Hat Trick

I think I have finally reached a parenting trifecta.

Some things are just important ...

For instance, not risking "love" by crossing it out ... (Stepping on cracks, though ... that's cool.)

*****

Getting them to fall asleep can seem like an art form ...

But really it's just the material of nightmares.

*****

Best of all is what your daughter will learn from watching all 208 episodes of "How I Met Your Mother" ...

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"Hey mom! Come look at the strip club I built in Minecraft. I call it 'Barney's'."

Silas is golden

Dear Silas,

Recently, I made the mistake of telling you the story of you, including my initial desire of wanting a girl.

You know, so that as siblings, you could do all the things sisters do ...

Share a room ...

And secrets ...

And hand-me-down-clothes.

Turns out you didn't have any idea what I was talking about.

You heard "I wanted a girl," and that was it.

Heartbreak.

It wasn't like that. You weren't a disappointment. You were a happy surprise. I had no experience with brothers, and no idea what an amazing experience having a boy can be.

You were a wonder six years ago today. You are a wonder still.

I know you probably can't take my word for it. My words are always be tangled up with convoluted thoughts

But, as a dear friend once said: "Silas is golden."

And that's pretty much how I've thought of you ever since.

If you don't believe it's true, you can see for yourself.


Love,

Mommy.

Take five, clown

"Hey, mom! Look! I made a balloon animal all by myself."



"I'm going to tell Tots the Clown she can take a break now."

Mother of the Year

"Mom, I LOVE you!!! You bought me SpaghettiOs!!! You are the best mom I ever had. .... Hey! Why did you buy me SpaghettiOs?"

"I don't know. I must have been drunk."

Class clown

It's STOP

DROP

and ROLL!

If you wanted me to cover my face it should be STOP, DROP, COVER YOUR FACE, and ROLL!

Lunacy

It's not as if this is so special. Ask my kids ...

"Super Moon? Phreffft."

"It's not even wearing a cape."

"Hey, wait: That smudge right there ... I bet that's E.T."

Protective of food

The kid. Not the dog.

Annnnnd another reason not to leave kids alone in the bath ...

There won't be soap left for your shower.

Sick day

One has a fever, the other is raring to go.

One sits on the couch and stares into the television even when it lands on snow.

The other tears up the house. Strewing toys and crumbs and frustrations all about the floor.

Mostly they ignore each other and blame me.

Why do you let him do that?

She doesn't ever listen to me!

All I can say is ...

I hope tomorrow cools down.

Moderation

The Champ is sharing our fascination for our new favorite drink, the Dark & Stormy.

The virgin version is apple cider and a wedge of Key lime served in a measuring shot glass.

He's all about moderation.

Not much of a team player

Most of the time, as a parent, and even a citizen of the world, I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing.

I just move from moment to moment and hope I don't inflict any lasting damage to bodies or psyches.

But, from the important to the seemingly inconsequential, decisions must be made. Navigation charted. And though we see our destination, we rarely have a clear path. We can never really know with certainty which choice will affect which outcome.

I ebb and flow with and against convention.

I hate dance class. I've made no pretense of liking it, though I wish, for her sake, I could manage a better poker face.

I've been working on that.

But as often as I swallow my misgivings I also push my preferences.

We all carry our own experiences. Prejudices. Pride. It's the thing that makes rebellion so intoxicating. Every experience is unique to the one who experiences it.

I talked her out of Girl Scouts and into 4-H.

I plan on indexing flyers for pee-wee football in the revolving file.

I'm wondering if I can convince them Disneyland is really just a bowling alley in southern Maine. "Hey kids ... look ... It's Vacationland."

I'm hoping neither of my kids get tattooed, but I know I'll learn to accept their bodies with scribbles.

And yet, when The Champ came to me and said the only thing he wanted for his fird birfday was a skateboard, I barely hesitated. First things first: Helmet. Pads. Board. The three musketeers, all for one and one for all.

I'm not sure what possessed me: I just kept invoking the holy trinity: Helmet. Pads. Board.

And as he was working on balance, low and slow on the driveway, I quietly thanked the dogs and dogesses that I didn't have to sit in the bleachers at the little league field passively rooting against someone else's kid on an opposing team.



He's a year older, now, and still dragging his board out on the driveway from time to time.

He wanted to go with me (and bring his board) when he found out I was writing a story on skateparks.

But when he saw "the big kids" doing their thing ... he wanted to leave his board in the car and just watch.



Then he wanted to go home.

And practice.

Imaginary parenting

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER


Hey, Guys?

How about you NOT bicker for the rest of the trip ... or at least until we get to our first destination? OK? Whatdoyasay?


BICKER-BICKER-BICKER

BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER BICKER-BICKER-BICKER


OK. ... How about this:

How about you take your imaginary pencils and - silently - write your complaints on these here imaginary sheets of paper, which you will then insert into my imaginary suggestion box, which I store in the front of the car for just these occasions ...


BICKER-BICKER And then what? BICKER


And then I will pretend to read them tomorrow.

When 'Farm Market' takes on a whole new meaning for mom

Let me set the scene:
It's the morning commute on a gray, rain-threatening day. The landscape, still crisp with fall colors though it is spring, rolls past our windows at 45 miles-per-hour. The boy is in his car seat talking non-stop about the things he sees - asking and often answering his own questions.

"Ders a guy with wandry. Where's he going? Maybe to da wandrymat."

"Can we go the wong way? I yike the wong way. It's faster than the short way."

The long way it is. Past school buildings and playgrounds. Past apple orchards and cattle ranches. Past miles and miles of fields.

"Is that a farm?" He asks as we drive past acres of wide open fields.

"Yes. That's a farm," I answer absently, momentarily wondering to myself if there will be a train at the crossing up ahead.

"What do they grow there?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say, trying to focus on his conversation. "It's a pretty big field. It could be hay or corn, or something like that."

"Don't they grow zombies there? I bet they grow zombies there."

I start to laugh. Of course he'd wonder about whether an iPhone app offered a window into the agricultural practices of the undead.

"That's just a computer game. There's no such thing as zombies."

"Well ... I think it would be fun if they did grow zombies. Because if they grew zombies I could keep one for a pet."

"If zombies were real," I tell him (as if this is the most natural conversation in the world to be having with a three-year-old) you most definitely would NOT want one for a pet."

"I would. I would keep him in a cage and feed him every day. I would!"

"What would you feed him?"

"I don't know. Zombie food. It costs five dollars and you can buy it at the store."

"I don't know how to break it to you bud, but zombies - which are not real anyway so don't go chasing nightmares - eat humans. And that makes it completely unsafe to own a zombie."

"Well ... If I had a zombie I would train him not to eat humans. That's what I would do."

Bedtime

Bedtime. It's bedtime. Get ready for bed. Please. Please. Please get ready for bed. It's time to go upstairs and get ready for bed. Get on your pajamas. Brush your teeth. Pick out your books. Get ready for bed.

Brush your teeth, boyo. Now. Brush them. That wasn't brushing. That was holding a toothbrush near your face. Brush. Your. Teeth. For two minutes. I'll set the timer. Brush. Your. Teeth. Either YOU brush your teeth or I will brush your teeth. Which do you choose?

And you, girly-girl, you can stop laughing at me and get on your pajamas. And stop jumping on the bed. Stop. Jumping. And take your pajamas off the cat. Really. Calming down. That's the goal. We're callllllming down. Now. Calming. Down.

I'm only reading one book. Just one. And not the one that is 200 pages long. So don't even try to sneak that one under my nose. I will not be tricked into reading the Tolstoy of children's fables. So don't even try.

OK ... I'm reading now.

I'm reading. Now.

Stop playing with whatever that thing is in your hand and listen. To the story. Listen. With your ears. ... not with your hands.

OK ... where was I?

... and they all lived happilyeverafterTheEnd.

(Switches off light).

What?

No, I did not skip any pages. I love you. Go to sleep.

Polar opposites

I remember the hill I used to sled as a child.

It was behind the grade school I attended, within walking distance of my house.

I remember one of the sleds we used to own, a silver saucer, and wanting to use it instead of the new red plastic toboggan.

I couldn't tell you why.

I don't really remember the act of sledding itself ... other than cold air numbing my face and the sensation of speed. Trudging back up the hill must have been effortless, because I don't have any recollection of it either.

You sled ... you run ... you wait your turn ... you sled again. That's what I remember.
That and laughing about tipping over or turning around or crashing into the kid who had left the top before me.

I certainly don't remember being told how to steer ... or even knowing there was a need to do so.

It wasn't until I had children of my own to maim in polar collisions did the question even enter my radar.

Honestly ... just seconds before I was hurtling myself and my second born down a steep hill.

"OK ... Try to steer to the right after that first turn," my husband said as I was about to let go.

"Don't you just point yourself in a direction clear of trees and traffic and just ... well, Go?"

My husband looks at me with that special look ... that, lets face it, doesn't really make anyone feel very special.

"Really?! Didn't we already cover this?"

It wasn't until after I'd grown up and my own children reached the age of wanting to plummet down hills and ill-advised speeds that I even thought "there might be a wrong way to do this."

And even then ... time has a way of erasing information I don't use regularly.

"Listen ... If you are heading for a tree to the left put your right foot out to turn away from it."

"I suppose I should have known, opposites attract."

Not exactly 'Home Alone' but close enough ...

The Jump and Roll was jumping and rolling. Kids heading in every direction. The smaller of my two had disappeared into the climbing structure and the biggun wanted me to help her glide on her rented wheels.

I was talking to some other mothers when the music faded out and the microphone cut in. ...

"Would SIOBHAN please come to the ticket counter. Again. SIOBHAN please come to the ticket counter."

I stood there, perplexed. For some reason my mind focused on the word AGAIN.

"That can't be me," I said and looked toward my wallet on the table. Didn't lose anything with my name on it. And they stressed 'again.' Maybe they're looking for someone they'd already summoned before."

"Really?" my friend laughed. "You think there could possibly be another Siobhan here? The name has gotten that popular?"

She was right. How many of us could there be? I started to worry. Maybe there was an accident and Jed couldn't get through on the cell phone ..."

I started walking faster toward the place where we entered, passing the place I was supposed to appear (a place I would have named the "PRIZE BOOTH" not "TICKET COUNTER" if I were in charge of naming areas in a large indoor playground).

Of course. ... It's probably a good thing I'm not in charge of too many children. ...

A woman stopped me and asked if I was "Siobhan" before I noticed the boy in her arms was my son.

I held out my arms, feeling horrible.

"He couldn't find you and was crying," the woman said. "He knew your name, but wouldn't tell me his."

I'm not sure which was worse ... that I had not noticed he was missing or that I had no idea he could pronounce my name so clearly.

Black (Hole) Friday

Children everywhere are smiling a little more widely.

Their springy steps have a bit more bounce.

They are practicing penmanship and patience.

They are being courteous and kind; even asking to do more chores.

It's all because they've started making their lists ... They're checking them more than twice ... They're acting less naughty and more nice ...

Because they know Santa will soon be stuffing his overfed keister down the chiminey (or our 'STACK' as The Champ calls it) and piling presents under our tree.

What. A. Jerk.

Seriously.

Does he not realize how often I've told them that if they don't put away their toys I will put them away in the the donation bin?

Does he not care that the toys they begged for last year either found their way to oblivion or the bottom of the closet?

Does he not look around as he plunks down new packages, how crowded this little toyland has already become?

I mean ...



Where will we put it?

I'm thinking, quite seriously, there needs to be a revolt at the North Pole. The Environmental Elves have to overthrow the Consumer Elves and install their own Head Honcho: Reduction Santa.

He'll be leaner, meaner and greener.

Wishing in a well

There are times that I wish for more hours in a day, but I know what I'm really wishing for is more time to waste.

Hurry up and wait.

A minute here becomes an hour there.

Where does all the time go?

Our best days are when there's no time to dawdle. Things get done:

"It's 7:30 ... the bus will be here in a half-hour. Get up get upgetup!"

Lunch, made; bags, packed; shoes, tied; hair, brushed.

It can also be the worst days:

"Why are you watching TV? Where are your shoes? Get your shoes on get your shoes on getyourshoeson!"

"Shoelaces trailing, hair tangled, you can buy lunch and bring back the library book tomorrow."

Thinking ahead is what you do instead of stopping to take a breath.

Maybe it's inevitable ... your temper will get the better of you. You'll utter old threats and make new rules. Neither of which you'll follow.

But instead of acknowledging that missing a bus isn't the worst thing to happen on a Wednesday morning, you watch a tear-stained child climb up its steps, ruining her day and yours.

All you can do is wait, and hope to redeem yourself when the bus brings her home.

I'm trying not to be biased ...

So I need to ask ...

Do all six-year-olds use crayons this well?

Model behavior

He wasn't doing this until his dad showed him how.