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Parenting

Parent Chat Question of the Week: Morning, Afternoon or All-Day Kindergarten?

August 23, 2010 · 3 comments

Parents weigh in on the weekly Parent Chat question!

This week’s question: Do you prefer morning, afternoon or all-day kindergarten?

I know this depends a lot on each child. There is no right answer here. I’m just curious to hear your stories. I chose morning kindergarten for David, because he’s a morning person. By afternoon he’s cranky. I also think it will help me stay on schedule better. If David didn’t have to go to school until after lunch we’d probably end up sitting around in our PJs all morning.

Now it’s your turn. Let’s chat!

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Restrained

August 9, 2010 · 8 comments

We’re driving home. It’s 8 o’clock. Bedtime for the boys. They’ve reached that night time threshold where children go from groggy to over-excited.

David is in the second row of the mini-van flailing his arms, and singing a song he made up about the Goldfish Cracker’s he’s sharing with Wade. I use the term “singing” loosely. David thinks shouting something as loud as he possibly can is singing.

I don’t think David inherited his dad’s vocal chords.

Oh, he’ll be on American Idol someday. One of the audition shows. He’ll be the kid that you’ll laugh at, and shake your head over, and ask yourself, “Why?! Why didn’t his parents stop him?”

I’ll tell you why.

Revenge.

Revenge for evenings like this listening to his shrill voice fill the van, and rattle the windows.

Wade is sitting next to David squealing and eating the crackers. The crackers that we purchased at a gas station on the way home hoping that Wade would put them in his mouth and chew them instead of squealing.

Turns out a one year old can squeal and eat at the same time. For 25 minutes straight.

Wade is also tossing Goldfish Crackers in the air.

David thought it was a good idea to let Wade hold the bag. Wade promptly dumps the entire contents into his lap. This leads to David reaching over to pluck crackers off Wades thighs. Which leads to Wade squealing even louder, because he thinks David is trying to tickle him. Which leads to David singing even louder to be heard above the squeals. And now there’s all sorts of flailing by both parties going on, and Wade is doing a regular juggling act with the Goldfish Crackers.

That’s when I look over at Dave, who I’m pretty sure considered for at least a brief moment driving the van off the road into the ditch, and say, “I just realized who was really behind the seat belt and child restraint laws.”

I came to the conclusion that night that while seat belts and car seats do most certainly save lives, they also save the sanity of millions of parents in the United States every year.

It’s not our faithful law enforcement who, concerned for our safety, lobbied for those laws, but rather a group of very smart moms and dads who were tired of saying, “Sit down, be quiet and stop hanging your head out the window. You’re not a dog!”

I’m old enough to remember what life was like before we were all required to wear a seat belt. Children were thrown in the back seat, and left to bounce around like balls in a bingo machine.

When I was a small child you were free to roam about the car, laying on the floor, in the back window, sprawled across the seat. You could even climb between seats while the vehicle was moving, much to your parent’s annoyance.

It was in fact a widely held belief that if you were in an accident your chances of survival were much greater if you were sitting on the floor of the backseat. If the car rolled? Just grab the clothes hook, and hold on for dear life.

Of course back then cars came standard with eight-track players, were the size of cruise liners, and were built with more steel than an armored combat vehicle. Which is what really kept you alive.

I can not imagine our two boys bouncing around the back of the mini-van unrestrained. Every car ride would be spent shouting, “Get back in your seat! No, you can not hold your brother out the window by his legs so he can pretend he’s flying!” If we still had them both, because there’s a good chance we would have lost at least one of them out the back door by now.

Instead I’m legally required to strap them down. And when they complain, I simply tell them they have no choice, or Mommie will go to jail.

O.K. Maybe I exaggerate a bit. But a healthy dose of fear never hurts either.

Buckle Up. It’s the Law.

And it keeps your kids in their seats.

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Hush Money

June 1, 2010 · 7 comments

While David was at my parent’s over the weekend my mother paid — PAID! PAID!! — him one dollar for behaving during Sunday morning church.

Do you know how many weeks, over how many years my parents took me to church? Not just on Sunday morning. No. We were there on Sunday night, Wednesday night, and any other time the doors were open.

Unless you were prostrate with a life-threatening illness you went.

And were expected to behave.

Not once — NOT ONCE — did my mother in 18 years ever — EVER — offer any form of compensation for my cooperation in the pew.

I behaved, because it was my father in the pulpit. And I was under threat that should I get out of hand I would have to, in front of God and the entire congregation, climb the stairs next to the alter, and take a seat in one of those ornate chairs on the platform that no one ever sat in. It was suggested to me that I would remain there, seated behind my father, until the benediction was offered.

I was never subjected to that punishment. I never behaved badly enough to discover if my parents would make good on their threat.

I really did not want to find out if they would.

Now some 30 years later the same woman who quite effectively coerced me into behaving with fear of public humiliation, gently bribed my son into obedience.

Where are my parents, and what have you done with them?

Apparently adding Grandparent to their resume made them go soft.

If only this sea change in their disciplinary tactics occurred in the mid 70′s.

Based on the estimated number of times I attended church as a child, I would have racked up $2988 before I left for college.

Give or take a pot luck or two.

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Bedtime

March 9, 2010 · 4 comments

After the lazy, relaxing day we had on Sunday celebrating our anniversary, our peaceful little bubble burst as soon as Dave and I walked in the front door with the boys.

Immediately we flew into action getting bedtime under way. We divided up the children, Dave in one room with David while I was in another with Wade.

That’s the good thing about having just two. You still have a 1:1 ratio.

Dave and I passed briefly in the hallway, I in search of a pacifier, he looking for a teddy bear. Items both important to completing the bedtime routine.

“What a difference. Kids — no kids,” Dave said to me as we rushed past each other.

Bedtime, the result of which is silence. However the process of bedtime is anything but.

There are PJs to put on, one last bottle to give, teeth to brush, stories to read, songs to sing. Often it’s all punctuated by whining, and sometimes crying. Or laughter and shrieks from an over-stimulated, over-tired child.

Bedtime is a lot of work for the parents.

We eventually got everyone settled into bed, much later than on a regular night. We went back to the couch, and watched the movie we rented earlier that evening.

The movie ended, and just as we were ready to go to sleep Wade woke up. Something was bothering him, and we didn’t get Wade or ourselves back to bed until 1:30 that morning.

Dave was right. What a contrast our quiet day alone was to our hectic night of parenting. Just hours before we were lounging carefree on the couch lamenting that we didn’t know what to do. There’s no question of what to do when the kids are around. Just a question of what needs to be done first.

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That Crunching Under Your Feet is the Sound of a Lesson Learned

January 28, 2010 · 18 comments

Most days I wonder if anything I say is getting through to David. Usually I talk, and his eyes glaze over.

But today– proof that some things sink in.

We ate lunch at one of those western-themed steakhouses that give you big buckets of peanuts to snack on. David loves to crack open the shells, and fill up on the contents so he’s not hungry when his food arrives.

He was scarfing down peanuts, and neatly collecting the shells on a napkin.

“David, you know you’re supposed to just throw those on the floor here.”

His head snapped up from the kiddie menu he was studying, and he looked at me incredulously. “What?”

“The peanut shells. You don’t have to do that. You can just throw them on the floor.”

“Huh?” With a confused look on his face he looked down at the worn wooden floorboards.

Silence.

*

*

*

*

*

David looked up. “Throw them on the floor?” he asked suspiciously like he thought I was trying to trick him.

“Yeah. It’s OK. You can do that here. See?” and I tossed a shell down.

When I did that I saw something flicker in David’s eyes. That flicker was the realization that the truth he’d based his entire life on had just been irrevocably altered.

Think about it.

Here was his mother who is always telling him, “Don’t spill that! Don’t get cookies crumbs everywhere! Take you shoes off when you walk on the carpet! Wash your hands! CLEAN YOUR ROOM!” throwing what was essentially trash on the floor. And she was saying it was OK.

With disbelief still registering on his face David gingerly picked up one peanut shell. Slowly he placed his hand down at his side, let go of the shell and it fell to the floor with a plink. He kept looking at me the entire time, half waiting for me to freak out and reprimand him for making a mess.

But no reprimand came, and soon he was tossing peanut shells over his shoulder and left and right like a pro.

I guess David was listening to me all along. And here I thought I was wasting my breath. Beating my head against a wall.

So to all you moms out there who keep wondering, “Does it even matter if I repeat this again for the 557th time?”

Yes.

Yes it does.

That 557th time might one be the one time they actually pay attention.

You just never know.

Until you tell them to throw peanut shells on the floor.

Have you even been shocked to discover that your kids actually listened to something you told them?

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Why Daylight Savings Time is from the Devil

March 11, 2009 · 7 comments

I finally figured it out.

Daylight Savings Times is a government conspiracy.

They know they can wear us down and get us to do almost anything if our sleep schedules are all out of whack. And especially if our kid’s sleep schedules are off. A few days with a cranky kid who goes to sleep too late and gets up too early will weaken the resolve of even the strongest individual.

Did you notice how many controversial bills are up for consideration in congress this week? They figure we’re too bleary-eyed to notice.

Write your senator and ask them to end this unconstitutional practice today!

OK. So maybe it doesn’t have the makings of an Oliver Stone movie, but seriously, DST really has things messed up in this house.

You wouldn’t think an hour here or there twice a year would have this kind of effect. But it’s like having jet lag.

David who is usually pretty easy to put to bed at 8:30 every night is still bouncing off the walls at 10. I mean really bouncing off the walls. I heard him banging on it or kicking it or something last night.

While you might think falling asleep after 10 p.m. would lead to waking up at 9 the next morning, you’d be wrong. He’s up at 7. And mad at the world because he didn’t get enough sleep. But despite being so tired I can’t get him to take a nap until 2. That leaves him still revved up at bedtime.

I understand his problem because I can’t fall asleep before 11, but wake up at 5:30 in the morning.

Tired, cranky kid and tired mom with a short fuse makes for some long days.

Maybe that’s the key to Daylight Savings Time. It’s not that extra hour of sunshine that makes the days seem longer.

It’s the sleep deprivation.

Does Springing Forward and Falling Back make things crazy in your household? Talk to me.

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How do you Spell Romance? M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E

March 9, 2009 · 3 comments

Dave and I celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary on Saturday.

Well, I use the word celebrated loosely, because I spent the day reclining on the couch, sick with a stomach virus, while Dave kept little David entertained so I could rest.

Sunday I was feeling better, thank goodness, because we had tickets to take David to see Playhouse Disney Live. We went out for lunch before the show, and splurged on an expensive appetizer with our meal in honor of our anniversary.

Do we know how to live it up or what?

Anniversaries are usually pretty low key for us anyway. Unless it’s a milestone like our 10th last year when we went to Chicago for a few days, with no child in tow. Although we usually do manage something a little more romantic than eating pasta with a precocious preschooler and watching Mickey Mouse dance hand-in-hand with Goofy.

But you know, I didn’t mind one bit.

As I sat there watching Disney characters parade by and asking myself why I believed it would be OK to eat Italian the day after an upset stomach, my eyes fell on David’s beaming face. He was mesmerized by all the music, lights and activity on stage. Dave was there next to me just as he has been for the last 11 years. Wade was tucked safe inside my womb waiting to arrive in June.

I began to wander back over a decade, in and out of memories. A lot of good memories. A few difficult times, but mostly good. Then I considered the events of the last two days, and thought, “This is why we got married. All of this.”

To be together. To have a family. To share life’s ups and downs.

Is there anyone else I’d want around while I convalesced all day in my nightgown, hair uncombed, no make-up?

Is there anyone else, who on our anniversary without complaint, would keep a four-year-old occupied for hours so I could rest?

Is there any better date than spending a day with my guys?

To all those questions the answer is simply no.

As the curtain came down on Mickey and his friends I knew there was no place I’d rather be.

Not for all the quiet dinners and dancing and roses and candlelight in the world.

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