Christmas at our house was a mathematical undertaking. Our mom always made sure that us three girls (us and our sister Lori) had the same number of gifts and the same amount spent down to the dollar for each child. This required cosines and square roots and sliding rulers, but Mom did not shy away from the task at hand.
She kept track of everything on a single sheet of paper. More valuable than credit card numbers or passwords, this sheet of paper was folded and refolded, shoved into her purse and updated daily, or, on a good day, hourly.
And just when Mom thought she had the gift buying done, she would come upon a $50 sweater for a rare and insightful $20. Which meant she had to buy the other two daughters $20 gifts to "keep things even." (This meant the task of finding each one exactly a $20 gift — not two $10s or four $5s. No, the balance of number and dollar was pertinent.)
This kind of math drove Dad into a rage each year, which Mom settled by buying him another gift as well to "keep things even." The $30 savings? $80 all told.
As twins, though, we received the same exact presents growing up, which meant we had to open them at the same time or develop tunnel vision, which we did. (Handy for all things but driving).
New blouses? Kandy in green, Kerry in blue. Winter boots? One in black, the other brown. Earrings? Gold hoops for one, silver studs for the other.
But whenever Mom tried this daring departure from exactness, we usually ended up trading with each other, each coveting the other's. Sometimes Lori would get in on these gift exchanges, tossing in her striped blouse for a solid blue.
Often, post-opening was like a garage sale, each daughter dickering and bartering for this scarf or that shirt, the mound of wrapping paper and ribbons sometimes burying entire unseen and unopened gifts. Mom would sit back and watch this second round of shopping with pride in her eyes while Dad's bulged from their sockets.
But before opening even one gift, there was the trick of pairing them up, one for each girl so that no one ruined the other's surprise. This was easier in the younger days of awkwardly wrapped Tonka trucks, when tunnel vision and random deafness was (and still is) a child's calling card. But as toys gave way to shirt boxes, things got complicated.
For (a true-life, but Kandy doesn't want to discuss it) example, one of us would open a new coat, scream in excitement (to get everyone's attention, even the neighbor's) and try it on, doing a saunter in front of the other one who sat... with an enormous lumpy-in-the-middle flat box in her lap, home to the same coat (different color) or the world's largest pair of legwarmers.
One year, Mom decided to label the gifts by number so that we could both open "No. 1" at the same time, and so on. But, when she started rounding out into the double digits, alerting Dad to the budget at hand, she quickly switched to the unprecedented Morse code of Christmas. Phones were labeled "Fon," red turtlenecks "RT" and black pants "BP."
More exciting than the unwrapping was the cracking of Mom's Morse Code. We have great memories of sorting out our Morse packages, pairing them up and triumphantly guessing what was in each one.
Mom, still wrapping and coding (and re-coding) in the next room, would deny every guess, looking more and more perplexed (annoyed) at our FBI antics.
Oh, those were the days! Here's to all of us cracking the code to a happy holiday season.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Falling asleep in the minivan Part 2: Too cold vs. Too hot
Too cold:
This is when the children fall asleep on the way home in a blizzard. It’s induced by the extraordinarily long commute where every driver ahead of, beside you and coming at you is a nimrod. In my case, I am a nimrod as well, leaving extraordinarily long gaps between me and the guy ahead of me. Sometimes this gap is so large and welcoming it prompts other drivers to pass me and set up shop there, cutting their total commute by a nanosecond but unleashing a bout of white-knuckle terror in my blue minivan as he recrosses the centerline ahead of me filling my entire windshield with slush, and the entire interior of the van with obscenities.
The children at first enjoy this hysterical pursuit of trying to find the edge of the road without going off it. But before long the general malaise of watching objectless white all around them, along with me blasting the heater at blister-inducing temps, will make them fall asleep.
After a commute home like this, you’ll say a little prayer when you reach the driveway in one piece, then curse your husband for not having cleared the driveway yet, get stuck approximately five yards from the garage, back up, gun it, narrowly miss hitting the side of the garage and finally land safely inside. You’ll hit the garage door remote and watch the door thud closed behind you. For a moment, you feel complete relief.
Then you remember your two little packages in the backseat. You have to decide if it’s too cold to let them slumber. They are, after all, outfitted in nylon sausage casing, topped with large fleece hats (the youngest wearing a hat built for a man twice his size and half his attitude). They would play in this same blizzard for at least an hour if told not to (5 minutes if told to).
They are inside their regular street clothes, which are inside their outdoor clothes, which are inside the van, which is inside the garage. They’ve got four layers going for them. They’ll doze for at least 20 minutes, which, in mom time, is one load of laundry, dinner started and email checked. In real mom time, it’s enough to rewind the taped Young & The Restless, hit the couch and eat Cheetos.
Do I leave them? Are Cheetos orange?
This little trick works best when they are old enough to wake up and let themselves out of the van and march into the house in a fury. They’ll take this opp to throw their sausage casings all over the floor, totally dismissing your “organizational” hooks (not out of spite, out of habit). They’ll waylay you for making them take a nap, as well as leaving them alone in the scary interior of their own garage. Beg off by offering them Cheetos.
Too hot:
This is nothing to joke about. It’s why I bought a minivan. The entire sides of the vehicle open, leaving a full-on gust of hot August wind blowing through it day or night. In this case, the children must be prepared beforehand should a nap come on unexpectedly. There’s nothing wrong with an outing to Walmart in their bathing suits. This will help make your decision easier when you get home and they’ve conked out in the backseat, offering you not only a few minutes of quiet, but a beautiful summer afternoon to boot. (Still on the couch watching Y&R, but beautiful nonetheless.)
The advantage of summer is that you can leave the door open to the house so you have ears on the situation. Invest in a cheap screen door leading into your garage. Thirty bucks at the nearest hardware store will provide you with good-old-fashioned spy gear for Moms, while keeping the mice out at the same time. If you have air-conditioning in your home, consider leaving the door cracked as a worthwhile stupid thing to do.
If you are feeling randy or ambitious, you might even do a little outdoor project, thereby making you look a whole lot less guilty if their grandmother, the Schwan’s man or the FedEx guy should show up and stumble upon the situation.
Anyway, don’t get too excited about this idea. Children don’t sleep in the summer unless by complete accident.
This is when the children fall asleep on the way home in a blizzard. It’s induced by the extraordinarily long commute where every driver ahead of, beside you and coming at you is a nimrod. In my case, I am a nimrod as well, leaving extraordinarily long gaps between me and the guy ahead of me. Sometimes this gap is so large and welcoming it prompts other drivers to pass me and set up shop there, cutting their total commute by a nanosecond but unleashing a bout of white-knuckle terror in my blue minivan as he recrosses the centerline ahead of me filling my entire windshield with slush, and the entire interior of the van with obscenities.
The children at first enjoy this hysterical pursuit of trying to find the edge of the road without going off it. But before long the general malaise of watching objectless white all around them, along with me blasting the heater at blister-inducing temps, will make them fall asleep.
After a commute home like this, you’ll say a little prayer when you reach the driveway in one piece, then curse your husband for not having cleared the driveway yet, get stuck approximately five yards from the garage, back up, gun it, narrowly miss hitting the side of the garage and finally land safely inside. You’ll hit the garage door remote and watch the door thud closed behind you. For a moment, you feel complete relief.
Then you remember your two little packages in the backseat. You have to decide if it’s too cold to let them slumber. They are, after all, outfitted in nylon sausage casing, topped with large fleece hats (the youngest wearing a hat built for a man twice his size and half his attitude). They would play in this same blizzard for at least an hour if told not to (5 minutes if told to).
They are inside their regular street clothes, which are inside their outdoor clothes, which are inside the van, which is inside the garage. They’ve got four layers going for them. They’ll doze for at least 20 minutes, which, in mom time, is one load of laundry, dinner started and email checked. In real mom time, it’s enough to rewind the taped Young & The Restless, hit the couch and eat Cheetos.
Do I leave them? Are Cheetos orange?
This little trick works best when they are old enough to wake up and let themselves out of the van and march into the house in a fury. They’ll take this opp to throw their sausage casings all over the floor, totally dismissing your “organizational” hooks (not out of spite, out of habit). They’ll waylay you for making them take a nap, as well as leaving them alone in the scary interior of their own garage. Beg off by offering them Cheetos.
Too hot:
This is nothing to joke about. It’s why I bought a minivan. The entire sides of the vehicle open, leaving a full-on gust of hot August wind blowing through it day or night. In this case, the children must be prepared beforehand should a nap come on unexpectedly. There’s nothing wrong with an outing to Walmart in their bathing suits. This will help make your decision easier when you get home and they’ve conked out in the backseat, offering you not only a few minutes of quiet, but a beautiful summer afternoon to boot. (Still on the couch watching Y&R, but beautiful nonetheless.)
The advantage of summer is that you can leave the door open to the house so you have ears on the situation. Invest in a cheap screen door leading into your garage. Thirty bucks at the nearest hardware store will provide you with good-old-fashioned spy gear for Moms, while keeping the mice out at the same time. If you have air-conditioning in your home, consider leaving the door cracked as a worthwhile stupid thing to do.
If you are feeling randy or ambitious, you might even do a little outdoor project, thereby making you look a whole lot less guilty if their grandmother, the Schwan’s man or the FedEx guy should show up and stumble upon the situation.
Anyway, don’t get too excited about this idea. Children don’t sleep in the summer unless by complete accident.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Falling asleep in the minivan
It happens one of two ways:
Too soon:
They fall asleep as you are backing out of the garage en route to the mall. This can happen at any time, 9 a.m., 2 p.m., midnight. However it never happens on a four-hour trip to another state. My advice is to press on. If you start letting them dictate your schedule now, you’ll never go anywhere again.
Once you get to the mall, you won’t be able to wake them up without a full marching band. (However, if you were trying to sneak out of their bedroom at night, a bent carpet fiber would alert them.)
Tips to wake them:
Once you get them awake, things get ugly. There’s crying, arguing, lost hats, untied shoes. And that’s just you. You have to get them past the whole disoriented stage. They are likely to: Punch their brother. Punch you. Accidentally lock the keys in the car. They never come up short in their bag of tricks.
What should you do? I like to strong-arm them myself. It makes my time spent at the gym all the more worthwhile. If they are wearing big thick coats, make it a game to catch them by a fistful of coat and zipper and plunk them out of the car and onto the pavement with a laugh and a flourish. Meanwhile, you can threaten them with things like “now” and “you better” in a deadly whisper.
This is why Big Box Stores were made for moms. You can drag two screaming children with hair matted to their face and yours through a set of double doors and grab a cart without anyone so much as giving you a sympathetic nod or asking if the children are yours. (Everyone realizes you’d never steal these two children.) Anonymity is good in these situations.
Too late:
They fall asleep anytime after 4 in the afternoon. This is the witching hour. You’ll see them about to nod off in the rearview mirror, look at the clock and decide this cannot happen. It will mean nothing but grief for you come their bedtime in a few hours.
Your first instinct is to start up some lame-brained conversation, which the kids will ignore. Better to pick up the cell phone and try to carry on an intricate convo with your boss or ob/gyn. This gives them a firm goal.
Next you might fiddle with the radio and try to find a boppy little song. Do not voice your opinion on what song that might be. Should you find a likely suspect, rush past it, hitting the seek button furiously. This is like waving the red cape to a backseat full of bulls.
If the dancing doesn’t unfold, you might try a round of “Knock-Knock” jokes. This doesn’t usually work on infants. Toddlers, however dumb, get these jokes because they think “Knock-Knock” is the punchline. You can pretty much say anything you want. Have fun with this but make sure they aren’t at the repeat-everything stage yet or you’ll be in a handful of trouble when they go to school.
“Who’s there?” they ask. “Your dad,” you say. “Your dad who?” they ask. “Good question,” you reply. While you giggle inside enjoying how naughty this makes you sound, the kids have already moved on to the next “Knock-Knock” joke with no punchline whatsoever. They are simply trying to say it louder than each other.
Worst-case scenario: The No-One-Is-Steering Game. (Do not attempt on icy roads. This is for professional amateurs only.)
With your hands in the air, scream in horror. As the gleeful panic unfolds behind you, very, very carefully, steer with your knees. Do not attempt this in a silk skirt. Time the car “coming to life” on straightaways at first. This will save you a lot in car insurance the first few times you try it.
As your confidence builds, try slow, rounded corners – better yet – Ys in the road where you have a 50/50 shot of not killing them. When the initial thrill of the car driving itself wears off, ask the kids to call out commands and then promptly argue with them. “Don’t you dare go faster, Car!” you’ll scream. (If you’re feeling creative, you might even come up with an even cleverer handle for Car.)
When they scream “Faster!” go ahead and pound your foot on the accelerator. Careful not to blow anything. This gives them the feeling of control and speed. If you’re driving a minivan, it gives them the feeling of control. Then take command of Car again like the authoritative figure you think you are.
If they start getting cocky, go ahead and coast to a near stop. (Ignore the cars behind you; do they have to deal with these children at bedtime tonight? No, I didn’t think so.) Wait for the kids to be “good enough” for the car to listen again. From there, you might have an argument between them, you and Car, as to whether or not to stop for a green light or go for a red one. You get the picture. Just make sure a cop doesn’t.
This little song-and-dance will probably get you about five minutes further down the road, at which point a good song will come on or your boss will call and you’ll forget your mission just long enough to look up and see you’ve lost them. Crap. You reach back and grab their legs, trying to pull them off. Still, they sleep.
You drive home, trying to gauge if it’s too cold or too hot to let them sleep in the car all night.
Too soon:
They fall asleep as you are backing out of the garage en route to the mall. This can happen at any time, 9 a.m., 2 p.m., midnight. However it never happens on a four-hour trip to another state. My advice is to press on. If you start letting them dictate your schedule now, you’ll never go anywhere again.
Once you get to the mall, you won’t be able to wake them up without a full marching band. (However, if you were trying to sneak out of their bedroom at night, a bent carpet fiber would alert them.)
Tips to wake them:
- Try tapping your brakes especially hard (stand on them) as you pull into a parking spot. There’s nothing like mom "driving like an idiot” to get them excited.
- If their movie is running on the DVD player, turn it off. This should wake up even the deaf one.
- Try to unwrap a candy bar for yourself. They will want half before their eyes are open.
Once you get them awake, things get ugly. There’s crying, arguing, lost hats, untied shoes. And that’s just you. You have to get them past the whole disoriented stage. They are likely to: Punch their brother. Punch you. Accidentally lock the keys in the car. They never come up short in their bag of tricks.
What should you do? I like to strong-arm them myself. It makes my time spent at the gym all the more worthwhile. If they are wearing big thick coats, make it a game to catch them by a fistful of coat and zipper and plunk them out of the car and onto the pavement with a laugh and a flourish. Meanwhile, you can threaten them with things like “now” and “you better” in a deadly whisper.
This is why Big Box Stores were made for moms. You can drag two screaming children with hair matted to their face and yours through a set of double doors and grab a cart without anyone so much as giving you a sympathetic nod or asking if the children are yours. (Everyone realizes you’d never steal these two children.) Anonymity is good in these situations.
Too late:
They fall asleep anytime after 4 in the afternoon. This is the witching hour. You’ll see them about to nod off in the rearview mirror, look at the clock and decide this cannot happen. It will mean nothing but grief for you come their bedtime in a few hours.
Your first instinct is to start up some lame-brained conversation, which the kids will ignore. Better to pick up the cell phone and try to carry on an intricate convo with your boss or ob/gyn. This gives them a firm goal.
Next you might fiddle with the radio and try to find a boppy little song. Do not voice your opinion on what song that might be. Should you find a likely suspect, rush past it, hitting the seek button furiously. This is like waving the red cape to a backseat full of bulls.
If the dancing doesn’t unfold, you might try a round of “Knock-Knock” jokes. This doesn’t usually work on infants. Toddlers, however dumb, get these jokes because they think “Knock-Knock” is the punchline. You can pretty much say anything you want. Have fun with this but make sure they aren’t at the repeat-everything stage yet or you’ll be in a handful of trouble when they go to school.
“Who’s there?” they ask. “Your dad,” you say. “Your dad who?” they ask. “Good question,” you reply. While you giggle inside enjoying how naughty this makes you sound, the kids have already moved on to the next “Knock-Knock” joke with no punchline whatsoever. They are simply trying to say it louder than each other.
Worst-case scenario: The No-One-Is-Steering Game. (Do not attempt on icy roads. This is for professional amateurs only.)
With your hands in the air, scream in horror. As the gleeful panic unfolds behind you, very, very carefully, steer with your knees. Do not attempt this in a silk skirt. Time the car “coming to life” on straightaways at first. This will save you a lot in car insurance the first few times you try it.
As your confidence builds, try slow, rounded corners – better yet – Ys in the road where you have a 50/50 shot of not killing them. When the initial thrill of the car driving itself wears off, ask the kids to call out commands and then promptly argue with them. “Don’t you dare go faster, Car!” you’ll scream. (If you’re feeling creative, you might even come up with an even cleverer handle for Car.)
When they scream “Faster!” go ahead and pound your foot on the accelerator. Careful not to blow anything. This gives them the feeling of control and speed. If you’re driving a minivan, it gives them the feeling of control. Then take command of Car again like the authoritative figure you think you are.
If they start getting cocky, go ahead and coast to a near stop. (Ignore the cars behind you; do they have to deal with these children at bedtime tonight? No, I didn’t think so.) Wait for the kids to be “good enough” for the car to listen again. From there, you might have an argument between them, you and Car, as to whether or not to stop for a green light or go for a red one. You get the picture. Just make sure a cop doesn’t.
This little song-and-dance will probably get you about five minutes further down the road, at which point a good song will come on or your boss will call and you’ll forget your mission just long enough to look up and see you’ve lost them. Crap. You reach back and grab their legs, trying to pull them off. Still, they sleep.
You drive home, trying to gauge if it’s too cold or too hot to let them sleep in the car all night.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Shopping with Children: Don’t
There are many places not to take your children shopping. The first and foremost is clothes shopping. There is nothing in it for them. They hate to try on clothes, pick out clothes, fold clothes or put away clothes. All they like to do with clothes is throw them on the living room floor moments before your mother-in-law’s arrival. To take them clothes shopping with success is to do the impossible.
The Dressing Room Ritual
Although dressing rooms are armed with security cameras, they prove to be an excellent place to completely lose your mind for a moment while shopping with children. I find that cornering my children in a cubicle with a growl and bared teeth gives me a lurch of satisfaction not found anywhere else.
The dressing room ritual comes after maybe five minutes of trying to shop with anyone under the age of 5. Upon entry and pointedly bolting the door, I sit them down on the bench (having commandeered the handicap room - a stroller and a wheelchair being one and the same in many ways) and take one of three tactics (depending on how many threats I’ve already tried):
1) Completely Crazed Mother at Hand. This is my favorite because I get to blow off a lot of steam. In this scenario, the children wonder if they’ve gone so far as to make me disregard female-only security staff and let them “have it” with film rolling. I rant and rave, threaten and swear, point and grimace. I do all this while trying to squeeze a size 12 person into an 8. This weakens the gusto but it’s imperative that moms multi-task at all times.
The crazed tactic feels good in the moment but always brings a rush of regret later, in the van, when you wonder what the security staff had to say about it. You never really touched them per se, but they might prosecute you for what you did to their hangers.
2) Mom Willing to Negotiate. This is like a police standoff with a suicidal person. You are pretty much willing to do anything to get the train back on track. This includes pretending you still like them. But it must be done when things are on sale and you have an additional 30 percent off coupon.
This tactic usually involves offering to buy them a toy for their cooperation. You might try limiting it to “a trip to the dollar store” or go so far as “a new bike, with an engine!” It’s easy to get out of hand at this stage. You are, after all, in an emotional state. Be very clear in what they must do to get this toy. “No hitting” is not specific enough. Be sure you note all variations of hitting such as “slamming a hanger against your brother’s head.”
Note: This tactic rarely works because they will likely screw up their end of the deal before you even get out of the dressing room. Be willing to offer the bike, take it back, offer it again, take it back. Repeat as necessary until sanity snaps and resort to Tactic 1.
3) Practical, Sensible, Mom In Control. This is a complete farce, but sometimes the surprise factor will work for you. Just when they are expecting you to lacerate them with the ties of a bikini you’ll never get into, you offer them love and understanding. “I know you’re tired, honey. What can Momma do to help?” They will look around and wonder when and where Momma will drop the other shoe. This is your moment to try on clothes.
While they consult and try to backtrack to where they last saw their real mother, you’ve ripped the waistband on a size 10 bikini and settled for the size 14 in despair. When they start sniffing out your plan, there’s no shame in lying to them and telling them this is the very last stop in today’s shopping bonanza now a whopping 30 minutes long. This, too, will make them wonder what has happened. You’ve caved too early in the game, they have much more work to be done here in the mall. It’s a terrible thing to look into the eyes of your children and lie to them. But sometimes your best defense is to utterly confuse them.
Checkout
Next up is standing in line, in full view of half the store, with the children lapping you like wild animals. You stand nervously, wondering when they’ll move in for the kill and if you’ll have made it to the front of the line before bloodshed. This is when most of us get very surprised at the goings on of our normally darling children.
In other words, this is when we stop lying to our children and start lying about our children.
Listen carefully and you can hear lines with young children and mothers peppered with such catchalls as:
1. “My, what’s gotten into them?” (spoken with a becoming and flabbergasted laugh, one for the baby books indeed this crazy day)
2. “Did Grandma give you more candy?” (spoken loudly as if talking to Grandma in another state)
3. And my favorite: “Where is your father? Probably on a lake somewhere enjoying himself!” (spoken in a bawdy and challenging way, garnering sympathy from women everywhere, married, single, divorced or dead.)
Speak loud and speak proud. You have, after all, survived another shopping trip with children.
The Dressing Room Ritual
Although dressing rooms are armed with security cameras, they prove to be an excellent place to completely lose your mind for a moment while shopping with children. I find that cornering my children in a cubicle with a growl and bared teeth gives me a lurch of satisfaction not found anywhere else.
The dressing room ritual comes after maybe five minutes of trying to shop with anyone under the age of 5. Upon entry and pointedly bolting the door, I sit them down on the bench (having commandeered the handicap room - a stroller and a wheelchair being one and the same in many ways) and take one of three tactics (depending on how many threats I’ve already tried):
1) Completely Crazed Mother at Hand. This is my favorite because I get to blow off a lot of steam. In this scenario, the children wonder if they’ve gone so far as to make me disregard female-only security staff and let them “have it” with film rolling. I rant and rave, threaten and swear, point and grimace. I do all this while trying to squeeze a size 12 person into an 8. This weakens the gusto but it’s imperative that moms multi-task at all times.
The crazed tactic feels good in the moment but always brings a rush of regret later, in the van, when you wonder what the security staff had to say about it. You never really touched them per se, but they might prosecute you for what you did to their hangers.
2) Mom Willing to Negotiate. This is like a police standoff with a suicidal person. You are pretty much willing to do anything to get the train back on track. This includes pretending you still like them. But it must be done when things are on sale and you have an additional 30 percent off coupon.
This tactic usually involves offering to buy them a toy for their cooperation. You might try limiting it to “a trip to the dollar store” or go so far as “a new bike, with an engine!” It’s easy to get out of hand at this stage. You are, after all, in an emotional state. Be very clear in what they must do to get this toy. “No hitting” is not specific enough. Be sure you note all variations of hitting such as “slamming a hanger against your brother’s head.”
Note: This tactic rarely works because they will likely screw up their end of the deal before you even get out of the dressing room. Be willing to offer the bike, take it back, offer it again, take it back. Repeat as necessary until sanity snaps and resort to Tactic 1.
3) Practical, Sensible, Mom In Control. This is a complete farce, but sometimes the surprise factor will work for you. Just when they are expecting you to lacerate them with the ties of a bikini you’ll never get into, you offer them love and understanding. “I know you’re tired, honey. What can Momma do to help?” They will look around and wonder when and where Momma will drop the other shoe. This is your moment to try on clothes.
While they consult and try to backtrack to where they last saw their real mother, you’ve ripped the waistband on a size 10 bikini and settled for the size 14 in despair. When they start sniffing out your plan, there’s no shame in lying to them and telling them this is the very last stop in today’s shopping bonanza now a whopping 30 minutes long. This, too, will make them wonder what has happened. You’ve caved too early in the game, they have much more work to be done here in the mall. It’s a terrible thing to look into the eyes of your children and lie to them. But sometimes your best defense is to utterly confuse them.
Checkout
Next up is standing in line, in full view of half the store, with the children lapping you like wild animals. You stand nervously, wondering when they’ll move in for the kill and if you’ll have made it to the front of the line before bloodshed. This is when most of us get very surprised at the goings on of our normally darling children.
In other words, this is when we stop lying to our children and start lying about our children.
Listen carefully and you can hear lines with young children and mothers peppered with such catchalls as:
1. “My, what’s gotten into them?” (spoken with a becoming and flabbergasted laugh, one for the baby books indeed this crazy day)
2. “Did Grandma give you more candy?” (spoken loudly as if talking to Grandma in another state)
3. And my favorite: “Where is your father? Probably on a lake somewhere enjoying himself!” (spoken in a bawdy and challenging way, garnering sympathy from women everywhere, married, single, divorced or dead.)
Speak loud and speak proud. You have, after all, survived another shopping trip with children.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Gardening: Every mother's trick
In the hopes of spring... here's a little piece on trying to garden with children....
Gardening: Every mother's trick to get something done under the guise of a game.
This is a fine line. Be careful not to scare them off by throwing a bag of grass seed on their backs too quickly. Make them earn this privilege. It’s all about presentation. If they sniff out work, they’ll be on their bikes and forcing you to watch so that they don’t kill themselves on the road in a hot second. Wait to reveal it for the work it is when you are sick of looking at them. Scare them off on your timeline, not theirs.
A wagon is a wonderful ruse. Pull it out of the garage and give them a ride in it. If you feel strong, go ahead and run across the yard pulling them wide open. It’s likely a wheel or plastic side will fall off the wagon. You’ll be inclined to curse the cheap manufacturer, but the kids will love it. Take a corner too fast and roll them out. Aim for a bush with thorns. Jump the shrub your mother-in-law gave you that’s dead and brittle. Don’t arrive at the garden without some tears and bloodshed. Starting a gardening project like this will make things go more smoothly. They’ll be begging for rights to run this killing machine. Dole it out in small doses.
Assign jobs appropriately. Give them jobs you won’t be mad about doing over. This is a “better than nothing” venture. The odds aren’t in your favor, but sometimes they’ll succeed when you least expect it. Having the weeds put in the wagon and dumped six feet away in the middle of the yard is no worse than no help at all. Take this in stride. However, should they make the 7-foot journey and actually dump them in the right spot, it will feel like striking oil.
You’ll soon find that good jobs besides running the killing machine and digging to China, include watering the house and raking the bark off trees.
Don’t get bent out of shape over every flower popped off its stem or torn from the ground. It’s easy to go off on these things. You work all summer, every summer for eight years to finally have your garden bloom into something that’s discernible from the field growing around it. And then your 4-year-old will hand the showpiece flower to you.
When this happens, stop whatever you are doing. Focus on his charming, sweet face. He has given you the choice flower. He picked your showpiece on purpose because it was the prettiest. The fury will hit you like a ton of bricks, a quiet desperation will sneak into the back of your throat and you’ll kind of whimper. Remember, he is the imbecile you think he is. He’s four. Try not to hurt him. Instead, gather him in your arms and hug him. Hard. Then hurry to replant the wilted plant.
Of course this won’t work, the roots were run over in a gravel driveway with a couple John Deer tractors and Big Wheels before you ever saw them. They were also wrapped around his little brother’s head when he tried to take it from him. This plant will never survive. Cherish these moments of desperation, because as all the old people keep telling you, they’ll grow up soon enough. Try to imagine these people’s faces when you jab your spade into the ground.
Gardening: Every mother's trick to get something done under the guise of a game.
This is a fine line. Be careful not to scare them off by throwing a bag of grass seed on their backs too quickly. Make them earn this privilege. It’s all about presentation. If they sniff out work, they’ll be on their bikes and forcing you to watch so that they don’t kill themselves on the road in a hot second. Wait to reveal it for the work it is when you are sick of looking at them. Scare them off on your timeline, not theirs.
A wagon is a wonderful ruse. Pull it out of the garage and give them a ride in it. If you feel strong, go ahead and run across the yard pulling them wide open. It’s likely a wheel or plastic side will fall off the wagon. You’ll be inclined to curse the cheap manufacturer, but the kids will love it. Take a corner too fast and roll them out. Aim for a bush with thorns. Jump the shrub your mother-in-law gave you that’s dead and brittle. Don’t arrive at the garden without some tears and bloodshed. Starting a gardening project like this will make things go more smoothly. They’ll be begging for rights to run this killing machine. Dole it out in small doses.
Assign jobs appropriately. Give them jobs you won’t be mad about doing over. This is a “better than nothing” venture. The odds aren’t in your favor, but sometimes they’ll succeed when you least expect it. Having the weeds put in the wagon and dumped six feet away in the middle of the yard is no worse than no help at all. Take this in stride. However, should they make the 7-foot journey and actually dump them in the right spot, it will feel like striking oil.
You’ll soon find that good jobs besides running the killing machine and digging to China, include watering the house and raking the bark off trees.
Don’t get bent out of shape over every flower popped off its stem or torn from the ground. It’s easy to go off on these things. You work all summer, every summer for eight years to finally have your garden bloom into something that’s discernible from the field growing around it. And then your 4-year-old will hand the showpiece flower to you.
When this happens, stop whatever you are doing. Focus on his charming, sweet face. He has given you the choice flower. He picked your showpiece on purpose because it was the prettiest. The fury will hit you like a ton of bricks, a quiet desperation will sneak into the back of your throat and you’ll kind of whimper. Remember, he is the imbecile you think he is. He’s four. Try not to hurt him. Instead, gather him in your arms and hug him. Hard. Then hurry to replant the wilted plant.
Of course this won’t work, the roots were run over in a gravel driveway with a couple John Deer tractors and Big Wheels before you ever saw them. They were also wrapped around his little brother’s head when he tried to take it from him. This plant will never survive. Cherish these moments of desperation, because as all the old people keep telling you, they’ll grow up soon enough. Try to imagine these people’s faces when you jab your spade into the ground.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
