm good at problem-solving. But once when Buddy was nine months old I expressed my turmoil about whether to pick him up or let him fuss in his exersaucer knowing he wanted to be picked up, and my mom said,

if he starts to act spoiled you can go back and fix it. But you can't go back and hold him more.

So I picked him up. And since, I've really tried to say yes to every reasonable request, even if it wasn't particularly on my agenda.

And then The Girls Came. And my parenting style backfired. I quickly found out this is normal (or what passes for it). I've spent years parenting Buddy and the Cuddle Bear with the Real Me Mom, while the Therapeutic Mom has been parenting Princess and Peanut. Therapeutic Mom looks much more restrictive than Real Me Mom, because Princess and Peanut needed obvious and semi-permanent boundaries, immediate consequences, and lots and lots and LOTS of structure, or they would fall. apart. And it would be BLOODY.

I had to change EVERYTHING to parent them. And they are healing. And changing. Which means what? Change for me. Only I'm too slow on the uptake.

For instance, the lunch box. If the kids take cold lunch to school, they are supposed to empty out their boxes after school and put them away in the designated area. Buddy and Peanut both wanted cold lunch today, so I went to get their boxes and Peanut's wasn't there. Right away I knew where it was, of course: in her backpack. Where it evidently has been for the last three days. And I will admit that part of my decision-making involved my absolute hatred for dumping sour curdled milk out of thermoses. I left it there.

This morning as we were leaving I told Peanut that I couldn't make her lunch because she hadn't cleaned out her backpack, so she'd need to choose a hot lunch. She laughed and showed me her lunch box in her backpack. I said, "I'm sorry, but I can't make you one because you didn't clean it out." Her entire body slacked.

After the kids got on the bus, I came in and looked at the lunch box, and I thought, "did I really need to do that?"

No. I didn't. Yes, she was supposed to take care of it and she didn't, even though she had to look at it every time she opened her bag for three days. Yes, this is something she can do for herself at her age. Yes, natural consequences are a good good thing.

But I know full well I would have found Buddy's lunch box and cleaned it out for him, if it had been him. I cut Buddy a lot of slack because he's well-behaved, loving, and understanding. He usually does what he is supposed to do. The problem is that Peanut has changed, and I haven't changed with her. These days, she does what she's asked to do more often than not. She doesn't tantrum unless there's what I consider "a good reason." She's actually pretty responsible and respectful most of the time. That I now have a habit of being restrictive with her is not her problem.

It's mine.

Culture Clash

I am not so sure Buddy is an American. He seems to have not gotten the memo that you're supposed to amass as much stuff around you in the biggest space you can find to call just yours. When I tell him that in some parts of India 40 or so people would live in our house, you can catch a glimmer in his eye. He seems to think that the main point of a bigger house would be the acquisition of more children (HA!).

When the girls came, the Cuddle Bear was four weeks old and slept in a bassinet in our room. The other two girls shared a bed in a room slightly larger than Buddy's. Later, we moved a crib into Buddy's room. Then a toddler bed. He was in seventh heaven with all these little sisters, especially the Cuddle Bear. Then Cuddle Bear turned two, and we had to move her to a bed in the girls' bedroom to comply with licensing rules. We considered moving her back in later, but she quickly established and claimed her own space in that room, so we let her be. Except.

Every night two extra people appear in our queen-sized bed: Buddy and the Cuddle Bear. It hasn't been a problem until lately, when Josh has had trouble sleeping. And everyone has about this much space (---) to turn over. They both tell us they're too lonely at night. Apparently they prefer a communal sleeping arrangement. Which seems to involve my bed.

One night, Josh picked up a sleeping Cuddle Bear and tossed her into Buddy's bottom bunk. No midnight apparitions appeared in out bed. Nor the next night. Or the one after that.

I guess we were all meant to sleep with someone breathing near us.

When Chickie Pops Attack

As some of you know, I have a problem. So put together the phrases "second grade," and "bake sale," and, well, you can probably guess what happened.

I tried to pass my psychosis to my son.

I poked around a while on the computer looking for bake sale ideas from other psychotic mothers (guess what- there are not as many of us as I thought), and came up with this from Bakerella:

















I figured we'd only have to make, oh, say, four thousand of them at fifty cents a piece to pay a few kids' ways to the end-of-the-year zoo trip. Buddy and I started in, and Josh walked in and said, "wow, fifty cents? When I worked at the hospital, we would have priced those at $2.50."

That's when it really sunk in. Fifty cents. These were going to cost fifty cents.

So I bought some marshmellows and started making Rice Krispie Treats.

Ok, so not exactly just Rice Krispie Treats. More like Rice Krispie Nests With Jelly Bean Eggs in Them. I can't quit cold turkey. It's too much to ask in this stage of my life.

But Buddy was pretty sold on the Chickie Pops by this time, so I couldn't back out entirely. So I did something different.

I had fun.

Usually, I get real cranked up about everything looking perfect and Josh ends up sending the children outside so I can say bad words without corrupting their small minds. But this time Buddy and I ended up laughing so hard we couldn't breathe about how monstrophic some of them turned out (you can't tell by the picture. You'll have to trust me on this one).

And it was totally worth it.

Plus, we have about 64,000 Rice Krispie Nests for sale. Fifty cents each.

This is Your Brain

A variety of comments from Buddy and Peanut over the past week prompted me to consider giving them a class on Princess and Her Brain. I've been avoiding this topic, as Brain Functions was a class I narrowly escaped a D in while in college. Luckily, I just finished The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog. Super good read, buy the way. Highly recommended. In it, the author talks about speaking to an elementary class about this very topic. Also, he includes a handy brain hierarchy chart in the back, plus this nifty way you can hold your hand to show what the brain (sort of) looks like. Last night I started paging through the book getting prepared. Josh looked at me quizzically, then said, "oh I get it. You're going to go way overboard with this, aren't you?"

Why, of course I am. Haven't you known me for 18 years?

This morning, while Princess was paying back three hours of screaming from last night with some peace and quiet upstairs, I sat down with Buddy and Peanut. I made a loose fist and stuck my thumb out and down. I explained that my thumb was the brain stem, and my stacked-up fingers were the midbrain, limbic system, cortex, and neo cortex. I told how we move through the brain as we grow, and told them a little about what each area controls. I showed them where they are (limbic system) and where I am (neocortex, of course!), and then I showed them where Princess is (midbrain), and that's why she has trouble with this and this and this and this. It went pretty well. Buddy even corrected me once when I couldn't remember what part I was talking about.

In fact, it may have gone too well. Because later Peanut and Princess had a (typical, ongoing, and redundant) falling-out over the game Sorry. Exasperated, Peanut waved her fist in the air, stuck out her thumb and yelled, "you know where YOU are, Princess? You are RIGHT HERE!!!"

She was pointing to her midbrain finger.

Parenting the Second Middle

In my opinion, Peanut's birth position has a lot to to with her behavior, which can be best described as "HEY! LOOK AT ME!" But her birth position also has a lot to do with the way she gets parented.

When Buddy was her age, if he had a concern I would focus my attention fully on him, give him social and scientific evidence to back up my stance on the outcome of his concern, and possibly pull a video up from the internet to further support my claim.

Peanut gets: "here's a cup."

She got an eyelash in her eye during dinner last night. And I really did try. I did. I told her how incredibly unlikely it would be for her eyeball to fall out. I told her it would be the first time doctors ever saw such a thing. I did. But she just would not let. it. go.

She got up from dinner and went to stare at her eyeball in the mirror. Then came running out frantically to tell me that her eyeball was shaking. I tried to explain her eyeball was shaking from the strain of staring at itself in the mirror, but apparently this was not considered plausible information. So, I handed her a cup. I told her if it fell out, to put it in there so it didn't get lost, and I would put it back in after she woke in the morning. She walked around for the rest of the evening with the cup clamped tightly over her eye.

I'm not sure I would even have thought anymore about the incident, except for the unfortunate coincidence of Josh playing with a voice recorder at the same time. He said, laughing, "come listen." And there, recorded for all posterity (and for my daughter to play for her therapist as an adult) was Peanut frantically obsessing about her eye falling out while she slept and me calmly, with a slight sound of exhaustion, saying, "so go get your cup."





"The purpose of parenting is to give you child a reason to leave home and something to work out with their therapist."
-Dr. S.

It Takes Two to Argue

I am not an argumentative person. I might give you a piece of my mind, but I rarely argue. Peanut happens to have a gift, though; the gift of Provocation. I am convinced that child could get Ghandi to bite.

I was tired after swim lessons yesterday, and Peanut was performing her weekly ritual of Dance Around the Locker Room Naked. I asked her twice to get dressed, then told her that if I saw her buck naked doing anything that did not involve to process of wearing clothing, I would dress her and then she would sit. In one place. I turn around a moment later, and her naked hiner is in the air while she folds her towel on the locker room floor. I dress her. She sits. Pretty soon she is so distraught by attention not being centered on her that she declares loudly and emphatically, "DINOSAURS ONCE LIVED RIGHT HERE IN THIS VERY SPOT UNDER THIS CEMENT BENCH!"

I don't know what possessed me. I really don't. I was tired. I was hungry. My defenses were down. And I said,

"you have no way of knowing that dinosaurs lived underneath the bench in the Covert Public High School Girls' Auxillary Locker Room."

Why? Why would I do such a thing?

Now, in my defense, this child is deeply in tune with people's "buttons." I am fairly sure that more than one sub has cried herself to sleep at night. There is a parapro in her classroom that looks at her sideways each day to assess her mood. One of the high school student volunteers is forbidden to speak to her, because every time he does she provokes him to the point of fury. She is good. But I should know better.

So we had a knock-down drag-out fight in the high school hallway about dinosaurs. I'm sure I showcased my parenting skills nicely. And I couldn't even stop myself there. In the car on the way home the other kids were talking about how much they like swim lesson, and when Peanut growled, "I hate swim lessons," I actually said, and I quote, "no, you just hate being wrong about dinosaurs." Can you believe it? I bow my head in parental shame.

The worst part? Josh claims that dinosaurs did likely live in this area, so as far as I know there actually are dinosaur remains under that bench. Josh thinks I should apologize. But if I did that, then I'd have to apologize for last year's fight about Whether One Can Play Soccer in the Snow. And that's not happening.

Sticky Fingers

Actually, I'm pretty surprised this happened for the first time yesterday, considering the Cuddle Bear is the youngest of four. She's been toying with the idea for quite a while, but has not yet completely pulled it off. She finally did it.

The Cuddle Bear shoplifted.

She and I had gone into a gift shop to buy an item Buddy had been saving for. Then we went to the Social Security office (barely-related note: children adopted out of foster care are at very high risk for identity theft). First, she walked up to the flag and recited the Pledge of Allegiance and sang "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Then, she worked the room and learned everyone's name, age, make of car, and profession. Finally, she sat down next to me and softly patted her pocket with a dreamy and contented look on her face.

"What have you got in your pocket?"
"Nofing."
What is it?"
"Nofing! No peeking. No peeking! No peeking! No Mommy! I said no peeking! NOOOOOOOO!"

It was a shiny, sparkly, bejeweled Christmas ornament. And, by the gift shop price tag, quite a pricey one.

"CUDDLE BEAR! This is not yours! You took it without asking. We'll have to take it back."
"No."
"YES!"

We finished at the Social Security office (new numbers in four weeks) and drove back to the gift shop. The back of the Suburban was unusually silent. We parked.

"I no want to go in."
"I'm sorry. It's not a choice. We're going in. You're going to give the lady the pretty, and you're going to say, 'I took this without asking. It was wrong."

"I no want to say that."
"Oh well."

We went in. The Cuddle Bear bowed her head, extended the arm with the ornament, and walked toward the manager. The manager said, "what do you have there?" The Cuddle Bear's face contorted, and she wailed,

"I TOOK this!"

The manager got down next to her and said, "oh. And you know that's wrong, don't you?"

(snuffle snuffle snort snuffle) "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!!" Tears stream down her face as she sobs.

We went back out to the car with the Cuddle Bear doing the twitchy thing she does after she cries.

"That didn't feel very good, did it Cuddle Bear."
"No. My head felt all shaky inside and I fot I was going to fall down."




Good.

It's Not Fair

The Cuddle Bear climbs in bed with us every night, which means she gets up when I do and we have a few minutes of just us and a cup of coffee first thing each morning. Week day mornings I choose everyone's breakfast to cut down on the before-school chaos, and today it was pancakes. Every month we order a box of food from this co-op (sort of), Angel Food Ministries, and this time there was a bunch of heat-and-serve pancakes in it. We don't eat a whole lot of processed or prepared food, so obviously the kids were chomping at the bit to suck these down. But the Cuddle Bear pulled out a box of Raisin Bran. I told her we were having pancakes, and to please put the cereal back. To my surprise, her little face crumpled, tears began to roll, and she wailed, "but I want Raisin Bran! It's not faaaaaaaair! I don't WANT pancakes." She went on while I empathized in my best "too bad for you" voice when she came out with, "I want CHOCOLATE pancakes!"

A-ha. See, here's the thing. Three months ago, the Cuddle Bear began breaking out in terrible hives whenever she ate chocolate or used cocoa butter products. We went to the allergist, but he couldn't tell what food allergies she had by the usual scratch test because- guess what? The Cuddle Bear is also apparently allergic to cuts and abrasions. Her skin releases hystamine and she scratches herself into a case of hives. Then, a blood test turned up that she is also allergic to dairy and egg whites.

Don't get me wrong. I know this is not a big, life-altering deal. But I feel so BAD. She's three. She's a trooper. But I was at a Golden Arches birthday party with Princess yesterday thinking, if this were the Cuddle Bear, there would not be a thing here she could have. Except apple juice. And the fries, I guess. We try to make her changes "special." And she hasn't complained. Until this morning.

And I. Can't. Fix it.

Buddy and the Bus

I have such mixed feelings about school. Even long before we were married, Josh and I both like the idea of home education. I love the idea of "unschooling," of moving at our own pace, of spending our time doing more interesting things than waiting, waiting, waiting.

But.

The girls came right at the time we needed to make decisions about school for Buddy. We were licensed for two foster children, were expecting one, and ended up with three. Buddy was not quite five. The girls were 3, 20 months, and 4 weeks old. We were waaaaaaaaay overwhelmed. I am actually missing memories from that first six months. I felt like I just couldn't wrap my mind around teaching Buddy at home. I don't excuse or defend it.

I've been happy. I'm involved at the school, the teachers and principal are WONDERFUL. I could write for a year on their kindergarten teacher alone.

And today it happened.

I was working on a project while keeping a sick Buddy company. Looking at his freezy pop he said, "Mom, what does 's*it' mean? I told him, adding that it was not a word I ever wanted to hear crossing his lips. "Oh no, Mom. Just to ask you. I wasn't planning to say it again."

I don't feel angry, or like pulling them out of school. I'm not even really upset about it, which surprised me a little. I prefer to keep my children away from all the garbage out there. We only watch PBS and movies. We only listen to one radio channel and pre-loaded MP3 players. We're careful who we associate with and whom they spend time with. But I guess I don't really need them to be protected from everything all the time. I'm ok with, "thanks for asking. This is what it means. We don't say it. I prefer you don't, too."

That said, middle school makes me feel uncomfortable. I have my eye on a great private school in the area. I have two more years to figure out how to convince them to let my children go there for free or $5 a month. I'm working on it.

We take it a year at a time. We pray unceasingly. We keep our eyes and our minds open.

The Parenting Litmus Test

Once upon a time I was a college student studying human development. One of my classes required observing a kindergarten room. I sat and took notes as I watched a buzzing room of short people participate in "centers." Two children were assigned the "house area," which consisted of a pretty cool playhouse and some play food. I watched, fascinated, as a small girl informed a small boy that he was the dad, and directed him to lay on the sofa. Then she left the playhouse, and re-entered blazing with the fury of 10,000 fiery horses screaming, "ALL YOU EVER DO IS LAY ON THE SOFA!!! WHY DON'T YOU GET UP FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE AND GET!!! A!!! JOB!!!!!!"

As a direct result of this experience, I get a knot in my stomach whenever my crew prepare to play house, or "play Sweetie," as it's called here. I figure their "Sweetie" play is probably a good indicator of the quality of my parenting interactions, so my ears perk up, but I'm usually still left mystified in the end. Earlier on, when I was completely overwhelmed, it was a little more clear. I'd hear things like, "I TOLD you to pick that up. WHY didn't you pick it up? Pick it up NOW!" and I cringe and try to pay more attention to my voice. But things have calmed down, so it's harder to know. For instance, the game's name: Sweetie. "Sweetie" is kind of my generic name for whomever I'm talking to, especially when it's a mild correction, ("Sweetie, Lincoln Logs are not for your belly button," for instance). So, when they walk around with their dolls calling each other Sweetie, should that be telling me that maybe they think I don't know their names? I can't make up my mind. And most of the play involves getting ready to go somewhere. Which really is mostly what we do. Is that a problem I should address?

But I guess in the end I'm comforted. It's kind of a check-in with myself. They debate about who gets to be "Kerrie" (as opposed to who has to be "Kerrie"), and they generally use polite voices with each other. So I think we're ok.