Princess Revisted: A New Line in the Sand

Sometimes, the best choice is surrender.

Last week, the kids emptied their piggy banks to buy scooters at Target.  The toddler scooter, the kind that won't tip over when your two-year-old daughter rides it, came in exactly one color.  Princess.

Cate didn't want a princess scooter.  She just wanted a scooter.  Like her brothers', but without the falling over.  I had no meaningful choice.  I bought a princess scooter.

But, I think I'm at peace with it.

A few weeks ago, I wrote of my distaste for all things princess, and her marketing half-sister, the fairy.  I used terms of disdain, and questioned their moral character.  I stand by that.  But, I have new information.

Cinderella Ate My Daughter, a new book by Peggy Orenstein, is an actual, intellectual discussion of this very topic.  It turns out, the whole princess thing might not be so evil.  It might, in fact, be normal.

I haven't actually read the book.  (Hardback, expensive, too time consuming.)  But, I read the review in People Magazine.  (Glossy, quick read, includes celebrity baby news.)  According to the review, Orenstein puts it like this:  Little girls don't know that gender is immutable.  They could turn into boys at any moment.  Clinging to princess culture is their way of telling the world, "I'm a girl, and I want to keep it that way, thank you very much."  They don't care about subtext.  They just want to wear a pretty dress.

This makes sense to me; or it may be a load of bunk.  Who knows for sure?  The blurb in People Magazine  did not reference any research or sources.  (Shoddy reporting!  Not what one would expect from a publication with Snookie on the cover.)  But, I'm comforted by the idea that one Ariel costume and a tiara does not mean my little girl is doomed to a life of unhappy relationships and an eating disorder.

I still don't want to buy Cinderella home-decor.  (Or, have it given to my daughter as a gift.  Do you hear that grandparents, aunts, and cookie ladies from church?)  But, it is getting harder and harder to avoid all things princess.   We even bought a copy of Beauty and the Beast, because the dancing tea pot is classic, and, as Hubband pointed out, "Belle is not a princess until the end."  A distinction without a difference, I know.  Cate spent the first half of the movie asking, "Why frincess sad, Mommy.  Why frincess sad?"  Yes, she says, "F-rincess."

I cannot win this one.  Not really.  So, I give up.  Do you hear that Disney?  I surrender.  I am waving my white flag.  Until Barbie tries to snatch it out of my hands to wear as a slutty halter top.  Then it's on, baby!

The first picture is from the blog Disney Princess Recovery.  

I went to steal borrow steal the picture,

(Which she stole from Disney, so I feel no shame.  

Though the moral relativism is making me dizzy.) 

and decided to follow.  

I have only poked around a little, but it is an interesting read so far, 

if you want to go and check it out.

Big Boy

And, Samuel-palooza continues...

Sam is a big boy.  He is poop-in-the-potty big.  He is stay-dry-through-the-night big.  He is get-himself-dressed big.  (See above.)

We played the "big boy" card so often while trying to get him to do those things, that he now thinks he is make-his-own-bedtime big, drive-the-car big, run-for-President big.

Me:  No, Samuel.  You may not have that [permanent marker].  That's not for little boys.

Sam:  I am a big boy.

Me:  Not big enough.

Sam:  But, I pooped in the restaurant potty.

How can I even start to explain this to him?

Saturday Morning Sociology Lesson

Spend a Saturday morning in my house, and you may learn all you need to know about human nature and the history of man.

Around here, most weekday mornings are a whirlwind of shoes and socks, toothbrushes and hairbrushes, breakfasts half eaten and cups of coffee gone cold.  While Jonah, our eldest, is homeschooled, the other two are not.  Samuel is in school every morning, and Cate is in three mornings a week.  So, pointed in the same direction, we must all be, toward the garage, and the magical grr-woosh of the mini-van door, by 8:30-ish, sharp.

Sundays are the same, except breakfast is bigger, and our destination is church.

It is on Saturdays that things relax, or fall apart, depending on the day and the moods of the children (or their parents, but I admit nothing).  On Saturdays, one of us (whoever lost the Friday night negotiations) gets out of bed, pours cereal and turns on cartoons.  Then goes back to bed, for another thirty minutes of sleep, if we are really, really lucky.  This leaves the children alone.  With each other.  And no supervision.  We are not the kind of parents who hover, but on Saturday mornings, we just let chaos reign.  We think it is good for them.  They learn to stand up for themselves and resolve their own disputes.  At least that is our story.  And if we get to sleep until seven o'clock -- yes, I said seven, like that is late in the day or something -- then what could be the harm, really?

For the last few Saturdays their battle of choice has been over what I call the "four sided piano."  This is a small table like contraption, with a different noise making device on each side.  Only one side is a fake piano.  The other sides are a fake computer, a fake phone, and a fake book.  A book that plays music.  They all play music, I only mention the book because it seems odd to me.  A book that plays a different song with every turn of the page.  Strange, right?

The four sided piano is only the battle ground.  The actual fight is over whose song is going to get played.  You see, every key, button, page turn overrides that one right before it.  So, Jonah might only get to hear four notes of "Froggy Went A-Courtin'" before Cate pushes a button and "Turkey in the Straw" comes on, for a split second, before Sam pushes a button and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," (Or is  it "The ABC Song"? I always get those two mixed up.) comes on.

Last Saturday, I happened to witness this.  So, I decided to parent.  I went over, sat on the floor next to the four sided piano, and calmly explained to my children that they were going to take turns.  Cate first, since technically, it is her toy.  She pushed a button.  She heard her song.  Then Jonah pushed a button.  He danced a jig to his song.  Then Sam pushed a button, and shook his booty to his song.  And, repeat.  It worked really well.  For about one and half times around.  Once they had to take turns, it stopped being fun.  I kept offering them their turn, but they didn't care anymore.

And then I realized:  They did not want the toy.  They wanted the fight.

This mom thing is pretty awesome.  By simply watching my own children, I was able to sum up human nature and de-mystify centuries of history.  All before I'd had my coffee.

Here is Samuel, dancing at the four legged piano, 

encouraged by his brother Jonah.  

If you are wondering why he is not facing the camera, 

it is because he is looking at this reflection in the fireplace.  

Oh, and excuse the mess.  

Until you have walked a mile with my kids, 

you can not judge.

The Ballad of Yes and No

Don't let the pink smile and dewy eyes fool you.  She's a menace.

This is how it starts. 

Sam, 4, will be playing quietly.  Just minding his own business. 

Cate, 2, will sidle up beside him.  She doesn't start in right away.  She picks her moment. 

Then, with no fanfare and for no particular reason, she says, "No, Sam." 

Then Sam, for no particular reason, loses his mind, and screams.  "Yes!  Not no. Yes."

No.  Yes!  No.  Yes!  No.  YES.  No!  YES.  NO.  YES.  NO.  YES.  NO.  YES.  NO.  YES.  NO.  YES. 

Then, the crescendo.  Simultaneously, pitch perfect, and at top volume.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES

My children are loud--warning siren loud--with amazing lung capacity.  They may even have the crazy circular breathing of brass players and opera singers.  But, I hope to never find out.  About three seconds in, their father or I, and sometimes both, simultaneously, holler...

STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!

I don't know which is worse.  The noise, or that fact that I have a two-year-old daughter who knows how to push her brother's buttons, and does it for fun.

Die Princess, Die!

The Disney princesses will, if you let them, swallow your life, and regurgitate Chinese-sewn polyester costumes, Cinderella home decor, and low self-esteem.  That is why, when I was pregnant with Catherine, my first and only daughter, I issued an edict from on high.  There would be no princess crap.

Two and a half year later, that edict has not been broken.  Mostly.  There was one pair of pajamas bearing a frog princess which sneaked in.  And her Grandma gave her a tiara with a flowing veil for Christmas.  I considered this more of a dress up item, (and it was just adorable), so it slid in too.  Until Catie woke up with a yard of tulle wrapped around her neck.  Twice.  It has, sadly, been put up, and only gets to make guest appearances for now.

But, my edict, and the resolve with which it was issued, are quivering under the weight of the Disney marketing machine and my daughter's unrelenting cuteness.

My mother gave, also for Christmas, bed tents with Disney characters on them.  In a valiant and much appreciated (though ultimately futile) attempt to keep princesses out of my house, she gave Catie one with Tinkerbell and friends.  No harm in that, right?

Wrong.

Catie calls them "princess" anyway!  "My princess bed.  My princess pillow."  Where did she even learn the word princess?

My ban was meant to avoid unintentionally sending the message that beauty is a girl's only value and catching a man her only needed skill.  It was meant to keep advertisers from turning my own daughter against me, because I did not want to spend money, or my aesthetic integrity, on Beauty and the Beast sheets.   My ban should have been extended to fairies too.

Fairies, it seems, are the new princesses.  But with wings.  More makeup and fewer clothes.  And, instead of waiting around for a strong, lantern-jawed man to save then (which is nice), they have done away with men all together (not nice).  Tiny waisted, man-hating tarts!  Not, not nice.

And marketing, is marketing.

A few weeks ago we were in an unfamiliar market.  One where I did not know, instinctively, which aisles to avoid for fear of arousing my children's lust for sugar and artificial food coloring.  As we zipped down the "fruit snack" aisle, we passed a box of artificially flavored gummy pieces in a box bearing the faces of the Disney fairies.  Catie saw that box blur by, and started to squeal.  "Mine.  Mine.  Have it!  Have it!"  She did not even know what "it" was, but boy was she mad at me for not stopping to buy it.

I think it is time to introduce her to "Dora, the Explorer."  Hola!

The Holy Trinity According to Jonah

Jonah and Sam have a castle (complete with dragon), and a pirate island (complete with sea serpent), both well populated by little knights and sailors.  Hard, oddly shaped, painful-when-stepped-on, little knights and sailors.  The other night, after I almost trod upon Sir Angus at the foot of Samuel's bed, I reminded them, "Boys, you need to make sure all of your castle pieces get picked up or you are going to lose them."

To which Jonah replied, "Mom, we don't care about those.  We only care about video games, Legos, and God."

God was not an after thought, which is good, but He only got third billing. And, Jonah was totally lying when he said he didn't care about his castle pieces, he was just too lazy to pick them up.  (Mother hangs head in shame, on both counts.)

The Delicate Art of Discipline, and Baby's First Sentence

There comes a time in every girl's life, when she needs to be popped in the mouth.  My daughter is only two, but her time has come.  Does this make her some kind of prodigy?

"This works as a tiara, right?

Princess Defiant has taken to making "raspberry" sounds at me when she does not like what I have to say.  She presses her two little lips together and, well, spits at me basically.  Queen Who-shall-not-be-defied (that would be me) can not tolerate this.  Obviously.

Immediate action was required.

She spit at me.  I got in her face down at her level and told her, calmly, but emphatically, "No!"

She did it again.  Harder.  I took too fingers, and swatted her lips.  Still calm.  "No!"

She did it again.  Not as hard.  I swatted her lips.  "No!"

She did it again.  But, not really.  Only about half way.  Barely a sputter really.  Mostly just a gesture to show me she was not going to obey.  But she was fading.  I swatted her lips.  "No!"

Then she slapped at me and sort of grunted.  I slapped her hand and said, "No!"

She did it again.  I slapped her hand.  "No!"

She did it again.  Barely a twitch of the hand this time.  But defiance, nonetheless.  I slapped her hand.  "No!"

Then she stuck her tongue out.  Oh.  Okay.  So she wants to be popped in the mouth some more.  I swatted her tongue.  Still very calm.  "No!"

She did that three times too, losing steam each time.

Then she said it.  Her first sentence.  In defeat, arms submissively at her side, she said, as politely as one could, "Go away, Mommy."

Fair enough.  She used her words instead of spitting, hitting, or sticking her tongue out.  And, I had been in her face quite a while.  So, I kissed her on the head, and went away.

Yes, my two year old daughter told me to go away and I went.  But, I won this one, and she and I both know it.

Fly me to the Moon

A child's capacity from imaginative play is boundless.

Jonah and Samuel have devised games called things like Sneak and Throw, Star Stealer, and Astro Boy.  As far as I can tell, they are just creative names (and excuses) for wrestling,

jumping on the beds,

and throwing pillows at each other. 

All of which are allowed in our house (well, in the boys' bedroom), because I am the mother of two active boys and one daredevil of a daughter.  What else are they going to do? 

Life in Rear View

Yesterday, the kids and I had to wait in our car for awhile.  I was listening to the radio and they were doing...I did not know what they were doing, because I was not paying attention.

It was a few minutes before I realized that the noise from the back seat (which is constant) was not the usual pushing, whining and bickering.  They were laughing.

I adjusted my mirror so I could watch.  They were making silly faces at each other.  One would "create" the face, the others would copy it.  When they caught me looking, I had to play too.  This was so much better than whatever was on the radio.  Why don't I pay more attention?

It was getting warm in the car, and the windows fogged up so that we were in our own insulated world.  Happy for no reason, except that we were together and acting silly. 

At some point, all that happiness made me weepy.  I sat in the front seat of my car, looking at my children in the rear view mirror, and I willed life to go in slow motion.  Because, I knew.  I knew that soon, the moment would be gone.  Soon, we would have to get out of the car.  Soon, they would grow up.  Soon, sibling time may be limited to Christmas and funerals. Soon, my children won't be.

And sure enough, soon, they were back to their normal contentious backseat behavior.  But, I hold on to that moment.  I savor it.  For me, of course, but also for them.  Because they don't know what they're missing.

[The photo above was taken last summer]

I Am a Complete Failure As a Mother

I am a complete failure as a mother.  I have a few accomplishments, it's true, but none of them are in this house.

Last year at Catherine's first birthday party, I ran out of room on the memory card in my camera.  I had three pictures.  Of her FIRST birthday!

I am a complete failure as a mother.

As I mentioned, Sam's birthday was yesterday.  Not wanting to repeat this particular failure, I made a point of getting to Wal-mart on Tuesday, to get a CD printed of all of the pictures on my memory card, so that I could erase them, and have room for 220 more pictures on the morning of Sam's birthday.  At the time, this felt like a Mother-of-the-Year worthy accomplishment.  I took a few breakfast pictures (the ones I posted here yesterday) and left the card in my computer.  I showed up at Sam's school at lunch time with two dozen Lightening McQueen cupcakes and no memory card in my camera.

I am a complete failure as a mother.

And, in my eagerness to be on top of every detail of Samuel's birthday, (at which I failed, by the way), I forgot to pack Jonah's water bottle for school.  He had to drink out of the drinking fountain.

Complete failure.

Today, there was no birthday.  No cupcakes or camera required.  I almost forgot to pack Jonah's snack and water bottle, but I didn't.  As we were headed out the door, I put his water bottle in the side pocket of his back pack, and I was about to toss an apple in there, when I remembered that Jonah doesn't really like apples, unless they are cut up.  Not having time for that, I gave the kid a banana.  He loves bananas.  Back in Mother-of-the-Year mode.

Then, on the walk to school, Jonah asks me, "Mom, did you remember my apple?"

"No, hon.  I didn't have time to cut it up , so I gave you a banana instead."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"What?  Why are you stopping?"

Nothing.  He wouldn't even look out from underneath his hat.

"What!?"

"I can't bring a banana to Johnny Appleseed Day?" he wailed.

Oh, carp (that troublesome fish)!  His class is making applesauce for Johnny Appleseed Day today.  And I forgot.  I completely forgot.  I sent the kid to school with a banana on Johnny Appleseed Day.  He was heartbroken. 

I am a complete failure as a mother.

When we got to class, he didn't ask for a kiss or a hug before going in like he usually does.  He just said, "Bye, Mom,"  and gave me a brokenhearted little wave.

Okay, this is ridiculous, I thought.  He is not going to be the only kid in there without an apple.  I can not be the only complete-failure-as-a-mother there is.  Right?

Right!  Mrs. Whitfield has been teaching kindergarten for two hundred and forty one years.  She taught Johnny Appleseed himself.  She had extra apples, of various varieties.  (Teachers rock!)  The apple-less children, of whom there were many, could take their pick.

I called Jonah over, and explained this to him.  Then I helped him pick out an apple.  I apologized sincerely.  Forgetting his apple was not the biggest mistake I will ever make.  And, not having an apple on Johnny Appleseed Day will not be his biggest disappointment.  But, I was sincerely sorry that I had causes a little emotional drama right before school.  The whole thing might seem ridiculous to us, but these things can be a big deal to kids, and it takes a little time to recover.  What a horrible way to start the school day.

"Can you forgive me?"  I asked.

"Of course, Mom." he said, as he gave me a big hug.  "I can always forgive you.  You know that."

Hmm.   Maybe I'm not a complete failure.

Crazy Stuff Jonah Has Said

Jonah, practicing anonymity.

 Our oldest is growing up.  Jonah has, since birth, been very distinctly his own person.  Only now, he is beginning to know it.  Soon, all of the crazy stuff he says and does, which I find so hilarious and blog-worthy, is going to belong to him.  Out of respect for the individual he is, I must stop writing about him.  He will be six in January, and I think that will be the cut off.  But, don't worry, I have two more cute and funny kids to steal material from, while they are still too young to protest.

And, January is four months away!  So, today I bring you Crazy Stuff Jonah Has Said.

"Mom, I love you more than a giant eel with teeth."

"Don't say 'butt head' to a five year old 'cuz he's just gunna say it back."

"Mom, you are wonderful.  You are like a flower to me."

When I serve cheese sandwiches, he calls them "prison food."

When I found him in his room, wrapped in a quilt buried under an upturned laundry basket (with the laundry still in it) I asked him what he was doing.  "Having a think."  He thought like that for two hours.  I kept checking to see if he went to sleep.  Nope.  "Still thinking, Mom."  Finally, wondering if this was some cry for attention, I went in and sat with him.  After a few minutes, I asked him what he was thinking about.  He had this elaborate story about knights and robots and a baby and some kid of battle.  The boy was actually in there thinking.

Mom:  I love you so much.  You have no idea.
Jonah:  That's not true.  I have lots of ideas.

Jonah:  What do paleontologists study?
Mom:  Dinosaurs.
Jonah:  Not anymore.  The dinosaurs are all dead.

Well, that's all I can come up with today.  But, don't worry, I will try to get as much posted before the deadline.  And if you are worried that Jonah's future precociousness will go undocumented, don't be.  I keep a private blog just for him, because I know that when he gets past the self-consciousness of being him, he is going to want to read all of this stuff.

The Mother Who Doesn't Know Anything About Kids

Jonah, Swinging in the September sun

I can't remember exactly when it started, but some time, about three weeks ago, my five-year-old son, Jonah, decided I am a mother who doesn't know anything about kids.  This is not a description.  It is a name.  As in, "Jonah, do you need to go the bathroom before we leave?"  "No, Mother-who-doesn't-know-anything-about-kids.  If I needed to go to the bathroom, I'd go."

For the record, neither of those things are true.  He often fails to go, even if he needs to, hence the reminder.  And, I do know a few things about kids.  Especially this kid.  Like, how he will call names to get attention.  (He's also taken to calling his little sister One-butt, which really isn't all that insulting if you think about it, so I figure it must just be an opportunity to say, "butt.")  So, I was left to wonder.  What kind of attention is it that he needs?

Then the guessing game began.

"Mom, do you know what my favorite animal ever is?"
"No."
"Guess."
"Kangaroo?"
"No.  Guess."
"Zebra?"
"No.  Guess."
"Monkey?"
"That's right.  Monkey is my favorite animal ever.  And, horse and dog.  Cat, not so much."

This happens fifteen to twenty times a day now.  If you think this sounds like fun (you don't), it isn't.  He has asked me the same question a few times, like, "Mom, do you know what my favorite food is?"  But, he changes the answer.  Or there is no right answer.

"Mom, do you know what my favorite food is?"
"Pizza?"
"Yes.  But no, not that one.  Guess."
"Ice cream?"
 "Yes.  But, no, not that one.  Guess."

Are you beginning to see how this works?

Then it got really obnoxious.

"Mom, do you know what my favorite place in the whole world is?"
"No."
"Guess."
"Nana's house?"
"No.  But you're close.  Guess."
"Grandma and Grandpa's house?"
"No.  But, you're getting better at this.  You just need to practice.  Guess."

And, my all time favorite:  "Mom, do you know what my favorite color is?"  It turns out, he can not pick just one, so, "tie-dye" is the correct answer.

Children may not come with a manual, there may be no text book answers, but, make no mistake, there will be a test.

Does Jonah really think that I don't know him?  Does he worry that I don't care what his favorite color is (or, in his case, isn't)?  Or is he trying to figure out for himself who he is, and I am just along for the (excruciatingly tedious) ride?  I have no idea, and I may never.  Were you hoping that there was some tidy little end to this story? Yeah, me too.

Since I can't figure out what he needs (don't think there is not guilt in this, because there is) I have decided to indulge him in a few things he wants.

I played Mario Kart with him, though not very well.  "You just need to practice," he told me.

I played LEGO's with him.  We built a tower so tall that his flying machine could take off from the top of it.  He built the flying machine from plans by DaVinci that he saw in a book on the Italian Renaissance he is reading with his daddy.

I went out for ice cream with him, because he did all of his "responsibilities" this week.

"Mom, do you know who my favorite person in the whole world is?"

Oh, no.  He's asked this one before.  Think, think, think.  Then, before I can answer, he says,

"You."

There Was an Old Woman Who Swallowed a Book

This weekend, I bought a book.  I paid actual cash money.  And then, I read that book.  In great, big, gulps.  Hubband pointed out that paying $26 for a book, and then reading it in as many hours, was a waste of money.  I should at least make it last awhile.  But, I just couldn't.

The book was The Nobodies Album by Carolyn Parkhurst.

I read one of Parkhurst's earlier novels, Lost and Found, and I loved it.  I was so engaged that I cried by page eight (though the novel itself is not a big weeper).  Her writing style is such that, to my brain at least, the book sort of read itself.  And, she has a way of making even unlikeable characters sympathetic.  I found myself thinking about the book, even when I was not reading it.  I think the word is resonance.  I liked it so much, I wrote her a fan letter.  And she wrote back.  (Note to all you writers:  If you answer your fan mail you will sell books, even if it is only one at a time.)  So, I was eager to read her follow up.

The narrator of The Nobodies Album is Octavia Frost,  a successful writer, who has just finished her eighth novel, also called The Nobodies Album.  Octavia's fictional version is not really a novel at all, but a revision of the endings of her previous seven books.  She thinks this is ground breaking and revolutionary, but it is really just what it sounds like.  Weird.

As the novel opens (the real novel, not the fictional one written about within it) Octavia is in New York to deliver the book to her publisher.  In person.  This is a quirk that no one finds particularly charming, not even Octavia, but, as she puts it, "My idiosyncrasies are my right, and as long as everyone does me the courtesy of not mocking them to my face, we'll all get along fine."  Though I respect her attitude on this, (and I love the line), I am pretty sure I dislike this woman by page two, but as I mentioned, Parkhurst has a way of manipulating me fleshing out a character.  She also has a way of sneaking up on me, and wrenching my heart out, but more on that later.

Octavia Frost is a woman who has lost one child to tragedy and another to estrangement.  A woman whose rock-star son just got arrested for the murder of his girlfriend.  A writer who thinks that if she can re-write her novels, she can re-write her life.  A woman trying to get the butter, back out of the cookie dough.  (If you read the book, that last one will make sense.)

So, that's the set up.  But, what is the book about, you ask.  Well, hold on.  I'm going to tell you. 

The Nobodies Album is about how quickly the mother/child bond can go from latched on to disengaged to completely estranged, leaving the mother, at least, wondering, "When did this happen?  Where did I go wrong?"   Or, as Octavia puts it, "I don't know where the magic line might have been.  That's how it is with children, or at least how it's been with mine:  you have chances and chances and chances.  And then you have none."

It is a cautionary tale for any mother, like me, who has ever thought, "I can't wait until this baby is weened," or "I can't wait until his father gets home," or "I can't wait for school to be back in."  What are we so eager to get to, exactly?  The day they leave for college?  The first Christmas they would rather spend somewhere else?  The day when we are sitting in an old folks home, complaining that they never call?  As one of Octavia's characters puts it, "All children are lost, eventually."  We have to be careful not hasten that eventuality.

If you are a mother, and you don't get at least a little bit misty eyed by this book, you are made of stone, and it is no surprise that your kids never call.

That's the heavy stuff.  There is also a murder mystery (If you read it, I want to know when you figured out who dunnit.), some insightful truths about the world since the internet, and an amusing look at how easy it is to get even a bad book in print, if you are also willing to sell your soul, and write about your celebrity-criminal son.  And, it's funny, in a tragicomic, real life, sort of way, which is always nice.

So, would I recommend that you read The Nobodies Album.  Absolutely.  And, Ms. Parkhurst isn't even my cousin or anything.

Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell

This summer, Leah, from The Weather in the Streets, shared a poignant story from her childhood.  It happened to be about hell.  Well, in part.  Leah is Jewish.  I don't know the Jewish theology on the subject, but her mother told her that "hell is a story made up to scare people into behaving." 

Hmm.  This really got me thinking, about hell, the nature of faith and God, and how, in the end, this might apply to parenting.

Just as I am not a Jewish theologian, neither am I Christian one, though I am a Christian.  The Bible is very clear that the punishment for sin is death.  Death.  Not, hell.  But hell is in there too, so...  Well, I admit, I am not completely clear on the subject.  This is where I refer you back to my disclaimer at the beginning of the paragraph.

Does this mean the I believe hell is made up?  Well, in the same Bible, Jesus himself talks of God being able to condemn one to hell, so I am going to have to go with the it existing.  Though, it is true that it has, throughout history, been used just the way Leah's mother described it.

As a child growing up, it was mentioned much more by people who wanted me to act a certain way, than it is in scripture.  And lets face it, history is full of entire civilizations being manipulated with the fear of eternal damnation.

This got me thinking some more.  Scary, I know.

Faith, or obedience for that matter, based on a fear of hell, is not faith at all, but extortion.  Just as faith, based solely on the promise of heaven, is bribery.  I consider my personal faith to be based on neither.  They factor in, of course, but I believe in Jesus as Savior because of a personal relationship I have with Him, through prayer and scripture, and the million little ways he speaks to me everyday, if I bother to pay attention.  I love God because He first loved me.  I "behave" (to the extent that I do) because I want to please Him.  And I have tried to pass this sense of relationship onto my children.  I have never once invoked hell to them, and we talk of heaven as a place we go when we die, not a place we go if we are good.

This got me thinking some more.

If God is my father, and this is the relationship I have with Him, how might this translate to my relationship with my own children?  Hmm.  (That's the noise I make when I think.)  I have come to the conclusion that, while correction, discipline, punishment, and even bribery (remember those gold fish crackers?) have a place in parenting, I parent best when my focus is building a loving relationship with my children, such that they want to please me.

But, as with most of the stuff I write, I could be completely wrong.

Children are a Blessing?

Children are a blessing.  I believe this.  But, some days I have a hard time remembering how, exactly, I am blessed.  Then, something like this happens.

Cate, almost 2, discovering pockets for the first time.

The World is Run By Stupid People

Why can't I get a decent thermometer?  Why, when my five year old wakes up just after midnight, making a whine like an air raid siren, and stands in my kitchen, shivering, naked, and hot to the touch, can I not find a thermometer? 

Wait.  Let me correct that.  I can find about five thermometers.  About $527 worth of thermometers.  All worthless thermometers.

The top-of-the-line, laser, ear thermometer (which cost me more than my first car) reads 86 degrees.  Apparently my son, whose skin is on fire, actually passed away about twenty minutes ago and is rapidly cooling off.  No, that can't be it.  He is wiggling and shrieking in my kitchen.  I try again.  This time, 107.  What!  I try it on myself.  104.  Oh, for the love of Farenheit!  Piece of garbage.

I have several others.  All digital.  All with dead batteries.  No problem.  I am the mother of toddlers with obnoxious toys, all requiring batteries.  I have batteries.  Double A, Triple A, C, D, nine volt.  You name it.  But first I must find my isty bitsy teeny weeny screw driver, the kind you use to repair glasses.  (Which I have always found ironic, because if your glasses are broken how are you ever going to find the screwdriver, let alone use it, but I digress.)  Find screw driver, un-drive screws, find dead battery.  Flat, round, watch battery.  Are you freaking kidding me?

Meanwhile, I gave Jonah a cup of water.  It couldn't hurt.  It would probably help.  And he couldn't let out the house-wakening whine while drinking.  Unfortunately, he was shaking so badly that he slopped some of the cold water on his hot chest.  (I swear I heard sizzling and saw steam rise.)  He dropped the cup with a loud clatter and a splash, jumped backward, pointed a long bony five-year-old index finger at me and yelled, "That's your fault."

I had one thermometer left.  It is our go to thermometer.  Batteries worked.  It is known to give an accurate reading.  It was designed to be (and has been) used rectally.  Jonah was already hysterical.  And shaking uncontrollably.  There was no way.

So, I had to assume that my son's fever was only high.  Not dangerously high.  Plenty of room temperature fluids, rest, watch closely, pray he makes it until morning, etc.  I know the drill.

But why, oh why, oh why can I not get a decent thermometer?

Remember when you could get a mercury thermometer for 59 cents and you could use it anytime, year after year?  I know, mercury is bad.  You don't want it in your ground water or your oceans or your children.  But do you know how much mercury is in a thermometer?  No, of course you don't, because you have never broken one.  And if you have, it was only once, in your whole life.  And you were careful cleaning it up.

I had the same mercury thermometer my WHOLE life, until someone, somehow convinced me it was evil (when I was about thirty) so I chucked it.  Right into the trash can, on it's way to the land fill.

Don't get me wrong, I am not "up with mercury."  I just think it is exceedingly stupid that we refuse to use it responsibly for thermometers, and have replaced mercury thermometers with battery operated ones which don't actually work, so they get chucked and more hunks of battery operated plastic ones are manufactured to replace them.

Meanwhile, a bloated former Vice-President is heralded as some kind of patron saint of the planet, and wins a Nobel Prize, for telling people that the way to save the world from certain doom is to switch to compact florescent light bulbs.  You know about compact florescent light bulbs don't you?  They are glass tubes full of mercury.  That sounds sort of like a mercury thermometer, except more often replaced and more likely broken.  Oh, and you can't take your temperature with it even it you are willing to stick it up your bum.

How to be a Perfect Parent in One Easy Step

 Step One:  Don't have any children.

Just kidding.

Step One:  Be completely selfless.

I'm not kidding.  Well, maybe a little bit about the one step being easy.

This does not mean that you should indulge your child's every whim, or wait on them like a man-servant.  What it means is that you must put what your child needs before what you want.  Just make sure you have a clear definition of need vs. want.

I've been trying to do this, and I admit, it is not easy.  It is, in fact, impossible, because I am not (and neither are you) completely selfless.  But it has given me a new way of looking at things, that has really made my life easier.

As I have written before, I am not raising children.  I am raising adults.  They just happen to be children right now.  So, I try to picture the adults I want my children to be.

I want my children, now and in the future,  to be responsible, and respectful.  (I also want them to love Jesus, but that is a different post.)  So, every time they are disrespectful or irresponsible I should correct them or direct them in the way they should go, even if it means I must get off the phone/the computer/my ever widening butt to do it.

Oh, and sometimes, they just want to spend time with me.  I am, after all, one of the people they love most in the world.  Kinda sweet, huh?  While this is something that they want, I think, that at their age, it also qualifies as a need.  Kinda convicting, too.

Some scenarios for you:

You sit down to dinner, finally, and you want to eat while the food is still hot.  Your five year old, who is already half way through his meal, says, "I need some water."  Unless he is so dehydrated his tongue is beginning to swell, he can wait twenty minutes for a glass of water.  What he really needs is not water, but patience and manners.  You get to eat.

Your baby is poopy.  You need to pee.  Your need trumps hers.  You have to take care of yourself or you will be worthless, right?  In fact, I am going to go out on a limb and say that your needs, true needs, especially the pressing ones like lunch and potty breaks, trump hers every time, unless hers are life-threatening.  Oh, except sleep.  You don't get to sleep.  Sorry.

You are sitting on the couch playing video games.  (This would be a Dad scenario.)  Your five year old is watching intently.  Even helping with commentary.  "Kill him, Daddy.  Kill him!  Stab him with your Sword of Mordechai!  Oh, look at the blood squirt out!  Take that you zombie son of bitch!"  Is this really acceptable behavior from your five year old?  Because he now thinks so.  He needs to not be exposed to this stuff.  You need to turn it off.
 
You are on the computer, checking your facebook, then your blog, then you e-mail, then going back to facebook to see if anything new has happened.  (This would be a Mom scenario.)  Your three year old is pulling all of the tissue out of the box.  You ignore him, because he is not really hurting anything.  Then he helps himself to a box of dry cereal.  He is eating it with his very dirty hands, right out of the box, and getting most of  it on the floor.  You ignore him, because, again, he is not really hurting anything.  You don't eat that kind of cereal and you're going to have to sweep the floor anyway.  Is this really acceptable behavior from your three year old?  Because he now thinks so.  He needs to be corrected.  You  need to get up.

Now, I know moms need some alone time or some girl time.  I get that.  And, dads apparently need to play video games or use tools.  I don't get that, but I shall respect it, and move on.  May I suggest that we schedule these things?  It won't be huge swaths of time to spend on yourself like it used to be, like you want it to be, but it should be enough to meet your needs.  Mom can take the kids to the park on Saturday morning so Dad can eviscerate vampires, or whatever he does, and Dad can keep them on Saturday afternoon so Mom can have lunch with her sister.  And hey, Dads.  If you think the solution to this is a separate room where you can play Blood Carnival XII, without having to worry about the impact on the kids, you are missing the point.


Having said all that, I would like to let my regular readers know that I will be leaving town tomorrow and I will be gone all weekend, without children, in a house by the sea, where I plan to do nothing.  Nothing.  No.  Thing.  All thanks to my wonderful husband.  For other disclaimers, see below. 

DISCLAIMER:  The "How to be a Perfect Parent in One Easy Step" program comes with no warranties, express or implied.  The author admits she only has three children, all ill-mannered, the oldest only five.  The author further admits that, while she firmly believes in her program, and is following it herself, to the best of her ability, she may be full of carp (that troublesome fish).  The author further admits that, in the event she has no idea what she is talking about, she has established three funds to care for her children in the future: One for therapy, one for rehab, and one for bail.  She suggest that all parents taking her advice, do the same.

Sometimes, It Takes a Village, Idiot!

"God helps those who help themselves."  This is not scripture.  This is Benjamin Franklin in Poor Richard's Almanac.  The stories in the Bible tend to prove the exact opposite.  God does not help those who help themselves, but rather, He helps those who humble themselves enough to call on Him for help.  At the same time, however, one must be open to the form in which the help arrives.

According a traditional African proverb, and a book by former First Lady and current Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, "It takes a village to raise a child."  In the traditional context, this may be true.  In the context of Ms. Clinton, I suspect it takes a village to raise a child, and by a village, she means a government.  And if this can also further the increasingly popular idea that fathers are nothing more than a luxury or a redundancy, then great!

I, for one, have kept to the once traditional, and now so quaint it is comical, idea that it takes a mother and a father to raise a child.  I have had to re-think this a bit.

I have been going through quite a trying time, as I have written.  First, I was pregnant, then sick and voiceless, now going through the longest miscarriage in the history of woman-kind.  All while trying to be a mother to three young children and a wife to a husband who spends ten hours a day, seven days a week (literally!) in the library.  Forget being a housewife.  There is not enough energy left for the house.

A few weeks ago, at the very end of myself, I prayed for help.  And, I got it, in the form of my father-in-law, Grandpa Scott, swooping in and caring for us for a few days.  Since then, as some things have improved, others have gotten worse.  It seems that almost daily now, something knocks me back down onto my knees, where there is nothing to do but pray.  Until finally, FINALLY, I got it.

I can not do this by myself.

And, thanks to the Lord and His provision, I don't have to.

Let me be clear.  I have always had help.  My wonderful husband helps.  My self-less mother helps.  My generous sister helps.  I have often worn this help thin, because I thought they were all I had.

I was wrong.

In the last several weeks, my usual help has not been available.  I have had to call on, and been called by, women from the corners of my life, and now find myself wondering why they were relegated to the corners.

Patty.  Earth Mother Patty.  She told me that for the last two years, the Lord had put it on her heart to reach out to me and build a deeper friendship.  But, every time she talked to me, I gave the impression that I had my act together and was busy with other things.  Ha!  I suppose if you count wearing my robe until noon and eating chocolate for breakfast, in the bathroom no less, so I don't have to share with the children, having my act together, then yeah, I was busy.

In the last six weeks, Patty has come by my house for tea, bringing with her the most beautiful bouquet of peonies and honeysuckle.  Do you know the joy fresh flowers can bring to a room or a stressed out mom?  A few weeks later, she invited me to lunch.  And, after that, she and her sister Jane, met me at the park so that my kids could have a nice morning out, when I had no voice to call them and no strength to chase them.  She hugs me when she sees me.  It makes me a bit weepy just to think about it.  Yes, Patty.  I need a friend.

Abby, the best babysitter in the world, has come by on the most minimal of notice, even making a point of squeezing in three hours of babysitting between her real life activities on a Saturday afternoon.  And her mother, Brandi, always drops her off and picks her up.

My Aunt Jo took the kids and me in for several hours when Hubband needed to use the one computer in our small house to study.  Without kids around.

My friend Jennifer, who has a nursing baby and a potty training toddler, was more than hospitable when I called her at eight o'clock on a random Tuesday morning and asked her if I could be there in an hour, because I just could not stand to be cooped up at home one more second.  She even fed the kids and me lunch.

My sister-in-law Heather, also sainted, and with a servant's heart, has come by several times to babysit, in a pinch, for doctor's appointments.  And, she brought Starbucks.

My sister came by and watched my kids for a few hours, and then, deciding that I was iron deficient, took me out for a steak dinner.

Claudia, from church, called, out of the blue, during a rare lull in the day when I could talk, and on a day I needed someone to talk to. 

Rebecca came by with two of her four boys, to play with my two boys, while Catherine slept, and I went off to the doctor, yet again.  And she still found time to do my dishes.

Penny, from church, brought me a gift, a very feminine scented lotion, as comfort for my loss.

Janie gave me a free hour with a masseuse, which she herself had earned through a day-care barter system.

Gina, my pastor's wife, and Bethany, her fifteen-year-old daughter, came to watch the kids, again on a moment's notice, again while I went to the doctor.  They even came sooner than I needed them to, to care for me.  It was not a problem, Gina, mother of five, informed me.  She only had one kid at home that week (two are away at college, even though it is summer, and two more were away at camp) and her husband was out of town for two days.  They came back the next day too, because I needed someone.

What Gina didn't tell me was that she had been invited to join her husband for the short trip.  He would be working part of the day, but they could have had some time alone, a nice get-away.  She declined, convinced that she was not mean to go.  She felt the Lord was leading her to stay home for some reason.  I turned out the be that reason.

You must understand, I have never called Gina for anything in my life, big or small.  But, when I woke up last Monday morning, feeling like I was in labor, knowing Hubband could not stay with me, Gina's was the first name the Lord called to my mind.   And what she did for me those two days was huge. 

Then this week, as I was finally recovering, Hubband's mother came for a visit.  She helped with the house and the kids, while I caught up on a few neglected duties, like the laundry, the marketing, and my blog.

The service of all of these other women, was His provision, a gift from God, an answer to a sincere prayer from a place of brokenness.  There is no other explanation.  I am humbled by the awesomeness of this.
 
Yes, it takes a mother and a father to raise a child.  And, yes, it may also takes a village.  Though I don't think we need a village to raise our children for us, we sometimes need a village to be there for us, so that we can raise our children.  This is a distinction, not without a difference.  Ultimately though, it takes God to raise a child.  And I pray that I never forget it.

What I Learned Today

What I learned on June 15, started on June 14.

Monday, June14 was not a very good day for my family.  I was still parenting without a voice, and the children, who for the last few weeks have been living with a pregnant and/or sick and/or grumpy mother, were very bored.  Bored children are unhappy, disobedient, and very difficult to manage.  To sum up, mommy + pregnant + kids + bored = no fun.

I realized that the next day had to be better, or it was going to be worse, and worse might kill me.  Or, someone.  I purposed to make it better.  I used the rest of Monday to get the house squared away.  Not completely cleaned, not completely organized, but at least up and running, and the kitchen and dining room, (the heart of all parent-child activity) was clean and ready-to-go before bed.  (It helped that my mom came by in the afternoon to distract the children.  Love you, Mama!)

I tried to think of some activity I could do with them in the morning, and I hit upon coloring home made play dough.  It is good for finger strength.  Very important pre-writing skill.  So, I got on the internet, found a recipe, and made the play dough, in anticipation of our big day.  This is when the learning began.

You can't make homemade play dough with course ground sea salt.  It does not dissolve, leaving salt crystal in the dough, which simultaneously cut your hands and rub salt in the resulting wounds.  I went to bed disappointed, but not defeated.  We would find something else to do.

In the morning, I had everyone fed and dressed and ready to leave by eight o'clock.  Hubband took Jonah, and my car, to school and then himself to work.  With only two-thirds of my children, I was determined to be at least one-third better at being their mother.  But, I still had no car.  We walked to the park around the corner.  Well, actually, only I walked.  Catherine was pushed and Sam road his bicycle.  The park is a great place to learn stuff.  For example:

Those who don't move have no advantage over those who can't.  At that hour of the morning, the only people in the park were four ancient Asian women.  They walked in small circles around the play ground.  They used the play ground equipment to do strength training.  They stretched.  They talked fast and happy in a foreign language, laughing often.  Note to self:  If you want to live to be ancient, get up off you duff now, while you still can.  And bring a friend.

Sam is fast.  When he is not riding his bicycle around the outside of the playground, he likes to run around it.  A gaggle of older teen girls came jogging through and he followed them, keeping up for quite a distance, until I finally managed to call him back.

Cate is tough.  She wanted to swing on the big kid swing, but I was worried she would fall off, so I showed her how to swing by laying on her belly.  She slid off face first, followed by her feet which, thanks to the momentum of the swing, manage to bend back over body and kick her in the back of the head.  It looked like she should have broken her neck.  She was completely still for a blood chilling second.  Then she screamed for 20 seconds and went about her day.


It takes all kinds, and I am the judge-y kind.  As it got a little later, other people wandered through the park.  Like a very skinny and heavily perfumed woman of indeterminate age, carrying a fluffy white toy-poodle.  She wore a red straw hat and a bright yellow dress that just begged to be called a frock, which I refuse to do, because I won't be manipulated by inappropriately whimsical fashion. You must understand, this is a (figuratively) beige park in a (literally) beige neighborhood, in a (deliberately) beige town.  Who are you, lady?

After awhile longer, we were alone again, until one of the McMansions across the street opened up, releasing a woman and her son.  She was about forty-five with unfashionable hair, shorts, and a heavy sweater.  She screamed "scientist".  Her son was about five.  She used big words with him.  I'm all for that.  But they were words I didn't understand.  The mom smiled and said hi and then went and stood in a patch of shade to do her sudoku puzzle.  Her son never left her side.  He just stood there in the shade staring at me and clutching his homemade bow and arrow.  He made me sad.  He could have done this in their own yard.  The kid didn't know how, or did not have any interest in, playing, and the mom had no interest in showing him.  But, what do I know.  We sort-of shared a park for twenty minutes one Tuesday morning.  And, it takes all kids.

His bow and arrow was really cool though.  Which brings me to the next thing I learned.

Don't bring your most prized possessions to the park.  In fact, as a mother, I don't see why anyone needs to bring any toys to the park, ever.  The best thing that can happen is that they get lost, or broken by someone else's kid.  The worst thing, is that they lead to a toddler world war.  And the more attractive the toy (probably the reason it is the child's prized possession in the first place), the more likely it is that other children will be drawn to, and not easily distracted from, it.

The bow was awesome.  It was made from a real unfinished branch, and well strung.  He had an arrow with a point whittled at one end and a notch cut in the other.  But, he only had the one.  I found this out when the kid first arrived at the park and Samuel peddled right up to him and said, "I play with stick?"  The mother replied "That is not a stick, it is an arrow, and he has to be careful.  If he breaks it, he won't have any more arrows to play with."  Poor kid.  He had the coolest toy in the world, but he was afraid to play with it.  Sam wasn't afraid.  He tried again, "I play?"  The mom said, "No, he is playing with that now.  It is his.  He is not going to share."  Those were her exact words.  You might think that is a bit harsh, but I found it refreshing.

Which brings me to the next thing I learned.  Well, I've known it for awhile, but it is worth mentioning now.

Sharing is for suckers.  If I walk into Starbucks, and there is a guy in there with a new iPad, what do you think the chances are that I can walk over, try to take it, raise a fuss when he refuses to let me, and then have some authority figure, (a barista, say) make him "share" or "go home right now, young man"?  The whole idea that kids need to learn to share their toys at the park is absurd.  Why do they need to learn this?  So they develop the instincts necessary to protect their stuff when they are adults?

In our house, we try to teach our kids that things belong to people.  You respect their stuff and they should respect yours.  This does not mean that we don't encourage them to share.  We do.  But we don't make them share.  That is not really sharing is it?  It is wealth redistribution.  I want my kids to share things with each other, but by choice, out of a generosity of spirit and kindness toward others.  I know this sounds foreign and naive.  But it works.  I'll admit, it doesn't always work well, but that is life.  And they're young yet.

Don't count your mother of the year award before it hatches.  When we got back to the house, I had a brilliant activity for the children.  Samuel has sensory issues.  If your kids have them, you know what they are.  If they don't, you don't, and it doesn't really matter.  But one of the therapies is to let him experience different textures.  Like a box full of beans or rice.  I took two two-liter boxes and put stale useless rice and quinoa in one and stale useless coffee beans in the other.  I also put about ten M&Ms in each box.  It was a sense therapy treasure hunt.  I rock.

We have a picture of her Auntie Cara making this exact same face when she was Best Man at our wedding.

I stepped into the house to call Hubband and tell him "I rock," when the phone rang and I had to schedule a pediatrician appointment.  Good thing.  I went back outside to find Samuel spitting out chewed up coffee beans.  Ugh!  When I came back out with a damp rag to clean him up, Cate was out of her high-chair sitting on the table, eating coffee beans out Sam's box.  And, she wasn't spitting them out.  Double ugh!  Boy I am glad I never made that call to Hubband.

He dug up the candy, but ate the coffee.  I am such a bad mother.

I should pace myself.  By eleven o'clock, I decided it was "free time."  Young children should have plenty of unstructured play.  All the experts say so.  So, I slept on the couch while they took turns "riding" me.  "Gimidy up, Mommy...Gimidy up."

What did you learn today?

The Week in Kids, #11

This week...

There are no adorable kid pictures.  "Why not?" you ask.  Because they were not adorable.

Kids go through stages, and some are difficult.  We have been lucky, in that our children tend to take turns being difficult.  Not so, this week.  Or last, for that matter.  They have ganged up on us.

Jonah talks back to everything we say, and some things we don't.  I heard him talking back to a commercial the other day.  Serious attitude adjustment needed.

Samuel ignores everything we say.  He hears us, and he understands us, he just does whatever he wants anyway.  Usually with a taunting grin or laugh.  Punk.

While I am busy dealing with those two, Catherine is getting into everything she can, or devise a way to, reach.  The more dangerous, the better.

They are completely out of control.

Don't misunderstand me.  I am not standing by, helpless.  I am on this problem.  Well, three problems actually, each made up of various sub-problems.  No malfeasance goes uncorrected.  But, changes in attitude take time.  I hope I can keep my energy up for this.

See you next week!!!