The Death Of A Beetle

The life cycle of your average beetle isn't usually something that makes an impact of any sort in my day to day life.  Unless it's through the eyes of my child.

Let me set the scene:

I am folding clothes in the laundry room when Henry comes running into the room wearing a white onsie.  Is there anything cuter than a baby/toddler in a plain white onsie?  I don't think so.  But I digress.

He sees a dead beetle on it's back, legs curled up to it's chest, laying in the middle of the floor.  My sweet little guy gets down on the floor on his tummy with his face right over the bug and yells:

"HIYA BUG!"
The bug, being very obviously dead, has no response to this greeting so Henry leans closer.

"Hey!  Are you awight?"
Again, there is no response because the bug is still dead.  Henry slumps his shoulders.

"Ahhh, crap!"
Dejectedly, he gets to his feet and very carefully, very deliberately, steps on and squishes the dead bug.  Then he brushes his hands together solemnly, says "amen" and walks away.

And there you have it.  The passing of a bug, as witnessed by the mother of the toddler who mourned it.

For The Love Of Mother's Day

Mother's Day.  Every year I find myself falling for the commercial version of the celebration of Mother.  I get warm hearted at the thought of breakfast in bed, sparkly things given in small boxes and kids laughing all day with no fighting or complaining.  I guess now I know why Jack is so gullible when it comes to believing in the power of a 30 second spot.  He has told me that Oxy Clean is the word you use when you want to describe something so clean that it sparkles.  He wants to buy Lysol toilet cleaner in order to make my life easier and he's really bummed that we didn't buy all Maytag appliances because of the man who hides in them and does all the work.  Advertising geared towards children?  Forget about rational thinking.  He wants it.  All of it.  Now.

As for myself, the commercials geared towards holidays are my own personal kryptonite.  I'm powerless against a 10 second spot showing a frolicking good time hunting for Easter eggs.  A 15 second commercial depicting a neighborhood 4th of July barbecue sends me into party planning mode faster than you can say Oscar Mayer.  Lately the 30 seconds of endearing gratitude for mothers leaves me weak in the head.  I start imagining our family dressed in JCrew while the kids lay presents at the feet of my settee.  Never mind that we don't even have a settee, maybe that will be one of my many Mother's Day presents.  There's no telling what the little cherubs will give to me when they declare their undying love and appreciation for all that I do.  Settee's are just the beginning of what I deserve.

The reality is that while I dream in 30 second increments, the day lasts 24 hours and a lot can happen in that amount of time when you are dealing with children.  Even appreciative children can lose their cool in less than 30 seconds.  Then again, so can their mommy.

My alarm didn't go off, so when I awoke to hear Henry call out "Mommy! Uh-oh-poopy!" I was an hour and a half late.  I hit the floor running, hoping to make it to church on time so that I'd get two kid free hours, but alas- it was not to be.  Jack woke up sounding terrible and complaining that his neck (throat) hurt.  At least I could stop panicking over being late.

 Instead of breakfast in bed, I ate tator tots and a cheese stick at 11 am.  In lieu of a settee, I sat in the desk chair because the couch cushions are currently producing a fort.  When I envisioned bright smiling faces and coordinating outfits on everyone, I didn't take into account that the day may have been declared as a pajama day and that no one got their faces or hands washed after waffles this morning.  I certainly didn't include a fantasy of Jack crying because we weren't going to be exchanging gifts and he had nothing to open or Henry screaming because Mitch was touching my leg while Henry wanted me to hold him.  Learning to share Mommy's lap is a pretty big goal right now.

But I did get gifts.  Jack drew a picture at school of me doing my favorite things, therefore I was shown taking a bath on a beach with a lobster looking on.  I received two handmade cards shaped like the teapot from Beauty and the Beast with chamomile tea bags stapled inside and a poem about if I get too mad at the little buggers I should go make a pot of tea.  I was water logged by lunchtime.  Jack gave me his favorite stuffed rabbit for 15 minutes (timed) and the privilege of renaming said bunny for the duration of my fostering.  The name reverted back to its original of John Wayne as soon as custody was revoked.  I was given a plastic spoon and 2 Hershey kisses that immediately went back to the giver to avoid hysterics.  And you want to know the funny part?  I felt appreciated.  I felt cherished while they took turns climbing all over me to deliver syrupy sticky kisses.  I felt like the best mom in the world when they jumped for joy at the announcement of tator tots and hot dogs for lunch.

The point that I'm trying to make is that there is no way you can enjoy Mother's Day (or any day, really) if you are waiting for filtered lighting and a director to whisper your lines, because no day is entirely perfect.  No child is perfect, nor their mothers or fathers.  But each of us can have perfect moments.  Our own 30 second spot that gets us through the next half hour block of bad programming.  I'm hoping that the next really great moment involves something from Doves Chocolates, because that would be perfect right about now.  

The Haunting

Why is it so hard for children to leave something where they found it?  Especially when the item isn't theirs?  Seriously.  How hard can it be to not take my eye mask outside to the front porch?  Or to not put the meat syringe in the lego bin?  I'm not even sure how many times a day I reach for something that I just set down, only to realize that it is missing.  "Who took my _______????"  Basically you can fill in the blank with whatever you want, I would bet that I've yelled it.

Those of you without children can't really comprehend the tension of looking everywhere(sometimes for days) for your tweezers, only to find them in the dog food bag.  You put something down and you know it will be there when next you need that particular item.   If it's not there, you've got serious problems.  You are either being haunted, or else the creepy guy who stares at you at the bus stop has been breaking in to rifle through your underwear drawer.  Either option is unacceptable.  

Hmmmm.  Actually, now that I think about it... Parenthood is exactly like living in a haunted house with your stalker.  Things go missing all the time.  Writing appears all over the walls and no one knows how it got there.  Doors slam for no reason.  You can't go to the bathroom without a person trying to take a peek at you or take a shower without having someone make barking noises while throwing chocolate chips around the shower curtain.  At least with children you have a pretty good idea what happened to your sunglasses/fingernail clippers/pie knife, you just need to narrow it down to the correct individual.  And, while you are unable to get a restraining order to keep your belongings safe, you do have the divine right to send the suspect to time out.  You aren't legally allowed to to this with your friendly neighborhood pervert, so maybe having children is the better scenario.  At least you don't have to wonder if you are going crazy when see the 24 pack of toilet paper is rearranged into a pyramid in the hall closet.  You know for sure that you are going to go insane before they leave for college.  It's actually a good feeling to know that it isn't all in your head.

Bedtime Bedlam

Bedtime at the Everett house is a countdown into madness.  There are declarations made with lots of hand gestures and foot stomping, uncontrollable weeping, bargaining and outright pleading.  And all of that happens before the kids get involved.

Every night, my husband and I play a game of high stakes rock, paper, scissors to see who gets to tell the kids it's time for jammies.  "Best 2 out of 3.... Dang it!  Okay, 3 out of 5.... BLAST!"  If I had my way, we'd just play R-P-S all night long.  ".... Best 31 of 60?"

Because of the consequences, the loser has a much more defeated posture than that of someone who has just lost a children's game, for the announcement of 'jammie time' causes different reactions in each of the boys.  None of those reactions are anything to make you want to volunteer for the job.

Jack's response to the alert of jammie time is both a physical and an emotional one.  His body goes into an immediate boneless state that sends him crashing to the floor in a desperate anguished mass of whininess.  While he writhes on the ground in protest of going to bed, he demands answers to such questions as: "Why is bedtime right now?" and "Why is everything so hard??"  Once he regains limb strength and function (after numerous threats and growls from us), he staggers down the hall to his room to look for the dreaded nightwear.  We can still hear him murmuring against us though.  "I wasn't done with today.  I still had things to do.  I don't want to go to bed!  This is cheating."  Cheating!  As if. Cheating would be my setting the clocks ahead an hour so that we could get this insanity over with earlier.  I've been more than fair... But I'm not going to pretend that the idea of cheating hasn't crossed my mind more than a couple of dozen times.  Tonight.  

By saying "Guys, it's time for jammies" we've caused short term memory loss for Mitch.  He turns to go to his room, but never makes it more than a few steps.  You can actually see him forget.  His footsteps slow and his head comes up to scan the room as though he's looking for a reminder of what had set him motion.  This is our cue for a gentle nudge: "Mitch.  Jammies."  His response is always one of confusion.  He looks at us like we've never met and repeats the word in a lost tourist sort of way: "Jammies?..."  The tone is like he's asking for directions to the loo, but isn't sure if he's got the wordage right or not.  Then he wanders off in the general direction of his bedroom.  If one of us doesn't follow to hound him into the ground with instruction, he will go off course very quickly.  He has been found in various stages of undress while in almost every scenario you can imagine a four year old getting into, while we naively thought he was putting his pajamas on.  Jumping on my bed in his underwear, building a lego tower with his jammie bottoms on his head, reading a book with only one arm still in his shirt, and wearing a complete pirate ensemble are just some of the recent scenarios.  To be honest, he doesn't usually get away with it for very long because Jack is a firm believer in equality in misery and tells us pretty early on that Mitch is off track again.

Henry's reaction to jammie time is the most exhausting, which is why we leave him in his day clothes until the very last moment.  He literally gets dumped in the crib as soon as the zipper on his sleepers hits his chin.  It's really the only way we can all survive.  You see, the second that Jack hits the floor in a puddle of drama and Mitch starts aimlessly wandering, Henry begins his evade and antagonize routine.  He runs all over the house in a serpentine fashion, waving his arms hysterically and screaming baby babble.  You know those computer programs that translate the words into English as they are spoken?  I'm positive that if we were to use one of those while Henry is in full on jammie mode, we'd hear something pretty close to: "You'll have to catch me first, suckers!"  He steals the other boys pajamas and runs away with them waving over his shoulder like a flag of glory, enticing his brothers to join him in his fight against the dictatorship of Mom and Dad.  If we were to attempt to enforce jammie time at this juncture, we'd kill ourselves.  The floors are much too slick to try to run a baby to ground; he's got a really low center of gravity and can book it around corners much faster than we can.  If, by some small miracle, we caught him without injuring ourselves, we'd then have to wrestle him into his sleep wear.  I don't know if you've ever tried to dress a baby that didn't want to be dressed, but I imagine it's something not unlike shoving an angry octopus into a tea cozy.  It just isn't an activity you want to do.  So, we wait him out.  By the time we have repaired Jack's faith in life and the promise of a new tomorrow, reeled Mitch in from whatever world he's currently touring, helped brush teeth; then have an impromptu lecture on the importance of flushing the toilet every time, Henry is usually winding down from his 'death to tyrants' rampage and we once again have the upper hand.  This is when we make our move.  One of us gets his head and talks him down while the other parent changes diaper and clothes like we are in the rodeo.  Baby jammie-ing, a timed two man event.  

People make fun of us that we go to bed at 8:30, but we don't care.  You do what you have to do in order to survive.  We crawl into bed with groans of relief and delight that we made it through another night, while over the baby monitor we listen to the sound of the children laughing.  Why you little....

Popcorn Fantasies

Does anyone else have impossible Christmas fantasies that involve their family getting along for an entire evening, sharing goodies without crying, or singing carols with no one stomping away in anger because some people refuse to sing Frosty The Snowman more than 6 times in a row?  Or am I the only one who has a vision of Christmas as an episode of Leave It To Beaver?

I think that for me, Christmas is a little like childbirth and by the time I'm ready to go through the rigors of the holidays, I've forgotten entirely the level of misery that made me take a solemn oath to never put myself through that particular torture.  Every Thanksgiving I'm astounded to hear myself say things like "This year I want to pull out all the stops and do it right." or "This Christmas is going to be just perfect!".   What am I thinking??  I'm not, actually.  I'm caught up in the Yule tide and barely able to keep my head above eggnog.  Every year I start out with great expectations, but inevitably I reach a moment that reminds me that we are most definitely not the Cleavers.  We are the Everett's and that means we do Christmas our way.  

I may have visions of our family sitting around stringing popcorn while telling Christmas stories and singing songs.  However, Mitch hasn't sat in one place for more than 15 minutes in all of his 4 years on earth, the kids don't listen to any story that doesn't have a dragon or a dinosaur in it, no one knows all of the words to any one song, and popcorn is not meant to be strung.  Ever.  It's horribly fragile and disappointing without butter, therefore it's not worth eating the broken pieces.  So what actually happens is this; Jordan and I end up sending the kids to bed early because stringing popcorn makes us curse like sailors and we are way too exhausted to invent non-expletives.  Instead, we start a swear jar to help pay for therapy and throw away popcorn garlands that are tangled into the physical embodiment of bah-humbug.

We make Christmas goodies, then eat them or throw them away after a week of not being able to find the time to deliver them to friends and neighbors.  We shamelessly use the idea of Santa as a bargaining tool to keep the kids compliant and in line.  We don't decorate the tree because we are tired of yelling at the baby.  We make up elaborate lies to explain why Bill (our elf on the shelf) never seems to move, because we find it impossible to remember to change his hiding place at night.  We hang Christmas lights, then forget to plug them in all month and leave them up until March.

I'm grateful that even though it seems like we, as parents, are doing everything possible to sabotage the season, our children have somehow managed to find a shred of magic to celebrate.  They swallow our elf lies and Santa blackmail with smiles and nods of encouragement.  They exclaim with breathless wonder at the beauty of the bare tree when we remember to plug in the lights.  They delight at the prospect of never ending dessert plates and their hearts are full with the spirit of Christmas.  Children have a way of reminding us of what's important, don't they?

I suppose that the lesson would be that every Christmas is the perfect Christmas, if our hearts are full of joy and good will towards men.  If we have love for our fellow man as well as every living creature, we can ignite a spark of peace that will carry us through the Christmas season and beyond.  I'm going to try, really try, to keep my heart open to the magic of Christmas, instead of focusing on the details of a 'perfect Christmas'.  From now on, I won't stress over the details- I'll focus on joy and love.  No matter what.  Even if the knot slips and the strung cranberries go bouncing to all corners of the house so that the dog finds them, only to barf them up on the living room rug in the dead of night...  God bless us, everyone.

Henry and the Holidays

Christmas through the eyes of a child:

Mom and Dad have put a tree in the living room and covered it with shiny, sparkling things- but if you touch it, they yell at you.

Under the tree are brightly wrapped boxes with bows and curly ribbons that were meant to be pulled.  But you will get yelled at if you touch them.

There are lights hanging from the mantel, but if you pull on the cord- Mom and Dad scream your name and point aggressive fingers at you while saying "NO!"

There are all kinds of wonderful treats and cookies in the kitchen, but if you climb on the counters to sample... you will be scolded and physically removed.

If you pull on the pretty tablecloth with the red flowers on it, and all the dishes land on the floor; you will get yelled at and possibly a spanking.  Mommy will also cry.

If you try to put the red tree decorations in the fireplace, you will most definitely get yelled at.

If you dump out the powdered sugar on the floor, then lay down in it to make a sugar angel, you will get yelled at.  And a bath.

If you throw a pine cone in the toilet... Mommy will use her berserker voice, and while it's difficult to make out the words, it's pretty evident that it's you she is yelling at.

If you smear your Christmas cookie onto the window, Mom will say your name in a resigned martyred tone of voice, then throw away the rest of your cookie.

The train that goes around the bottom of the tree has wonderfully neat toys on it, but if you break one of them off to play with, you will get yelled at.  And you won't get to keep the toy.



For a one year old, there isn't a lot to look forward to with the holidays approaching.  In fact, it seems that if I were Henry's age, I'd boycott the whole thing too so I'm not really surprised that he's thumbing his cute button nose at the magic of Christmas.

As far as he's concerned, there are more spankings involved with Christmas than there is magic.  Hopefully he will discover the magic next year when we can blackmail him with the thought of Santa watching...

The Secrets To Letting Go

Jack had a field trip last Friday to travel an hour away to attend the Fair.  I thought that I was cool with it, but apparently I was deluding myself.  It appears as though I was not ready for the next phase of parenting; letting go.

The morning of the field trip dawned chilly and overcast, and I found myself hoping that the weather would give me an excuse to keep Jack home.  I sighed in frustration when the clouds parted and the sun came out.  Then there was the meltdown he had over which shirt he wore. The permission slip was very specific in that he needed to wear a blue shirt on field trip day.  Jack was of a different opinion and was desperate to wear a black one.  I told him in no uncertain terms that he "will wear the blue shirt or he'd have to stay home!".  Imagine my disappointment when he capitulated and chose the blue shirt.  I had to restrain myself from stomping my foot in a reversal of roles.

  

Giving up on finding an excuse to keep him home and little forever, I shamelessly used scare tactics instead.  All the way to school I told him horrible things such as: "You stay with your teacher all day; if you wander away then you will be lost and you'll never come home." and "Do not talk to strangers.  They will steal you."  Here you go, Mrs. Hodgeson.  Now that he's sufficiently terrified, I'll turn him over into your capable hands.  She probably stepped on him all day because he was glued to her side in panic.  The entire time that I was filling his head with my fears, there was a very tiny part of my brain that was still somewhat rational telling me to 'throttle back'.  But I just couldn't.  Every time I opened my mouth something terrible would come out, so I finally just stopped talking.  When I looked in the back seat, Jack's eyes were huge and the expression on his face said that he couldn't wait to get to school and away from the scary woman his mother had become.  So, I ended the ride on the crazy train by telling him that I was sure that he was going to have a great time, that he was a smart and wonderful boy who would be amazing today and that I was so very proud of him.  Do you know how hard it was for me to drive in the opposite direction of his school bus, instead of following behind to stalk him?  

In my defense, this kid is freaking adorable and to top it off, he has absolutely no sense of self preservation when it comes to keeping personal information personal.  Last Wednesday we were at Wal-Mart loading our groceries onto the conveyor belt when the checker asked Jack: "And how are you today, young man?"  Well, that opened the floodgates on the cache of information he had stored... 

"I'm fine.  My name is Jack and I'm five.  I'm very strong.  I go to Palominas School and my teacher is Mrs. Hodgeson.  We live in the lellow house on the mountain in Hereford.  This is my mom and dad.  My dad doesn't have any hair, but my mom has purple hair and a tattoo on her bum."  

My husband mumbled something about never letting Jack know what his social security and bank account numbers were, and I was grateful that he didn't draw a map of how to get to our house.  Every time he opens his mouth I cringe, thinking that Jack has just ensured that if he is talking to a kidnapper, at least they'll know exactly where to pick him up.  There are no such things as secrets when you are five, and the idea that anyone wouldn't want to have every detail of their lives shouted out to passersby is just unheard of.  

How do I teach him to show restraint without killing his hope for humanity?  How do I protect him without smothering him?  It is such a fragile line between caution and full blown hysteria that finding the delicate balance ensuring my children's safety without damaging their psyche will be harder than I first thought.  I'll probably end up in therapy trying to keep my kids from needing it.