I understand that I am not the center of the universe. But my children seem to think I am. And yet, they are trying to bring me down. We have psychological warfare going on in our house and I am losing. With one kid, I had a fighting chance, but with two, I don't have a prayer. No, my children are good at what they do - Shock and Awe.
Remember Shock and Awe? Where the US attacked and attacked until our enemy gave up? Well, this is the technique my children are using against me. But instead of missiles, it's a verbal war. From what I can tell, it works like this:
1. One child starts to tell me something. Finishing the thought is not a necessary step.
2. The other child starts to tell me something or demand my attention verbally by shouting "MOM!" Again, finishing the thought is not necessary.
3. Repeat until infinity.
The beauty of the verbal Shock and Awe assault is that it has no stopping point - at least not until bedtime. The important key to this type of attack is high frequency. Each child MUST speak within 7 seconds from the other - when the attack is going well, they could speak at the same time, yet expect me to know what the heck they are talking about.
Now the fun thing about this with a 7 year old and a 2 year old is that their strategies are different. Each begins with the customary "MOM!" - it is important to speak this with urgency, whether it is about the toilet overflowing or if you want to tell me that you like the color red. This makes sure that your victim can never let down their guard - they never know if they need to run for the plunger or simply concur that yes, red is an excellent color.
With the 7 year old, I find that not only do I 1)have to know EVERYTHING but I also 2) need to be able to remember every moment of his life in detail and 3) be able to know what he is talking about when the sentence only has a vague noun and verb. Max likes to do his talking either across the house or right under my shoulder.
The 2 year old presents some of the same strategies as the 7 year old in terms of frequency and urgency, but instead of deciphering the message, I am interpreting 2 year old language. To do this you must think of everything in the house and piece the sound of the word with the object. Life gets way more fun when the 2 year old adds verbs to his vocabulary. Rocco is always at my feet with his demands, unless he is running away from getting a time out.
What does Shock and Awe look like in my house? Here is an example:
Max: "MOM! Guess what happened in school today?"
Rocco: "MOM!"
Me: "What Max? Yes Rocco?"
Max: "MOM! So Mrs. W was reading that book about the boy - you know, the one you haven't read."
Me: "Honey, what book is that?"
Rocco: "MOM!"
Me: "What honey?"
Max: "You know, the one about the boy? Anyway, we had two choices for lunch today. Ham sandwich or salad."
Rocco: "MOM! I see Dukey!"
Me: "Rocco, don't hit the cat. Max, what did you have?"
Max: "What?"
Me: "Max, you just said you had two choices for lunch. What did you have?"
Rocco: "MOM! Dukey!"
Rocco: "MOM! UP!"
Max: "MOM! What are you talking about?"
Rocco: "MOM! UP!"
Me: "Rocco, hold on. Max! You just were talking about lunch."
Max:"Oh, I don't remember. Mom, you know that thing I told you about?"
Me: "What thing?"
Rocco: "UP!!! NOW!!!"
Max: "You know, the thing."
Me: "The book?"
Rocco: "MOM! I poopy!"
Max: "MOM! No, the other thing. I told you in the car going to CCD."
Me: "Rocco, let's change your diaper. Max, CCD was last week. You are going to have to give me a hint about what thing you are talking about."
Max: "Nevermind."
This NEVER ends, until it's bedtime. I actually think they just like to hear themselves talk sometimes. You might be thinking to yourself, "She is exaggerating. Peter is around. Surely the kids don't follow her around the house talking to her non-stop for hours." But they do! Peter could be in the same room as I am and the conversation never includes him. He changes rooms and the kids just keep on going.
Usually after about 30 minutes, I get that crazed look in my face. And Peter will say "Do you need a break from the kids?" Honestly, I don't. I miss the little yahoos whenever I'm not near them. But I do need a break from the non-stop conversation in my house, directed at me. If I could just get a little quiet or have a conversation at a normal pace, I would be fine. But the kids have perfected their game, understanding that the rapid succession of questions and statements means I don't have time to actually form a response to their question in my head, much less spit it out. I think they know that the more they work on this now when they are young, the greater the chances are I'll mess up when they are older and it really matters. I can see myself agreeing to a co-ed party or a new car when I was just trying to sort my way through one of these conversations. Of course, this is assuming they still talk to me when they are pre-teens and teenagers.
Please don't get me wrong. There is nothing more I love than to talk to my kids. But one at a time and please wait your turn.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Kiddie Crack or Made with "Real" Fruit Juice
Folks, we are in the middle of a drug war. This coming from the Just-Say-No-To-Drugs generation. And I must say I am ashamed of us. Myself included because I too have succumbed to temptation. Parents, you know what I am talking about. Fruit Snacks. Or as I like to call them "Kiddie Crack."
Oh sure, we all start out with the best of intentions. Even I kept them out of my house until Max was 3. Of course, all of his friends were doing it and he wanted in on the action. And some of his friends' parents would give him a bag. I'd let it slide, let him experiment with the Thomas the Train, Nemo and Trucks gummies. But I had VALUES people and kept that kind of crap out of my house, like a "good" mom. I offered real fruit snacks, like apples and raisins instead. Then things started to slide. A box of Cars fruit snacks here as a special treat, a bag of fruit snacks for Halloween.
And that's how it starts my friends. Our little junkies, I mean darlings, start to beg for them every time we go to the grocery store or Target. At only $2.50 a box, it's a cheap high, like meth. Little dime bags of joy. Just like an addict, they'll do anything for a fix. And as a dealer, I found for a bag of sugar ("real fruit juice!") I could get my kid to sit through a 90 minute Easter mass or stop crying after a shot. Public good behavior is better than money! Next thing you know, you'll find your husband offering fruit snacks to your 2 year old just to watch him do what we call "The Fruit Snack Dance" (this is true).
I knew the moment we sunk to a new low. We had family pictures the other weekend and used Kiddie Crack to bribe Rocco (also the fruit snack dancer) to smile, pose, follow us around. Even Max wanted in on the action. Perhaps we even shook the bag at him to get him to cooperate - you could almost hear him salivating to get his next fix of cheap corn syrup.
By now we are completely immersed in the drug culture of fruit snacks. I've tried weaning my kids from their habit and going cold turkey, but to no avail. Where is the methadone for fruit snacks I ask?? What have we done? We've lectured about smoking, safe sex, drugs and drinking, but have overlooked our new epidemic - Barbie and Friends in a bag!
As a parent, I wish I was better. But I'm not. And I will be handing out fruit snacks for Halloween this year...AGAIN.
Oh sure, we all start out with the best of intentions. Even I kept them out of my house until Max was 3. Of course, all of his friends were doing it and he wanted in on the action. And some of his friends' parents would give him a bag. I'd let it slide, let him experiment with the Thomas the Train, Nemo and Trucks gummies. But I had VALUES people and kept that kind of crap out of my house, like a "good" mom. I offered real fruit snacks, like apples and raisins instead. Then things started to slide. A box of Cars fruit snacks here as a special treat, a bag of fruit snacks for Halloween.
And that's how it starts my friends. Our little junkies, I mean darlings, start to beg for them every time we go to the grocery store or Target. At only $2.50 a box, it's a cheap high, like meth. Little dime bags of joy. Just like an addict, they'll do anything for a fix. And as a dealer, I found for a bag of sugar ("real fruit juice!") I could get my kid to sit through a 90 minute Easter mass or stop crying after a shot. Public good behavior is better than money! Next thing you know, you'll find your husband offering fruit snacks to your 2 year old just to watch him do what we call "The Fruit Snack Dance" (this is true).
I knew the moment we sunk to a new low. We had family pictures the other weekend and used Kiddie Crack to bribe Rocco (also the fruit snack dancer) to smile, pose, follow us around. Even Max wanted in on the action. Perhaps we even shook the bag at him to get him to cooperate - you could almost hear him salivating to get his next fix of cheap corn syrup.
By now we are completely immersed in the drug culture of fruit snacks. I've tried weaning my kids from their habit and going cold turkey, but to no avail. Where is the methadone for fruit snacks I ask?? What have we done? We've lectured about smoking, safe sex, drugs and drinking, but have overlooked our new epidemic - Barbie and Friends in a bag!
As a parent, I wish I was better. But I'm not. And I will be handing out fruit snacks for Halloween this year...AGAIN.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Welcome to Animal House or Parenting 101 for 3 Credits
Today I realized that I live no better than I did in college. And I don't think my living situation will improve soon either. Let me explain.
The Sofa: Remember that really crappy hand-me-down sofa that you got from your friend that finally got married, that they got from their older brother? To class it up, you covered it with a sheet because it was so gross? I have a couch like that now (minus the sheet - I haven't stooped that low yet, although I did use a slip cover for a year). It didn't start that way, but my kids have destroyed it. If by some random chance a strawberry is laying on the floor, my child will step on it and track it on to the sofa. They will spill milk on the sofa. They will vomit and bleed on my sofa. No amount of flipping the cushions will bring back the dignity of my sofa. Pete and I have talked for a few years now about how we need to replace this sofa. But every time I think of spending money on a new sofa, I shudder to think of how quickly my children will take its value from $1000 to $0 (2 weeks top).
The "Family" Table: In college we had the piece of crap table that had mysterious stains and warps. When Pete and I moved into our house and had space and money for a new table and set of chairs, we felt very responsible and forward-thinking for purchasing the table and chair set toted to be "family friendly." Look at us, we thought, acting like mature adults, buying a table designed to withstand the rigors of children. No glass tops for us or bar stools. No, we chose a respectable table and chair set. One built to last. Now that we actually have kids, I would like to make a few recommendations to all table makers out there, claiming their tables are "family friendly":
1. Do not put any grooves in your tables. Food just gets stuck there and calcifies into the grooves that only a power sander could remove. Gross, but I believe in transparency.
2. Please make rounded corners with bumper pads. I think every parent knows why I am asking for this. And while you are at it, put pads underneath the table. Hell, just make the whole damned thing padded and save us some ice and tears.
3. Cover the table in a big roll of paper that we could just rip off when we are done with a meal (or art project) - like the tables at the doctor's office or at an Italian restaurant. My table now looks like a modern art display because washable markers are a case for false advertising.
Now I know where my college table came from - some family out there finally had their kids move out and they recycled their table with the first poor college student they could find and bought a nice new table with a glass top.
The "Carpet": Once a new house, our carpet was a thing of wonder - much nicer than the flattened down, stained carpet from our previous apartments. Of course the first spill was painful, but quickly treated, it didn't show. Now that I have children, my carpet could better be described as leopard print instead of beige (a stupid color for anyone with kids anyway - should have gone with a shade of Kool Aid). If I spot treated every spot on my carpet, I would never be done - and trust me, on ambitious moments, I have tried. Occasionally we hire carpet cleaners and things look good for about a month, and then reality sets in again and I'm back to animal prints. At this point, I'm waiting until after the holidays to schedule my next carpet cleaning because there just isn't a point in doing it before we haul in a Christmas tree and spill some holiday cheer on the carpet. I'm waiting to get my money's worth because I know clean carpet with kids is like a clean car when you live on a gravel road - fleeting.
The Meals: In college, I ate out literally every night. Pizza was the food of choice most nights, but I did like to mix it up by ordering it from different places. After I grew a little older, I found it novel to cook a meal and vary my cultural cuisine when dining out (Mexican and Chinese baby!) Since I've had kids, I've found my meal experiences have reverted back to the college days. Now chicken nuggets and pizza are the two most requested foods in my house, and when given the choice of restaurants, my kids ALWAYS choose the Golden Arches (gag!)
While I admit that there are times I miss college - skipping class on nice days, skipping class on crappy days, skipping class because my soap is on, skipping class because I was up all night not studying - I don't miss living like a college student. Yet here I am. When I invite you to dinner, you may find my table disgusting, but at least it won't matter if you spill something on the floor. Pass the chicken nuggets and don't get me started on my roommates. They are always late with the rent.
The Sofa: Remember that really crappy hand-me-down sofa that you got from your friend that finally got married, that they got from their older brother? To class it up, you covered it with a sheet because it was so gross? I have a couch like that now (minus the sheet - I haven't stooped that low yet, although I did use a slip cover for a year). It didn't start that way, but my kids have destroyed it. If by some random chance a strawberry is laying on the floor, my child will step on it and track it on to the sofa. They will spill milk on the sofa. They will vomit and bleed on my sofa. No amount of flipping the cushions will bring back the dignity of my sofa. Pete and I have talked for a few years now about how we need to replace this sofa. But every time I think of spending money on a new sofa, I shudder to think of how quickly my children will take its value from $1000 to $0 (2 weeks top).
The "Family" Table: In college we had the piece of crap table that had mysterious stains and warps. When Pete and I moved into our house and had space and money for a new table and set of chairs, we felt very responsible and forward-thinking for purchasing the table and chair set toted to be "family friendly." Look at us, we thought, acting like mature adults, buying a table designed to withstand the rigors of children. No glass tops for us or bar stools. No, we chose a respectable table and chair set. One built to last. Now that we actually have kids, I would like to make a few recommendations to all table makers out there, claiming their tables are "family friendly":
1. Do not put any grooves in your tables. Food just gets stuck there and calcifies into the grooves that only a power sander could remove. Gross, but I believe in transparency.
2. Please make rounded corners with bumper pads. I think every parent knows why I am asking for this. And while you are at it, put pads underneath the table. Hell, just make the whole damned thing padded and save us some ice and tears.
3. Cover the table in a big roll of paper that we could just rip off when we are done with a meal (or art project) - like the tables at the doctor's office or at an Italian restaurant. My table now looks like a modern art display because washable markers are a case for false advertising.
Now I know where my college table came from - some family out there finally had their kids move out and they recycled their table with the first poor college student they could find and bought a nice new table with a glass top.
The "Carpet": Once a new house, our carpet was a thing of wonder - much nicer than the flattened down, stained carpet from our previous apartments. Of course the first spill was painful, but quickly treated, it didn't show. Now that I have children, my carpet could better be described as leopard print instead of beige (a stupid color for anyone with kids anyway - should have gone with a shade of Kool Aid). If I spot treated every spot on my carpet, I would never be done - and trust me, on ambitious moments, I have tried. Occasionally we hire carpet cleaners and things look good for about a month, and then reality sets in again and I'm back to animal prints. At this point, I'm waiting until after the holidays to schedule my next carpet cleaning because there just isn't a point in doing it before we haul in a Christmas tree and spill some holiday cheer on the carpet. I'm waiting to get my money's worth because I know clean carpet with kids is like a clean car when you live on a gravel road - fleeting.
The Meals: In college, I ate out literally every night. Pizza was the food of choice most nights, but I did like to mix it up by ordering it from different places. After I grew a little older, I found it novel to cook a meal and vary my cultural cuisine when dining out (Mexican and Chinese baby!) Since I've had kids, I've found my meal experiences have reverted back to the college days. Now chicken nuggets and pizza are the two most requested foods in my house, and when given the choice of restaurants, my kids ALWAYS choose the Golden Arches (gag!)
While I admit that there are times I miss college - skipping class on nice days, skipping class on crappy days, skipping class because my soap is on, skipping class because I was up all night not studying - I don't miss living like a college student. Yet here I am. When I invite you to dinner, you may find my table disgusting, but at least it won't matter if you spill something on the floor. Pass the chicken nuggets and don't get me started on my roommates. They are always late with the rent.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Sometimes Being a Mom Sucks or Thank Goodness for Insurance
I usually like to keep things light. But this week was anything but. It started with me finally taking Max to the doctor for his knee. It has caused him pain off and on for the last 6 weeks, and being the good mom that I am, I waited to take him to get it checked out. Really, what can't a little ice and dirt heal, right? The doctor orders x-rays, which I considered to be a major waste of time, but obliged anyway. And lo and behold, "something" is showing up on the x-rays - nothing like vague details. Trying very hard not to jump to conclusions, I scheduled an appointment with the orthopedic doctor for the next day.
Enter the next day. Max's pediatrician calls the house and says, "What's going on with Max? Do you know about his x-rays? When's he going to the orthopedic doctor?" After a longer conversation with Max's actual doctor, it turns out he thinks Max's x-ray indicates a "good sized" soft spot in his bone, either a cyst or an infection in the bone. Good morning Panic. Nice to see you. Oh, and it's Rocco's 2nd birthday so this call puts a little damper on the Elmo guitar and new vacuum.
We take Max to the specialist, already prepped for a cancer diagnosis, when he tells us that it is a different issue entirely. After much questioning, we take a collective sigh of relief. Sum total of doctor's appointments or trips for x-rays? 3 as of Thursday morning.
To begin Friday, I actually made a point of making it a goal not to go to the doctor. As I start my commute to work I get a call from Pete that he gave Rocco milk (he's allergic to dairy, and not that cute kind of allergic that you can ignore, but the stop-breathing kind of allergic). I turn right around and run through epi-pen procedure as I speed home, praying that it really isn't THAT bad. Oh, but it is. I get home to find a very quiet, lethargic, falling "asleep", wheezing Rocco. I give him the shot of epi-pen in his leg and call 911, thinking, "Are you freaking (edited for those opposed to harder language) kidding me??!!" I have taught first aid and CPR for 8 years and still felt so at a loss. This is my baby and we almost lost him exactly 2 years ago and here we are again, going to Blank.
Fortunately, the epi-pen worked. Well, not like Pulp Fiction - no Uma Thurman gasping, sitting bolt right up with a needle in the heart, but he started to get color back in his cheeks. And as I rode to the ER with Rocco in the ambulance, I searched my brain for SOMETHING funny about all this only to come up with nothing. Instead I focused my efforts on how to talk to my husband when I saw him next in the ER and keeping Rocco alert. Success on both fronts, by the way, through Herculean strength and compassion. Doctor/x-ray/ER count now up to 4 from Monday - Friday.
This brings us to Saturday. I am emotionally exhausted and physically shot. I really just need one normal, decent day. Instead Saturday night I was up half the night with a crying Rocco - for no apparent reason - choosing to sleep on the floor of his room instead of wearing a path in the carpet from my room to his and since I am no longer 7, destroyed my back in the process of my impromptu camp out. Instead of an ambitious Sunday of running 7 miles and packing the kids up for church, I crawled (literally) out of Rocco's room and made my way downstairs where Peter had thankfully made me a pot of coffee.
Which brings me to two clear conclusions to wrap up the week. One, sometimes being a mom just sucks. Sometimes there really isn't anything good in having your entire being wrapped up in the well-being of someone else, so that when there is bad news it is more personal than if it actually happened to you. And moms, I know you know what I mean. When your kids are in pain or suffering, there really isn't anything more devastating. And when I can't find something funny about the situation, you know it's one of those moments where you just have to pull through, suck it up, and hope to be able to live to tell the story the next day. And it was one of those weeks. A Mom Marathon. Oh, and let's not forget that work, after-school activities, and the like keep on going, regardless of your crappy hour/day/week. But tonight (Sunday), both boys jumped into my chair and snuggled up to me and I thought, "This is why I am a mom." Oh, and conclusion number two? Thank goodness for health insurance!
Here's hoping I get a full night of sleep in my own room!
Enter the next day. Max's pediatrician calls the house and says, "What's going on with Max? Do you know about his x-rays? When's he going to the orthopedic doctor?" After a longer conversation with Max's actual doctor, it turns out he thinks Max's x-ray indicates a "good sized" soft spot in his bone, either a cyst or an infection in the bone. Good morning Panic. Nice to see you. Oh, and it's Rocco's 2nd birthday so this call puts a little damper on the Elmo guitar and new vacuum.
We take Max to the specialist, already prepped for a cancer diagnosis, when he tells us that it is a different issue entirely. After much questioning, we take a collective sigh of relief. Sum total of doctor's appointments or trips for x-rays? 3 as of Thursday morning.
To begin Friday, I actually made a point of making it a goal not to go to the doctor. As I start my commute to work I get a call from Pete that he gave Rocco milk (he's allergic to dairy, and not that cute kind of allergic that you can ignore, but the stop-breathing kind of allergic). I turn right around and run through epi-pen procedure as I speed home, praying that it really isn't THAT bad. Oh, but it is. I get home to find a very quiet, lethargic, falling "asleep", wheezing Rocco. I give him the shot of epi-pen in his leg and call 911, thinking, "Are you freaking (edited for those opposed to harder language) kidding me??!!" I have taught first aid and CPR for 8 years and still felt so at a loss. This is my baby and we almost lost him exactly 2 years ago and here we are again, going to Blank.
Fortunately, the epi-pen worked. Well, not like Pulp Fiction - no Uma Thurman gasping, sitting bolt right up with a needle in the heart, but he started to get color back in his cheeks. And as I rode to the ER with Rocco in the ambulance, I searched my brain for SOMETHING funny about all this only to come up with nothing. Instead I focused my efforts on how to talk to my husband when I saw him next in the ER and keeping Rocco alert. Success on both fronts, by the way, through Herculean strength and compassion. Doctor/x-ray/ER count now up to 4 from Monday - Friday.
This brings us to Saturday. I am emotionally exhausted and physically shot. I really just need one normal, decent day. Instead Saturday night I was up half the night with a crying Rocco - for no apparent reason - choosing to sleep on the floor of his room instead of wearing a path in the carpet from my room to his and since I am no longer 7, destroyed my back in the process of my impromptu camp out. Instead of an ambitious Sunday of running 7 miles and packing the kids up for church, I crawled (literally) out of Rocco's room and made my way downstairs where Peter had thankfully made me a pot of coffee.
Which brings me to two clear conclusions to wrap up the week. One, sometimes being a mom just sucks. Sometimes there really isn't anything good in having your entire being wrapped up in the well-being of someone else, so that when there is bad news it is more personal than if it actually happened to you. And moms, I know you know what I mean. When your kids are in pain or suffering, there really isn't anything more devastating. And when I can't find something funny about the situation, you know it's one of those moments where you just have to pull through, suck it up, and hope to be able to live to tell the story the next day. And it was one of those weeks. A Mom Marathon. Oh, and let's not forget that work, after-school activities, and the like keep on going, regardless of your crappy hour/day/week. But tonight (Sunday), both boys jumped into my chair and snuggled up to me and I thought, "This is why I am a mom." Oh, and conclusion number two? Thank goodness for health insurance!
Here's hoping I get a full night of sleep in my own room!
Saturday, October 8, 2011
A Fun Family Tradition, Even If It Kills Me or Smile Dammit! or Stupid Parenting 101
Today was going to be a great day. We were going to my favorite apple orchard for the Fall Festival - something we do every year. We were going to buy apples, eat treats, pet the animals, ride on a haywagon, make a candle, go through the straw maze and take the annual picture in front of the pumpkins. The weather was great. The only other thing we had to do today was have Max at scouts to sell popcorn at 3 p.m. Easy Peasy - I can fit more activities into half this time and I had a whole leisurely day for these two commitments. I couldn't wait.
And it turns out I didn't have to wait for the day to begin. Because at 4:30 a.m. I woke up to the sound every parent hates to hear, second only to puking, The Cough. From 4:30 - 5:30 a.m. I listened to Rocco cough in his sleep. He gave up at 5:30 a.m. and beckoned (screamed) for me. Now as a seasoned parent, coughs shouldn't bother me. You can ignore it because there's not much you can do at this stage in the game - it will either get better or worse but at this point, you wait. Except that one of the fun things about having a kid with food allergies is that eczema and asthma come along as side orders. So when Rocky coughs, we get to break out the nebulizer and run for the steroids.
"No biggie" I think. Pete and I give him a breathing treatment and wait for the cough to go away. I even take a (crappy) run. I get back and lo and behold, the cough is worse. Way worse. "Cool" I think "I've still got this under control." I go for the predinosone. I start squirting the medicine into Rocco's mouth and watch him gag. Then I watch him barf. Over and over. Pete looks at me and asks if he should call the clinic. I'm going to zip through this part of the story because it involves puke flying, Pete not knowing what number to call and us getting into a yelling match. The details will be funny, but not quite yet. So that's a story for another time. In the end, we make a typical Saturday morning doctor's appointment. I say typical because my kids are never sick on a M-F from 8 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. They are only sick after 5 p.m. and on weekends.
By now, my vision of the apple orchard has pretty much gone up in smoke. We all drag to the doctor, get a new script for a different type of steroid, do another breathing treatment and then head to the pharmacy. Everyone is pretty bummed at the turn of events. And then Peter says what will alter the course of the day completely "You know, I bet we can still make it to the orchard and back in time for Max to be at scouts at 3 p.m."
For once, my common sense takes control and screams "No! It can't be done! The orchard is over an hour away. It's 11 a.m. We'd be there for 15 minutes and have to go home. Rocco is sick and has been up since 5:30 a.m. Hell, I've been up since 4:30 a.m. We don't have lunch yet and we'd have to eat before we go. It's too tight. For the love of God, use some self control for once and don't try to do the impossible." And then I think of The Picture. The one I get of the kids in front of the pumpkins EVERY YEAR. This Fall Festival is a fall family tradition, with photo documentation. If we miss it, we will completely mess up the order of the pictures. And this one small detail is what sets me over the edge and makes me agree to the Worst. Decision. Ever. We decide to go for it.
We call my folks and say the orchard is back on. We think we can do it. We hit McDonald's, encourage the kids to inhale their food (two great things for kids when you are trying to instill healthy eating habits), give Rocco his new medicine, which he doesn't puke up. I take this as a sign that this day will be successful after all. We load into the car, make a quick stop at the grandparents' house to get them and head to the orchard.
We get to the orchard a little before 1 p.m. We speed through a few of the activities, skipping things that would require sitting down. Everything is packed into bags instead of eaten on site. We scramble through making an "experience" in 30 minutes. Then we load into the car and head for home. A little behind schedule. Crap. Oh, and then there's the sick toddler who is now far behind his nap routine. Hmm...a recipe for disaster? Surely not! Pete reassures me that Rocco will quit crying within a few minutes of the drive home. Nope! We hear about our stupid parenting decision (in not so many words) for the entire 70 minute drive home. We get home with 7 minutes to 1) find Max's scout shirt, 2) get him to put it on and 3) rebutton all of the buttons because he never lines the buttons up correctly the first time. Pete deals with the shirt dilemma while I convince a now hysterical toddler that it is time for a nap, a late nap, but one nonetheless.
I sit here now, mulling over my choices for the day. If we had stayed home, Rocco and Max would have had some down time, naps would have been on the agenda, and we wouldn't have had to rush and listen to screaming for over an hour. I'm asking myself, maybe we should have skipped the tradition this year for sanity's sake. However, I did get The Picture. And my scrapbook (the one in my head because I don't have time to make one) will be complete.
And it turns out I didn't have to wait for the day to begin. Because at 4:30 a.m. I woke up to the sound every parent hates to hear, second only to puking, The Cough. From 4:30 - 5:30 a.m. I listened to Rocco cough in his sleep. He gave up at 5:30 a.m. and beckoned (screamed) for me. Now as a seasoned parent, coughs shouldn't bother me. You can ignore it because there's not much you can do at this stage in the game - it will either get better or worse but at this point, you wait. Except that one of the fun things about having a kid with food allergies is that eczema and asthma come along as side orders. So when Rocky coughs, we get to break out the nebulizer and run for the steroids.
"No biggie" I think. Pete and I give him a breathing treatment and wait for the cough to go away. I even take a (crappy) run. I get back and lo and behold, the cough is worse. Way worse. "Cool" I think "I've still got this under control." I go for the predinosone. I start squirting the medicine into Rocco's mouth and watch him gag. Then I watch him barf. Over and over. Pete looks at me and asks if he should call the clinic. I'm going to zip through this part of the story because it involves puke flying, Pete not knowing what number to call and us getting into a yelling match. The details will be funny, but not quite yet. So that's a story for another time. In the end, we make a typical Saturday morning doctor's appointment. I say typical because my kids are never sick on a M-F from 8 a.m. - 4:30 p.m. They are only sick after 5 p.m. and on weekends.
By now, my vision of the apple orchard has pretty much gone up in smoke. We all drag to the doctor, get a new script for a different type of steroid, do another breathing treatment and then head to the pharmacy. Everyone is pretty bummed at the turn of events. And then Peter says what will alter the course of the day completely "You know, I bet we can still make it to the orchard and back in time for Max to be at scouts at 3 p.m."
For once, my common sense takes control and screams "No! It can't be done! The orchard is over an hour away. It's 11 a.m. We'd be there for 15 minutes and have to go home. Rocco is sick and has been up since 5:30 a.m. Hell, I've been up since 4:30 a.m. We don't have lunch yet and we'd have to eat before we go. It's too tight. For the love of God, use some self control for once and don't try to do the impossible." And then I think of The Picture. The one I get of the kids in front of the pumpkins EVERY YEAR. This Fall Festival is a fall family tradition, with photo documentation. If we miss it, we will completely mess up the order of the pictures. And this one small detail is what sets me over the edge and makes me agree to the Worst. Decision. Ever. We decide to go for it.
We call my folks and say the orchard is back on. We think we can do it. We hit McDonald's, encourage the kids to inhale their food (two great things for kids when you are trying to instill healthy eating habits), give Rocco his new medicine, which he doesn't puke up. I take this as a sign that this day will be successful after all. We load into the car, make a quick stop at the grandparents' house to get them and head to the orchard.
We get to the orchard a little before 1 p.m. We speed through a few of the activities, skipping things that would require sitting down. Everything is packed into bags instead of eaten on site. We scramble through making an "experience" in 30 minutes. Then we load into the car and head for home. A little behind schedule. Crap. Oh, and then there's the sick toddler who is now far behind his nap routine. Hmm...a recipe for disaster? Surely not! Pete reassures me that Rocco will quit crying within a few minutes of the drive home. Nope! We hear about our stupid parenting decision (in not so many words) for the entire 70 minute drive home. We get home with 7 minutes to 1) find Max's scout shirt, 2) get him to put it on and 3) rebutton all of the buttons because he never lines the buttons up correctly the first time. Pete deals with the shirt dilemma while I convince a now hysterical toddler that it is time for a nap, a late nap, but one nonetheless.
I sit here now, mulling over my choices for the day. If we had stayed home, Rocco and Max would have had some down time, naps would have been on the agenda, and we wouldn't have had to rush and listen to screaming for over an hour. I'm asking myself, maybe we should have skipped the tradition this year for sanity's sake. However, I did get The Picture. And my scrapbook (the one in my head because I don't have time to make one) will be complete.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Church Night Sailor Style
A few things you should know about me. 1. I'm Catholic. 2. As such, I usually carry around guilt about one thing or another. 3. I swear like a sailor. I'd like to give my mom credit for at least 2 of the three. Because of her, I'm Catholic, born and raised. Not super devout mind you, but I did my time in CCD (religious education) classes and graduated as full-fledged Catholic. Because of my mom, I also swear like a sailor. What's awesome about my mom is that she doesn't even know when she swears. A "shit" will fly out and as I give her a look for saying it around my kids, she really doesn't even know she's said it.
Back to the guilt...Max has religious education now until he is a sophomore in high school (sorry buddy!). And every year I feel bad about not signing up to be his teacher. Somehow one of the things about being Catholic that I have embraced is the ability to feel guilty about everything. So this year, I decided I would volunteer to teach his second grade class and give myself a little peace of mind. If it makes me a better person because of it, well, I'll just have to bear that burden (ha!).
Tonight is the first night I lead Max's class and I'm a bit nervous. I'm not super "churchy". I've got a belief system that's probably a blend of many things and I'm a bit private about it. So religious education teacher is the perfect role for me (note dripping sarcasm). Other than being completely out of my element, there is one other small concern I have. I tend to swear like my mom, meaning that some of my favorite phrases might contain a few choice words, like hell, dammit and balls.
I have debated with Peter whether these are actually cuss words. He seems to think "Whatthehell!" might count as swearing. I'm trying to curb it (sort of). Every year at Lent, I try to give up swearing - I'm just not successful. No joke, one year during Lent, I stepped in a puddle and said "God Dammit! I just stepped into a Goddamn fucking puddle!" Then Pete gave me that knowing look and I said "SHIT! I totally swore! Goddamn it!" I believe I am a lost cause. I think it's genetic.
So tonight I am a bit nervous that as I am teaching these young minds, I might accidentally pop out a reliable "What The Hell?" And you'd think that being in church would help remind me to keep my tongue in check. But maybe I'm the only parent out there where church brings it out in her more. Because when I take my kids to church, I'm hard pressed to have a day that I don't say "if you don't sit up straight and pay attention, I'm taking your Goddamn ds away for the next week!" And that's just slips out - I can't even tell you what I say in my head.
Welcome to Church Night - Sailor Style. Ahoy Mates! Wish me luck.
Back to the guilt...Max has religious education now until he is a sophomore in high school (sorry buddy!). And every year I feel bad about not signing up to be his teacher. Somehow one of the things about being Catholic that I have embraced is the ability to feel guilty about everything. So this year, I decided I would volunteer to teach his second grade class and give myself a little peace of mind. If it makes me a better person because of it, well, I'll just have to bear that burden (ha!).
Tonight is the first night I lead Max's class and I'm a bit nervous. I'm not super "churchy". I've got a belief system that's probably a blend of many things and I'm a bit private about it. So religious education teacher is the perfect role for me (note dripping sarcasm). Other than being completely out of my element, there is one other small concern I have. I tend to swear like my mom, meaning that some of my favorite phrases might contain a few choice words, like hell, dammit and balls.
I have debated with Peter whether these are actually cuss words. He seems to think "Whatthehell!" might count as swearing. I'm trying to curb it (sort of). Every year at Lent, I try to give up swearing - I'm just not successful. No joke, one year during Lent, I stepped in a puddle and said "God Dammit! I just stepped into a Goddamn fucking puddle!" Then Pete gave me that knowing look and I said "SHIT! I totally swore! Goddamn it!" I believe I am a lost cause. I think it's genetic.
So tonight I am a bit nervous that as I am teaching these young minds, I might accidentally pop out a reliable "What The Hell?" And you'd think that being in church would help remind me to keep my tongue in check. But maybe I'm the only parent out there where church brings it out in her more. Because when I take my kids to church, I'm hard pressed to have a day that I don't say "if you don't sit up straight and pay attention, I'm taking your Goddamn ds away for the next week!" And that's just slips out - I can't even tell you what I say in my head.
Welcome to Church Night - Sailor Style. Ahoy Mates! Wish me luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)