When stock photos don't do what you want, get a camera and do some of your own shooting!!!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Saturday, December 6, 2008
A Real-Life Art Lesson
Lately, with all the things I’m trying to tackle, it seems like much of my home-life is spinning out of control. Where once I used to love making gourmet dinners: Chicken Kiev, with succulent spinach pastries and fluffy wild rice; my current idea of culinary expertise includes Pillsbury crescent rolls, frozen veggie’s and whatever special the Schwann’s man had last week. Where I once used to go all out in decorating for the holidays, picking up Martha Stewart magazines for inspiration to deck my house in holiday cheer; now, I buy the silly gel window clings, hand the packages to my offspring and tell them to ‘have at it’. Cleaning… well, I never had a real love for cleaning, but at least I used to keep things straight and neat: Rings in the tub or toilet? Unheard of, my mother would kill me. (Note the key terminology in this last bit… USED TO.)
Cleaning, had fallen far short on my repertoire of things to do… a few steps down from decorating, far down the list from tossing a frozen pizza into the oven, it was all but at the bottom of the barrel of chores. I loathe cleaning. To me it’s a waste of time, as soon as I pick up my little angels immediately help things back to their proper ‘homey’ place of chaotic untidiness. Dusting? Vacuuming? Well who can do that when the floor is littered with shoes, clothing and toys? My failure as a housewife/live at home maid/ servant (I mean homemaker, the PC term for these jobs is homemaker) had reached a state where the cat’s were having to weave in and out amongst the cluttered minefield to get anywhere in the house, and my husband (who loathes messes and disorganization) was making berserker charges through the house to get from one place to another: Eye’s closed, teeth gritted, plunges across the field—or rooms as the case may be.
It was bad, real bad, and one day, as my husband barged through the room, pushing aside toys and shoes as he tried to reach the coat rack, I surfaced from my other realm of fantasy and horror (I’ve been writing: murder, mayhem, suspense, fantasy) and realized that if I wasn’t careful, my family would soon disown me. It was time to suck it up and get tough.
Drill sergeant mommy came out. After school, children would not pass go, nor would they collect 200 dollars (or in this case get their afternoon snack) unless coats were in the trunk, shoes in the basket, backpacks on the hook. I made a pact with myself to clean the dishes as they got dirty, rather than as I needed them, the craft room… well… uh-hum. Laundry would NOT pile up, cat fur would be vacuumed on a regular basis, I would dust before my children had the ability to etch their names in the layers. AND I would buy those daily wash sprays and tabs for tub and toilet. This was battle! One I was determined to win.
…I remember now why I never liked those 1000 flushes, daily toilet bowl cleaner tabs—or at least not the blue ones. I didn’t grow up with them, my mother never used them (or if she did, she was smart enough to buy the ones that ran clear). I remember once going to a friend’s house that had them and the results were… interesting to say the least, a virtual art lesson in your own bathroom. But, as odd as I found the multiple day experiment, the price was worth it if I didn’t have to get down on hand and knee and scrub said toilet bowl every couple weeks (who am I kidding, every month, yeah, I’m that lazy).
So, despite my reservations on the color, it was with pride that I plopped the tablets into all three of our toilets and merrily went on my business. Toilet’s down, next the shower!
My husband returned home, immediately noting the crystalline blue waters of our porcelain thrown. I beamed under his obvious pleasure. I was acing this homemaker exam.
Next my youngest child, she found the coloring… interesting to say the least. My oldest found it fascinating, and made an afternoon of flushing the toilet over and over again to see if the blue would stay or be washed away. After about the sixteenth flush I had to ban him from the bathroom, except for bathroom emergencies.
Then my middle child, my budding artist, went into the half bath. A minute passed, then another… no flush. She burst out of the room, her face beaming with excitement, blue eyes sparkling, feet skipping, honey locks bouncing and said...
“Mom, hey mom! Come look! Blue and Yellow make GREEN!!!”
Cleaning, had fallen far short on my repertoire of things to do… a few steps down from decorating, far down the list from tossing a frozen pizza into the oven, it was all but at the bottom of the barrel of chores. I loathe cleaning. To me it’s a waste of time, as soon as I pick up my little angels immediately help things back to their proper ‘homey’ place of chaotic untidiness. Dusting? Vacuuming? Well who can do that when the floor is littered with shoes, clothing and toys? My failure as a housewife/live at home maid/ servant (I mean homemaker, the PC term for these jobs is homemaker) had reached a state where the cat’s were having to weave in and out amongst the cluttered minefield to get anywhere in the house, and my husband (who loathes messes and disorganization) was making berserker charges through the house to get from one place to another: Eye’s closed, teeth gritted, plunges across the field—or rooms as the case may be.
It was bad, real bad, and one day, as my husband barged through the room, pushing aside toys and shoes as he tried to reach the coat rack, I surfaced from my other realm of fantasy and horror (I’ve been writing: murder, mayhem, suspense, fantasy) and realized that if I wasn’t careful, my family would soon disown me. It was time to suck it up and get tough.
Drill sergeant mommy came out. After school, children would not pass go, nor would they collect 200 dollars (or in this case get their afternoon snack) unless coats were in the trunk, shoes in the basket, backpacks on the hook. I made a pact with myself to clean the dishes as they got dirty, rather than as I needed them, the craft room… well… uh-hum. Laundry would NOT pile up, cat fur would be vacuumed on a regular basis, I would dust before my children had the ability to etch their names in the layers. AND I would buy those daily wash sprays and tabs for tub and toilet. This was battle! One I was determined to win.
…I remember now why I never liked those 1000 flushes, daily toilet bowl cleaner tabs—or at least not the blue ones. I didn’t grow up with them, my mother never used them (or if she did, she was smart enough to buy the ones that ran clear). I remember once going to a friend’s house that had them and the results were… interesting to say the least, a virtual art lesson in your own bathroom. But, as odd as I found the multiple day experiment, the price was worth it if I didn’t have to get down on hand and knee and scrub said toilet bowl every couple weeks (who am I kidding, every month, yeah, I’m that lazy).
So, despite my reservations on the color, it was with pride that I plopped the tablets into all three of our toilets and merrily went on my business. Toilet’s down, next the shower!
My husband returned home, immediately noting the crystalline blue waters of our porcelain thrown. I beamed under his obvious pleasure. I was acing this homemaker exam.
Next my youngest child, she found the coloring… interesting to say the least. My oldest found it fascinating, and made an afternoon of flushing the toilet over and over again to see if the blue would stay or be washed away. After about the sixteenth flush I had to ban him from the bathroom, except for bathroom emergencies.
Then my middle child, my budding artist, went into the half bath. A minute passed, then another… no flush. She burst out of the room, her face beaming with excitement, blue eyes sparkling, feet skipping, honey locks bouncing and said...
“Mom, hey mom! Come look! Blue and Yellow make GREEN!!!”
Thou shall not use the Lord’s name in Vain
This was actually something that happened a few years back, when Jillian was a baby, Kaitlyn was two and my son, Aiden, was four. I’d forgotten about this until now...
We’d had, for many months now, a family of Jehovah’s Witness stopping in about once every weekend. I like to think it was because we were just so gosh darn nice, that they saw an inner spark in us that made them want to become acquainted with us. I mean, we certainly weren’t in need of redemption. True, we don’t attend church as often as we should (we’re Roman Catholic). True, familial prayers of thankfulness are only brought out and dusted off for those big holiday get together’s. Despite these lapses, I like to think I’m raising my children to know the difference between right and wrong, to be respectful and polite, to follow the age-old, golden adage of ‘do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ They are good children, if a bit hyper at times, but their hearts are large and filled with love, both given and received….
But I digress. The reason I’m telling you all this is because I was so proud of myself whenever our Jehovah’s ‘friends’ showed up. I was polite, my children were… well, not screaming and running around like maniacs, my house was relatively clean. We always took their ‘newsletters’ with a smile and promise to look them over. When pressured, we gently replied that we were happy with the church we currently attended. I guess I truly thought they kept on coming back because we were always so open and friendly. I think it must be hard to be part of a religion that makes their members go on ‘quests’ to recruit new members. I mean, look at what happens when the Rainbow Vacuum Specialists are making the rounds! The first ‘victim’ in the neighborhood, after slamming the door in their face, quickly calls around to all the neighbors, who then go into Escape and Evade mode. Doors are locked and bolted, lights are turned off, you grab the children and hide in the back room closet, hoping, praying that the vacuum toting salesperson (who promises to get 6 square feet of your carpet cleaner than you can imagine—and leave the rest so dirty that you HAVE to buy the vacuum or, new carpet) will get tired of knocking their knuckles raw on the front door and leave before the baby starts squalling and gives you away. I imagine that the reception to traveling ‘religious recruiters’ is not all that different. So I honestly thought that stopping by so routinely was their way of fulfilling their quota for the week with a friendly, ‘no doors slammed in your face’, kinda family.
Until that fateful day…
On this day, the house was not clean, in fact it looked like a tornado had struck: racing through the house, upturning cushions, scattering toys, flinging shoes and socks far and wide… On this day, my face did not hold a friendly smile; a combination of illness, stress, lack of sleep and hyper children had set my features into a permanent down turned scowl…. On this day, my eldest child, my son, the child that most resembles me in personality and physical features, decided to reveal to not just myself, but our faithful guests, just how far from polite and respectful we were…
Jillian was crying, again. I had determined at 3 am that morning that she must be teething, or still suffering lingering effects from the nasty viral infection that she’d had the past week. The same viral infection that I was currently suffering from. Cold? you ask. Um, no. It was not, merely, a cold. This illness grabbed onto you like the flu, claws unsheathed: high fever, aching body, sore throat soon followed by the coughing hacking, sneezing, stuffy, pounding headache symptoms of a whopper, Nyquil—so you can get your rest medicine—cold. Only I couldn’t rest, and it wasn’t the flu (I’d already brought my children to the doctor and been told it was just ‘a nasty virus going around’). Regardless, I was miserable—and so was Jillian. My elder children, on the other hand, were not miserable. They were having a grand time amusing themselves. A game of bowling for toys had ensued in the hallway downstairs, a rousing diversion of fling your dirty socks onto the fan had followed, after that… well, I don’t know what they’d done after that.
I was just trying to survive.
So needless to say, it was not with any sort of miniscule relief when the doorbell rang and diverted me from my all important quest for survival. I glanced up at the clock: 9am, realized the day… dawning horror clenched my chest. The Jehovah’s Witness were here—to witness my failure as a mother and housewife. Great. Trying to twist my scowl into some semblance of a smile, and failing miserably, I jammed my finger into Jillian’s mouth (she wouldn’t use a binky, only my upside down finger) hoping the enticing fleshy treat would curb a needy baby’s appetite for constant attention and quiet the ceaseless crying. A piercing scream emitted from somewhere upstairs. I responded in kind; cringed as I realized my visitors probably heard that, too. My hand closed on the doorknob, I took a quick glance around—oh hell, I mean heck, oh heck—and opened the door anyway.
“Hello,” the lovely, impeccably dressed woman holding pamphlet and bible greeted me. “How are you today?”
I glanced down. If my sweatshirt clad body and red nose wasn’t a big ole ‘Not Well’ sign, then these people had no idea what the meaning of true suffering was. Then again, when faced with crucifixion and end of days scenarios on a daily basis, my misery was miniscule to them.
I mumbled a reply, then tried to divert their attention, “And you?”
Which of course, paved the way for an in depth homily on the recent teachings of the pamphlet she was holding. My sad attempt of a smile faded by the first coming. By the time I was given a refresher course on the sacrifice Our Lord Savior had made for us, my ears had plugged up.
Something bumped my elbow. Aiden, curious as to who the visitor’s were.
Jehovah’s shepherdess smiled down at him, then went on to wax poetically about the second coming of Christ and when Jesus descended-
My eyes glazed over.
Aiden pushed forward, eyes wide, and exclaimed in his best evangelical preacher voice…..
“Did you say ‘Geee-zus’!?"
Oh God-I mean gosh... I hung my head in shame.
We’d had, for many months now, a family of Jehovah’s Witness stopping in about once every weekend. I like to think it was because we were just so gosh darn nice, that they saw an inner spark in us that made them want to become acquainted with us. I mean, we certainly weren’t in need of redemption. True, we don’t attend church as often as we should (we’re Roman Catholic). True, familial prayers of thankfulness are only brought out and dusted off for those big holiday get together’s. Despite these lapses, I like to think I’m raising my children to know the difference between right and wrong, to be respectful and polite, to follow the age-old, golden adage of ‘do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ They are good children, if a bit hyper at times, but their hearts are large and filled with love, both given and received….
But I digress. The reason I’m telling you all this is because I was so proud of myself whenever our Jehovah’s ‘friends’ showed up. I was polite, my children were… well, not screaming and running around like maniacs, my house was relatively clean. We always took their ‘newsletters’ with a smile and promise to look them over. When pressured, we gently replied that we were happy with the church we currently attended. I guess I truly thought they kept on coming back because we were always so open and friendly. I think it must be hard to be part of a religion that makes their members go on ‘quests’ to recruit new members. I mean, look at what happens when the Rainbow Vacuum Specialists are making the rounds! The first ‘victim’ in the neighborhood, after slamming the door in their face, quickly calls around to all the neighbors, who then go into Escape and Evade mode. Doors are locked and bolted, lights are turned off, you grab the children and hide in the back room closet, hoping, praying that the vacuum toting salesperson (who promises to get 6 square feet of your carpet cleaner than you can imagine—and leave the rest so dirty that you HAVE to buy the vacuum or, new carpet) will get tired of knocking their knuckles raw on the front door and leave before the baby starts squalling and gives you away. I imagine that the reception to traveling ‘religious recruiters’ is not all that different. So I honestly thought that stopping by so routinely was their way of fulfilling their quota for the week with a friendly, ‘no doors slammed in your face’, kinda family.
Until that fateful day…
On this day, the house was not clean, in fact it looked like a tornado had struck: racing through the house, upturning cushions, scattering toys, flinging shoes and socks far and wide… On this day, my face did not hold a friendly smile; a combination of illness, stress, lack of sleep and hyper children had set my features into a permanent down turned scowl…. On this day, my eldest child, my son, the child that most resembles me in personality and physical features, decided to reveal to not just myself, but our faithful guests, just how far from polite and respectful we were…
Jillian was crying, again. I had determined at 3 am that morning that she must be teething, or still suffering lingering effects from the nasty viral infection that she’d had the past week. The same viral infection that I was currently suffering from. Cold? you ask. Um, no. It was not, merely, a cold. This illness grabbed onto you like the flu, claws unsheathed: high fever, aching body, sore throat soon followed by the coughing hacking, sneezing, stuffy, pounding headache symptoms of a whopper, Nyquil—so you can get your rest medicine—cold. Only I couldn’t rest, and it wasn’t the flu (I’d already brought my children to the doctor and been told it was just ‘a nasty virus going around’). Regardless, I was miserable—and so was Jillian. My elder children, on the other hand, were not miserable. They were having a grand time amusing themselves. A game of bowling for toys had ensued in the hallway downstairs, a rousing diversion of fling your dirty socks onto the fan had followed, after that… well, I don’t know what they’d done after that.
I was just trying to survive.
So needless to say, it was not with any sort of miniscule relief when the doorbell rang and diverted me from my all important quest for survival. I glanced up at the clock: 9am, realized the day… dawning horror clenched my chest. The Jehovah’s Witness were here—to witness my failure as a mother and housewife. Great. Trying to twist my scowl into some semblance of a smile, and failing miserably, I jammed my finger into Jillian’s mouth (she wouldn’t use a binky, only my upside down finger) hoping the enticing fleshy treat would curb a needy baby’s appetite for constant attention and quiet the ceaseless crying. A piercing scream emitted from somewhere upstairs. I responded in kind; cringed as I realized my visitors probably heard that, too. My hand closed on the doorknob, I took a quick glance around—oh hell, I mean heck, oh heck—and opened the door anyway.
“Hello,” the lovely, impeccably dressed woman holding pamphlet and bible greeted me. “How are you today?”
I glanced down. If my sweatshirt clad body and red nose wasn’t a big ole ‘Not Well’ sign, then these people had no idea what the meaning of true suffering was. Then again, when faced with crucifixion and end of days scenarios on a daily basis, my misery was miniscule to them.
I mumbled a reply, then tried to divert their attention, “And you?”
Which of course, paved the way for an in depth homily on the recent teachings of the pamphlet she was holding. My sad attempt of a smile faded by the first coming. By the time I was given a refresher course on the sacrifice Our Lord Savior had made for us, my ears had plugged up.
Something bumped my elbow. Aiden, curious as to who the visitor’s were.
Jehovah’s shepherdess smiled down at him, then went on to wax poetically about the second coming of Christ and when Jesus descended-
My eyes glazed over.
Aiden pushed forward, eyes wide, and exclaimed in his best evangelical preacher voice…..
“Did you say ‘Geee-zus’!?"
Oh God-I mean gosh... I hung my head in shame.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
For everything else, there's procrastination.
Scene:
Father driving home, listening to classical music, loosening his tie as he waits for the light to change. Splice too mother. Jerky camera motions as we watch her try to juggle her tasks. She's still in her PJ's from that morning, hair pinned up in helpless mass as she tries to straighten up, fold laundry and start dinner. The kids run through, cymbals, drum and obnoxious horn clashing. Camera speeds up to follow children into living room. They exit. Sound lowers till just muted background noise. The camera slows and pans around room taking in the tossed pillows, tangled throws, an army of medieval figurines lay where they fell during the last battle.
Voice over: Cleaning the living room. Including restoring the armies to their former glory. Value: Three blue tokens.
Camera picks up children on the second round, mother yelling something over the noise, camera breaks off and zooms in on kitchen table where papers are strewn, globs of glue are dripping onto the chairs and markers left uncapped after decorating both coloring book and table.
Voice over: Putting away all craft items and setting the table for dinner. Value: Four white tokens and ice cream for desert.
Follow mother as she goes up stairs, calling over her shoulder and opens door to child’s room. Stops, frozen in the doorway, close up of her shocked face. Splice to close up of Barbie play house where Barbie is sitting down with Ken to a romantic dinner for two. As the camera zooms out we see that the rest of the room around the doll house looks like a nuclear war head went off, the depth of discarded toys getting deeper the further you get from Barbie's dining room. No spot was spared.
Voice over: Attacking the mess that is their rooms so that mom and dad can see the tops of the dresser and all the floor. One red token.
Mother standing before children, tokens offered in one hand as she tries to get them to help pick up. It is obvious she is trying to strike a deal. One hand tokens, the other (slice motion) nothing.
Voice over: Procrastinating all of the above tasks till later?
Children, as one, shake their heads no.
Voice over: Priceless.
Children run off to resume the parade. Mother hangs her head.
Voice over: In the world of parenting bribery and rewards are a good start to getting your child to do what you want. For everything else... well...
Father driving home, listening to classical music, loosening his tie as he waits for the light to change. Splice too mother. Jerky camera motions as we watch her try to juggle her tasks. She's still in her PJ's from that morning, hair pinned up in helpless mass as she tries to straighten up, fold laundry and start dinner. The kids run through, cymbals, drum and obnoxious horn clashing. Camera speeds up to follow children into living room. They exit. Sound lowers till just muted background noise. The camera slows and pans around room taking in the tossed pillows, tangled throws, an army of medieval figurines lay where they fell during the last battle.
Voice over: Cleaning the living room. Including restoring the armies to their former glory. Value: Three blue tokens.
Camera picks up children on the second round, mother yelling something over the noise, camera breaks off and zooms in on kitchen table where papers are strewn, globs of glue are dripping onto the chairs and markers left uncapped after decorating both coloring book and table.
Voice over: Putting away all craft items and setting the table for dinner. Value: Four white tokens and ice cream for desert.
Follow mother as she goes up stairs, calling over her shoulder and opens door to child’s room. Stops, frozen in the doorway, close up of her shocked face. Splice to close up of Barbie play house where Barbie is sitting down with Ken to a romantic dinner for two. As the camera zooms out we see that the rest of the room around the doll house looks like a nuclear war head went off, the depth of discarded toys getting deeper the further you get from Barbie's dining room. No spot was spared.
Voice over: Attacking the mess that is their rooms so that mom and dad can see the tops of the dresser and all the floor. One red token.
Mother standing before children, tokens offered in one hand as she tries to get them to help pick up. It is obvious she is trying to strike a deal. One hand tokens, the other (slice motion) nothing.
Voice over: Procrastinating all of the above tasks till later?
Children, as one, shake their heads no.
Voice over: Priceless.
Children run off to resume the parade. Mother hangs her head.
Voice over: In the world of parenting bribery and rewards are a good start to getting your child to do what you want. For everything else... well...
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Memoirs of a mom... They can be taught!!!
I’m rather sure that there is not a mother out there that at some point in their mothering career doesn’t stand up one day and realize that they have turned into the one thing that feminists around the globe abhor… A virtual slave to her family. You might say ‘isn’t that a bit harsh Tracy? I mean a slave?! I say no. For I know. Somehow, slowly, over time… I have become a slave.
It starts simply enough. They’re babies after all… and you need to care for them. They depend on you for every little need. We feed them, clean them, comfort them when they cry, keep them warm, protect them. We rock them to sleep, we hang on every little hiccup that comes over the monitor and we (first time mothers especially) jump up and run to their bedside at the slightest little squeak… basically we are condition, and condition them, from the onset that whatever it is that they need (or think they need) we are there to provide. And so it goes. They grow, and don’t need so much, yet still we bend over backwards to make them happy. We’re conditioned and they expect it after all. Till one day you find yourself scurrying around, answering every demand put to you, no matter how ludicrous or demeaning the request, and what’s more you’re HURRYING to get it done because you know if you don’t the wrath these little masters will come down upon you and you know if you don’t get that snack in front of the ravenous young or get the pink skirt washed before tomorrow morning for your sensitive fashion conscious daughter to where because it’s Emma’s birthday at school tomorrow, that chaos will descend upon your happy household and Yee Gods!! As nurturer, healer, protector, caretaker, we can’t have that. Till one day while in the middle of fulfilling some request, normally a little something that you’ve done a hundred thousand and one times before, you are hit with the realization that this, this maid service, has gotten completely out of hand. AND IT MUST STOP!!!
For me it happened a few weeks after the Christmas holiday’s had ended. Ok, well, I can say that I knew I was being taken advantage of before now, I think every mother deep in the back of their minds realize this long before they put their foot down and make a stand for their rights, but it didn’t REALLY hit home till that day. That day was like any other you might say. My two older heathens were off at school where the teaching of reading, writing and manners was happily passed off to someone else J, and it was just me and my youngest… my little sweet adorable angel, Jillian. An angel you say? Now come Tracy, you’re exaggerating here. And I say, no really!!! Jillian is a copy and paste kind of child. If one could copy her, paste her, and make as many little Jilly’s as one could I’d make a thousand. And then I’d make more, and then, maybe, just maybe, I’d make some more and gulp, share them with all the other deserving moms out there who for just one day would like a sweet, adorable, perfect child who at three years of age could be counted on to play quietly and independently, who afterwards would declare “This is a mess!” then proceed to clean it UP! Who can always be counted on for a good cuddle and smile when your feeling down or conversely, in the few times when she’s sad can be easily cheered by a quick hug, kiss and a few sweet words, who is always willing to ‘help’ mom with whatever household task she’s currently doing (switching laundry, sweeping, dusting, dishes… you name it, she’s willing to help) and who ALSO knows to go off and amuse herself when mom’s ‘busy’. I mean, what more could a mother want, right? She’s perfect. She’s an ANGEL!!!
So I’m home, alone with my little angel (ok, ok, stop scoffing at me. Yes, I’ll give a little here. She’s an angel now. And yes, I’m sure I’ll pay for this later on… because right now she’s independent but she still thinks the world of me and wants to emulate and please me… as a tween and beyond she’ll be independent and well, you know what kids think of their parents in those years… I’m in trouble, that’s all I got to say on the subject.) So as I was saying (if you’d stop interrupting) is I was at home, alone with my little ANGEL, and I’m typing away as another brainstorm had hit me during the previous night when Jillian comes up and nudges her way under my arm.
“I want something to drink.”
“Ok. Just a minute.” I responded absently and continued to type. A little hand grabbed my sleeve and pulled. Incredulously I looked down into a pouty little face.
“I want Juice!!!” She demanded. And oh, if you could have seen her face. It was a face that promised divine retribution if I didn’t snap to and get her that juice now. You probably think this is when my moment of enlightenment came. When I would realize that my perfect sweet little angel was falling from grace, treating me, her MOTHER, as nothing more than a common maidservant, and would soon became just another heathen in my household. But it’s not.
“Ok.” I continued to type frantically, trying desperately to squeeze out as much ‘me time’ as I could before my littlest wrath was released upon me. “can you find your sippy cup for mommy?” I asked in a desperate attempt to buy time.
“I don’t know where it is.”
“Well can you find it?” Uh oh, big mistake. I’d pushed my little angel too far. Without any further warning the already volatile situation exploded and my sweet little perfect? Angel was reduced to a blubbering mass of tears on the floor beside me.
Tears + pitiful face + guilty mom = getting what you want.
It’s a formula that has been passed down through the ages, from one child to another, from oldest child to youngest, like a great grass roots movement every child learns through brother, sister, friends and peers these timeless tricks to getting what you want, and getting it now.
But yet, I still wasn’t aware of just how I was being manipulated. The mommy in me could see only one thing.
My littlest was crying. I, intent on stealing these moments of ‘me time’ had neglected my baby’s needs. And now, here she was before me, thirsty, crying, and pitifully helpless. She couldn’t get her own drink, she was too young, and she needed ME to do these things for her. It was my job as a mother and by neglecting her needs I’d made her CRY. So I did what any brainwashed mother did. I jumped up, searched down the missing sippy cup (it was in the middle of the TV room floor) and get my little angel some Juice. I didn’t even water it down I felt so bad.
Child happy again, she retreated from the room to go play with her polly pockets. Phew. Crisis averted.
I sat down, ready to resume my typing, yet I couldn’t. I’d lost the rhythm, I’d FORGOTTEN what I’d been about to type and even rereading what I’d been doing didn’t do anything towards stirring my creative juices once more. And THAT, that was when the little light bulb went off.
This had to stop!!! My sweet angel was being corrupted!!! I was raising HEATHENS!!! I was an affront to every mother out there. Yes, it was our job to provide for and protect our young but it was ALSO our duty to teach them the ways of the adult world. And that included manners, respect, patience, understanding… etc… I knew it wasn’t going to stop overnight though. I had to pick small battles, win ground, fortify, then strike out for more. And my first battle would be… yup, how to politely request a liquid beverage as needed for the quenching of thirst.
The next few weeks of my ‘How to ask for a drink’ campaign went reasonably well. Sure we had our moments when wills butted and only through sheer stubbornness and dedication to my cause that I made it through. But in the end I’d won! I’d taught them to not only show respect by asking nicely and using words like please and thank you, but to keep track of their own cups and wait patiently for me to complete the request of obtaining them a drink. Endless lectures of patience and usage of such words as ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ finally paid off. The rough edges around my little heathens had been smoothed down and I was routinely hearing pleases and thank you’s for not just beverage requests but snack requests as well! YEAH! I’d won the campaign. Or so I’d thought…
So there it was, one thirty in the afternoon, Jilly was absorbed in one of my favorite educational shows on PBS, the older two had not yet returned from school and I was trying to get a little shut eye in my room. Oh stop, I have a good excuse here. you see I am the mother of three young children (no that’s not my only excuse), and AS a mother of three young children not only am I consistently woken up at night for various reasons: ranging from ‘bad dreams’ to potty runs, to my all time favorite ‘my blanket fell down! –(that one’s Jilly’s current favorite, her toddler guard has been taken off the bed to prepare her for a big kid bed and so as she thrashes and turns throughout the night it eventually slips off her onto the floor, the floor that is 18 inches down and would require getting out of the bed to collect her blankets… Jilly does NOT get out of bed on her own. Even now, at 3 ½ years old, a year and a half after removing the side of the crib and two months after taking off the toddler safety bar she still wakes up in the morning, sits up, and then proceeds to announce, quiet firmly but in the sweetest sing song voice, that ‘It’s Morning!!’ and then repeats this statement until you eventually walk upstairs to get her. She will do this a dozen times until you come, she will do this for TEN Minutes until you come! I’ve told her she’s old enough to come out of the room on her own in the morning; I’ve tried to wait her out… but haven’t succeeded. Her pitiful cries of ‘It’s morning!’ eventually turn to forlorn cries for ‘MOMMY!’ and I ask you, what mom can ignore that?) Aside done, and this was still not the reason why I desperately needed a nap that afternoon. You see, as the mother of three young children, three cute adorable, dirty, germy young children I have a tendency to be sick a lot. Especially in the winter when germs are abundant and the weather lends to cozy family intimacies within the walls of the house (ie. We get a good dose of cabin fever. I never knew what cabin fever really meant till I was a stay at home mom of three kids, now I know. It’s not the generally believed analogy for the boredom and mild craziness that people experience in the winter when they are stuck inside the house for weeks on end. Nope, uh huh, I’ve learned through personal experience that it has a much more literal translation. In winter you are stuck inside be it your home, the grocery store, work, your car, so are your children, and they are stuck inside the most wonderful germ breeding grounds there are! SCHOOL and PLAYCENTERS!!! So they go, picking up these unwanted stowaways, and bring them HOME where mom is anxiously waiting to receive her long lost young and bring them into the protection of her home, where they rub their germy little hands all over her and dispense sweet kiss from slobbery mouths on snotty faces. And the inevitable happens… MOM GETS SICK!!! And let me tell you. Once the walls of mom’s immune system has been breached once, it becomes very, very easy to breach them again. So she gets sick, starts to recover, but never quite all the way before she gets bombarded with another attack and falls prey to these evil enemies again, and again, and again!!!!
So there I was, still in recovery, and trying to get a few minutes of shut eye before the rest of my horde returned home and had JUST SUCCEEDED in actually falling asleep when something pinged my on the back of my shoulder (I’m a side sleeper). Groggily I turn my head towards the far side of the bed, carefully restraining my attack instincts for I suspected (correctly) that this was no foe that had entered the borders of my territory but was one of my own charges, and met the gaze of my smiling three year old. (Ahh… she’s so cute, my attack instincts receded a bit more)
“What is it honey?” I managed to whisper, rubbing my eyes to clear them.
“I want juice please.” She announced.
Ah, she’d said please, good, my ‘training’ was finally paying off. “Bring me your sippy cup.” I automatically replied.
“I did!” She announced happily.
Confused I opened my lids all the way and tried to roll over but was halted by the presence of something hard and cylindrical. Ah, this must have been the sting I felt on my shoulder, I’d thought it my imagination till now. Curiously I shifted till I was able to see just what had hit me and was met with the sight of, yup, you guessed it, a sippy cup! She’d THROWN IT at me!!! Yes, she had, as I’ve been trying to teach her for weeks now, BROUGHT me the sippy cup before asking for something more to drink but I ask you, when, in all my lecturing, did I ever tell her to THROW IT at me? Especially when I’m SLEEPING!?!
“Jill, did you throw this cup at mommy?” I asked in a most reasonable tone of voice. Her smile widened. “Jilly it’s not nice to throw things at people. You could have hurt mommy.” Her little brow furrowed in confusion. I sighed inwardly. “Next time you bring me your sippy cup just hand it to me, don’t throw it ok?”
“Ok mommy.” She said contritely. (I think deep down I recognized that there was a touch of cheekiness in the way she said it, but deep down I also chose to ignore it.)
“Good girl.”
She smiled. “I said please!” She announced happy once more.
“Yes, yes you did.”
So I did what any mother would do when faced with a bright smile and the word please, I kissed my extra five minutes of shuteye good bye and got up to get my daughter some juice. And, yes, my request to not throw the sippy cup in the future did work… she has not thrown the cup at either me or her father since that one time. Though one time she rolled it too my feet from across the room when I’m sitting at my desk working, squeaked out ‘Juice please’ then giggled and ran off. And another time I was working on dinner when she appeared by my side, imperiously stretched her royal hand out, with said treasured sippy cup in it, while turning her nose in the other direction and pronouncing “More juice. Please.” (hey at least she remembered that.). And my all time favorite was when her father was stretched out on the couch sleeping and she got his attention my ‘tapping’ the cup repeatedly into his forehead till he woke up then, tipping her head adoringly from side to side, nicely asked him for ‘More juice please daddy?’. As daddy said, she’s ‘darn lucky’ she’s cute because I about reached out and strangled her for hitting me.
So yes, children can be taught, and mothers don’t have to be slaves… just don’t be surprised when what they learn is not exactly what you were trying to teach. Inevitably they are children, and we are their mothers, the dynamics of this relationship is longstanding… We teach, they learn, but they are their own beings and exacting conformity to our parental wishes and expectations will never happen. They will always find ways to express their individuality and in doing so will continually ‘test the limit’s’ on our patience and dedication to the task of ‘good parenting’.
But I ask you, would we really want it any other way? After all, how boring the world would be if all children were the same, perfect little copy and paste angels lacking in any individual characteristics. So you were right. Jillian is not an Angel in the divine sense of the word. She’s just a child, a cute adorable child who, in general, has an easy going eager to please nature. But she’s my little imperfect angel. And I’ll take her and my other little heathens any day of the week.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Memoir's of a Mom - We work until we die (otherwise known as the ketchup incident)
It was a morning like any other morning… the kids had been roused from their beds, with much poking, prodding and body armor on my part, and were now settled comfortably in front of the heating vents in the kitchen, happily munching on their breakfast of, ooh so nutritious, toaster strudel and chocolate milk. I, as was also typical of this time in the morning, was rushing around gathering ingredients to make the standard questionably nutritious bag lunch of PB & J, chocolate chip granola bars, juice box, some sort of fruit item and filler snack (normally pretzels or chips). Sounds simple, but it’s a trying task which I hem and haw over every morning thinking to myself about how I could come up with ways to make their lunches more nutritious (while at the same time yummy and enticing) that would actually stand up to the battering of the long bus ride, being stuffed into lockers and manhandled by my young.
It was as I was liberally spreading peanut butter (Aiden, my self proclaimed vegetarian needs protein so I put it on thick) on a slice of (ye gods, enriched white bread, I sent up an apology to my own mother) that Aiden, having had a pseudo cold for the last week, got up and grabbed a Kleenex and went to toss it in the garbage.
“WOW COOL!!!”
I glanced over. His face had lit up like a Christmas tree with the discovery of a red splotch of gooey mess on the lid of the trash can and I thought to myself (already anticipating just where this might lead)… this is what I get for putting things off.
I feel the need for a side note here, and a bit of an explanation. You see, I knew exactly what that red splotchy gooey mess was, of course, and I knew just how long it had been there. Dinner, two nights ago, had been another not very nutritious meal of chicken nuggets (the one meat Aiden will eat, his philosophy is that if its breaded it’s not really chicken… its nuggets and that’s ok), tatter tots and yes, that’s right, canned green beans. For those, my mother, cringing as you read that last line my excuse (hey, I’m a mom, not an army grunt) is forthcoming… Tim hadn’t been home that evening, trying to make up for an afternoon dentist appointment, and I, running around frantically trying to finish some pre-Christmas chores, had coped out on not only dinner, but had also allowed them to eat it in front of a movie and given them all gobs of ketchup for dipping. Amazingly both furniture and child escaped the wrath of smooshed tomatoes and corn syrup that evening since as soon as the ravenous consumption of chicken and beans had abated and the noise, other than movies and munching started to ensue, I’d collected the plates that still held a good amount of ketchup and tots (they only really like their potatoes in fry form) and hastily scrapped them into the garbage.
Side, side note: You will note I said I did this all hastily. From experience I have learned that to postpone picking up leftovers is like an invitation to Aiden, and his cohorts, to indulge in all sorts of mischief. It seems that once the edge of hunger is taken off he resorts to his more basic boy instincts as his mind turns to just what he could do with the rest of his unused meal and more often than not drags any associates that do not hold a measure of responsibility into his dark world of self indulgence. See what excellent parenting skills I can display? Anticipation? Cutting them off at the pass? Eh? Eh? What’s that? NO?!?! Oh come on now, no need to refresh my memory on ‘not so nutritious’ meals and slack parenting skills… let me pat myself on the back a bit here. I too like to succumb to self indulgence upon occasion and everyone needs a pick me up in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary and just because I consider chocolate chip granola bars healthy, routinely feed my kids chips and nuggets and run my house with a ‘good enough’ attitude on cleanliness… wait, I’m getting ahead of myself, go ahead, read on…
Now I could claim here that I didn’t notice that a healthy glob of red goo had been slopped onto the lid of the garbage can as I raced to scrap stack and scrub the dishes before hurrying the kids off to bed, but that would be a lie. And really, what is worse on a mother’s conscious, to pen ones lie to timelessly be read over and over again as this story is shared amongst all my known family and friends (and possibly some strangers besides) or to just readily admit to my less than noteworthy, enough to get by, housekeeping skills. So yes, with all the hustle and bustle of the season (hey, I need some excuse here, right?) I saw that big ole splotch of goo hit the garbage lid, quickly contemplated the time and effort involved in cleaning it right then, and left it instead, with a growl of disgust, for a later date when I wouldn’t be so rushed, cranky or tired. Yeah right, like that is ever going to happen. Aside done… back to the story.
“What is it Aiden?” Kaitlyn, sitting in front of her own toasty warm heater across the room, and always eager to share in her brothers ‘adventures in life’, craned her head to the side in an attempt to see just what had captured his attention.
“Ketchup!” Aiden exclaimed jovially. “Look at it! It’s sticking to the top of the trash can, it went like shwat and stuck there and now it’s like way cool.”
I inwardly rolled my eyes, going back to my spreading. Kaitlyn, seduced by the laughter in her brothers voice as he went on to describe the sheer perfection of the gooey sticky glob sprang up to take a closer look. I spread the jelly.
“EHhh! It’s sticky!” Kaitlyn cried out as I cringed inwardly, thoughts of stains and germs dancing in my head. Aiden, of course, had to touch it as well, and gave a high pitch rather girlish (he’s still young… hopefully he’ll grow out of this when his voice changes) squeak of glee. Partners in crime looked at each other with wide eyes and opened mouthed ‘Oh’s’ of delight as, I’m sure, their infinite little minds filled with all sorts of ideas of just how cool it would be if and what else they could do with a sticky pile of ketchupy goo.
Ok, it was now time to draw the parental line and put a stop to this before it got ugly.
“Leave it alone, sit down, and eat your breakfast. You have five minutes before it’s time to brush your teeth.” I dictated, inflicting just the right amount of ‘don’t mess with me’ authority into my voice.
They settled, amazing, but not without a lot of back and forth banter involving that glorious splotch of red. This is where I should have held my tongue. But I didn’t…
“Here is the philosophical difference between us bud.” I said, not chidingly, to Aiden as he’s the one that had started it all and he’s the leader when it comes to the discovery of red goo, mud puddles and other such things. I was actually in a good mood that morning (Christmas was coming after all) and although I found the whole sticky ketchup thing rather disgusting their reaction to it was kind of funny (and probably similar to what my own reaction would have been as a child). But that not withstanding, I felt this was a perfect time to open the lines of communication between mother and child, to let them see what wearing my shoes meant, to gain new understanding on life and responsibility and just why a mom is sometimes, ok often, inclined to ‘raise her voice’ when her offspring stumble upon such wondrous discoveries as this.
“I look at that ketchup on the lid,” I went on, “and see something totally different. Not only do I see a gooey sticky mess that needs cleaning, one that has probably stained that lid, but I see a perishable food item that after a couple days has already started to grow a plethora of mold and germs that could very well make you sick if you poke and prod at it. Especially since neither of you bothered to wash your hands before going back to eat your breakfast.” I let that sink in a moment. I didn’t even have to define plethora. I’m going with the theory that they understood, I use the word enough, not with the theory that they were toning me out. Hmm… Aiden was, however, giving me the devilish wide eyed, open mouthed look again. I hate that look, it puts my mommy hackles up on edge. “You, on the other hand, my dear boy, look at it and go ‘Cool! Look at that!’ and make it sound so neat and new and exciting that all the kids around you are crowding around the trash can poking at the sticky mess, getting themselves dirty, picking up germs, and spreading them around!”
“Wha?” Aiden shook his head at me and gave me that goofy mouthed grin of incredulity. That said… Like, wow mom, you’re really nuts aren’t you. That’s kind of funny that you’re so nutty. Or possibly it was simply… So what? And I care because… I ignored it and continued dispersing my supreme knowledge.
“So there it is bud, a little taste of my life.” I was met with another ‘ok whatever’ look. Obviously I wasn’t getting through. Plan b was quickly formed.
“Maybe we can, like, trade?” his mouth skewed up into a twist, his chin drawn in as he looked back and forth between me and his sister. Think goofy written all over his face and add a twirling finger at the side of his head and you’ll get what he was not so subtly saying about me to his sister. “Don’t you want to let me sit there in front of that nice warm heater while you make breakfast, pack lunch, hustle your children along and worry about them poking at ketchup and getting sick?
“Uh no. That’s ok.”
Sometimes I wonder if he’s only six. I remember using the same lines when I was a tween and beyond.
“Please?” I begged. “I would love to sit there. My feet are really cold you know. And I’m so tired…”
“But you don’t sit here mommy.”
Touché. Good point. When I sit down in the kitchen for a minute to relax it is always on the rug in front of ‘Kaitlyn’s heater.’ Hey, I’m entitled to my moments of self indulgence too, and those heaters, oh those heaters… they’re so warm and inviting…
I turned to Kaitlyn, the light of enthusiasm in my eyes as I tried to convince her that she, did in fact, not only want to, but truly desired to trade positions with me.
“How bout it Kaitlyn. Can I sit there? You can pack the lunches while I sit where you’re sitting now, goof around and get nice and toasty warm?”
She gave me a big smile… and shook her head no.
“But I’m tired of working!” I whined petulantly as I pulled the juice boxes from the fridge. “That’s all I do. Work, work, work. Why can’t I just sit in front of the heater and relax while someone else takes care of me. I want to be a kid again!”
“But you can’t!” Aiden piped up from across the room.
And that’s when it happened, when all my lazy housekeeping, fumbling parenting, and grand scheming came back to bite me in the pattutie. Kaitlyn, the kind hearted child that she is, had been affected by my ‘woe is me’ ranting and wanted to make me feel better by dispensing her own words of wisdom…
She got up, coming over to give me a pat on the shoulder, and said in a voice filled with sympathy, “that’s ok mommy. Someday you’ll die and you won’t have to work anymore.”
The lesson, as taught to me by my five year old…. It is not that we work hard to play before we die… it is that we play… then work until we die.
Hope my suffering has given you all at least a laugh or two! I’m off to the grocery store with a half-a$$ed list of necessary ingredients for the next five dinners…
p.s. for those of you who are curious… the ketchup is still there…
It was as I was liberally spreading peanut butter (Aiden, my self proclaimed vegetarian needs protein so I put it on thick) on a slice of (ye gods, enriched white bread, I sent up an apology to my own mother) that Aiden, having had a pseudo cold for the last week, got up and grabbed a Kleenex and went to toss it in the garbage.
“WOW COOL!!!”
I glanced over. His face had lit up like a Christmas tree with the discovery of a red splotch of gooey mess on the lid of the trash can and I thought to myself (already anticipating just where this might lead)… this is what I get for putting things off.
I feel the need for a side note here, and a bit of an explanation. You see, I knew exactly what that red splotchy gooey mess was, of course, and I knew just how long it had been there. Dinner, two nights ago, had been another not very nutritious meal of chicken nuggets (the one meat Aiden will eat, his philosophy is that if its breaded it’s not really chicken… its nuggets and that’s ok), tatter tots and yes, that’s right, canned green beans. For those, my mother, cringing as you read that last line my excuse (hey, I’m a mom, not an army grunt) is forthcoming… Tim hadn’t been home that evening, trying to make up for an afternoon dentist appointment, and I, running around frantically trying to finish some pre-Christmas chores, had coped out on not only dinner, but had also allowed them to eat it in front of a movie and given them all gobs of ketchup for dipping. Amazingly both furniture and child escaped the wrath of smooshed tomatoes and corn syrup that evening since as soon as the ravenous consumption of chicken and beans had abated and the noise, other than movies and munching started to ensue, I’d collected the plates that still held a good amount of ketchup and tots (they only really like their potatoes in fry form) and hastily scrapped them into the garbage.
Side, side note: You will note I said I did this all hastily. From experience I have learned that to postpone picking up leftovers is like an invitation to Aiden, and his cohorts, to indulge in all sorts of mischief. It seems that once the edge of hunger is taken off he resorts to his more basic boy instincts as his mind turns to just what he could do with the rest of his unused meal and more often than not drags any associates that do not hold a measure of responsibility into his dark world of self indulgence. See what excellent parenting skills I can display? Anticipation? Cutting them off at the pass? Eh? Eh? What’s that? NO?!?! Oh come on now, no need to refresh my memory on ‘not so nutritious’ meals and slack parenting skills… let me pat myself on the back a bit here. I too like to succumb to self indulgence upon occasion and everyone needs a pick me up in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary and just because I consider chocolate chip granola bars healthy, routinely feed my kids chips and nuggets and run my house with a ‘good enough’ attitude on cleanliness… wait, I’m getting ahead of myself, go ahead, read on…
Now I could claim here that I didn’t notice that a healthy glob of red goo had been slopped onto the lid of the garbage can as I raced to scrap stack and scrub the dishes before hurrying the kids off to bed, but that would be a lie. And really, what is worse on a mother’s conscious, to pen ones lie to timelessly be read over and over again as this story is shared amongst all my known family and friends (and possibly some strangers besides) or to just readily admit to my less than noteworthy, enough to get by, housekeeping skills. So yes, with all the hustle and bustle of the season (hey, I need some excuse here, right?) I saw that big ole splotch of goo hit the garbage lid, quickly contemplated the time and effort involved in cleaning it right then, and left it instead, with a growl of disgust, for a later date when I wouldn’t be so rushed, cranky or tired. Yeah right, like that is ever going to happen. Aside done… back to the story.
“What is it Aiden?” Kaitlyn, sitting in front of her own toasty warm heater across the room, and always eager to share in her brothers ‘adventures in life’, craned her head to the side in an attempt to see just what had captured his attention.
“Ketchup!” Aiden exclaimed jovially. “Look at it! It’s sticking to the top of the trash can, it went like shwat and stuck there and now it’s like way cool.”
I inwardly rolled my eyes, going back to my spreading. Kaitlyn, seduced by the laughter in her brothers voice as he went on to describe the sheer perfection of the gooey sticky glob sprang up to take a closer look. I spread the jelly.
“EHhh! It’s sticky!” Kaitlyn cried out as I cringed inwardly, thoughts of stains and germs dancing in my head. Aiden, of course, had to touch it as well, and gave a high pitch rather girlish (he’s still young… hopefully he’ll grow out of this when his voice changes) squeak of glee. Partners in crime looked at each other with wide eyes and opened mouthed ‘Oh’s’ of delight as, I’m sure, their infinite little minds filled with all sorts of ideas of just how cool it would be if and what else they could do with a sticky pile of ketchupy goo.
Ok, it was now time to draw the parental line and put a stop to this before it got ugly.
“Leave it alone, sit down, and eat your breakfast. You have five minutes before it’s time to brush your teeth.” I dictated, inflicting just the right amount of ‘don’t mess with me’ authority into my voice.
They settled, amazing, but not without a lot of back and forth banter involving that glorious splotch of red. This is where I should have held my tongue. But I didn’t…
“Here is the philosophical difference between us bud.” I said, not chidingly, to Aiden as he’s the one that had started it all and he’s the leader when it comes to the discovery of red goo, mud puddles and other such things. I was actually in a good mood that morning (Christmas was coming after all) and although I found the whole sticky ketchup thing rather disgusting their reaction to it was kind of funny (and probably similar to what my own reaction would have been as a child). But that not withstanding, I felt this was a perfect time to open the lines of communication between mother and child, to let them see what wearing my shoes meant, to gain new understanding on life and responsibility and just why a mom is sometimes, ok often, inclined to ‘raise her voice’ when her offspring stumble upon such wondrous discoveries as this.
“I look at that ketchup on the lid,” I went on, “and see something totally different. Not only do I see a gooey sticky mess that needs cleaning, one that has probably stained that lid, but I see a perishable food item that after a couple days has already started to grow a plethora of mold and germs that could very well make you sick if you poke and prod at it. Especially since neither of you bothered to wash your hands before going back to eat your breakfast.” I let that sink in a moment. I didn’t even have to define plethora. I’m going with the theory that they understood, I use the word enough, not with the theory that they were toning me out. Hmm… Aiden was, however, giving me the devilish wide eyed, open mouthed look again. I hate that look, it puts my mommy hackles up on edge. “You, on the other hand, my dear boy, look at it and go ‘Cool! Look at that!’ and make it sound so neat and new and exciting that all the kids around you are crowding around the trash can poking at the sticky mess, getting themselves dirty, picking up germs, and spreading them around!”
“Wha?” Aiden shook his head at me and gave me that goofy mouthed grin of incredulity. That said… Like, wow mom, you’re really nuts aren’t you. That’s kind of funny that you’re so nutty. Or possibly it was simply… So what? And I care because… I ignored it and continued dispersing my supreme knowledge.
“So there it is bud, a little taste of my life.” I was met with another ‘ok whatever’ look. Obviously I wasn’t getting through. Plan b was quickly formed.
“Maybe we can, like, trade?” his mouth skewed up into a twist, his chin drawn in as he looked back and forth between me and his sister. Think goofy written all over his face and add a twirling finger at the side of his head and you’ll get what he was not so subtly saying about me to his sister. “Don’t you want to let me sit there in front of that nice warm heater while you make breakfast, pack lunch, hustle your children along and worry about them poking at ketchup and getting sick?
“Uh no. That’s ok.”
Sometimes I wonder if he’s only six. I remember using the same lines when I was a tween and beyond.
“Please?” I begged. “I would love to sit there. My feet are really cold you know. And I’m so tired…”
“But you don’t sit here mommy.”
Touché. Good point. When I sit down in the kitchen for a minute to relax it is always on the rug in front of ‘Kaitlyn’s heater.’ Hey, I’m entitled to my moments of self indulgence too, and those heaters, oh those heaters… they’re so warm and inviting…
I turned to Kaitlyn, the light of enthusiasm in my eyes as I tried to convince her that she, did in fact, not only want to, but truly desired to trade positions with me.
“How bout it Kaitlyn. Can I sit there? You can pack the lunches while I sit where you’re sitting now, goof around and get nice and toasty warm?”
She gave me a big smile… and shook her head no.
“But I’m tired of working!” I whined petulantly as I pulled the juice boxes from the fridge. “That’s all I do. Work, work, work. Why can’t I just sit in front of the heater and relax while someone else takes care of me. I want to be a kid again!”
“But you can’t!” Aiden piped up from across the room.
And that’s when it happened, when all my lazy housekeeping, fumbling parenting, and grand scheming came back to bite me in the pattutie. Kaitlyn, the kind hearted child that she is, had been affected by my ‘woe is me’ ranting and wanted to make me feel better by dispensing her own words of wisdom…
She got up, coming over to give me a pat on the shoulder, and said in a voice filled with sympathy, “that’s ok mommy. Someday you’ll die and you won’t have to work anymore.”
The lesson, as taught to me by my five year old…. It is not that we work hard to play before we die… it is that we play… then work until we die.
Hope my suffering has given you all at least a laugh or two! I’m off to the grocery store with a half-a$$ed list of necessary ingredients for the next five dinners…
p.s. for those of you who are curious… the ketchup is still there…
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