Potty Perfect

Anyone who has ever taken a child out beyond the 4 walls of their home knows what a disaster public bathrooms can be.  I'm not even going to 'touch' on the germ factor - too gross to think about.  But just physically navigating the bathroom itself when you have one or multiple young children is a nightmare.  Where do you put them when the disabled bathroom is being utilized and you can't take your stroller in?  There are many options at your disposal, none of them pretty.

A) Prop the narrow stall door open with your stroller.  Works well till someone walks into the bathroom as your haunches are hovering above the nasty toilet seat.

B) Balance your child on your lap while you pee.  Not really that great if you are toilet seat phobic like myself.  I have balanced Charlie on my leg while hovering, great thigh work out, but you usually wind up peeing a bit on the seat if not down the back of your leg.

C)  Leave child outside the stall door while you pee.  It's pretty much guaranteed someone will come in and judge your fitness as a parent here, unfortunately you gotta take the hit and pray they just don't take your kid.

D) Bring the child into the stall and have them sit on the bathroom floor.  This is vile but really the only option if you have 2 kids with you.   Gregory has actually licked the base of the toilet bowl in a public restroom and I'll be darned if that kid hasn't had a cold in 2 years.  There is a case to be made here for good germs.

Given the state of most public bathrooms, any one of these scenarios could force even the heartiest of souls to become homebound.   But before you join AA (Agoraphobics Anonymous), things are looking up.   I recently paid a visit to the 'family restroom' at the local mall.  Check this out.

No your eyes do not deceive you.  That's 1 big potty, 1 small potty, and 1 infant chair complete with restraints, I mean straps.  Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant!  I'd like to know who I have to contact to get an initiative on the ballot for 2016 requiring family restrooms like this everywhere there is a large congregation of people - airport, mall, stadium, etc.  I'm considering having another kid just so I can really take advantage of this.  Ha!

Waste Not Want Not

I hate waste. My husband would argue that I enjoy wasting money, so let me be more specific.  I hate wasting food. I'm quite certain this is genetic. One of my fondest childhood memories is of my Dad slamming the freezer door over and over again while yelling, "What the...For the love of...Dammit!  Who opened all of these!?!"  He would frequently find five to six open containers of ice cream in the freezer, most of them with freezer burn that left them inedible, which is probably why we kept opening more.  Duh.

Another favorite was when my Dad yelled at me and my brothers for the uneaten 64 oz economy sized jar of pineapple sauce that had molded in the fridge.  Unfortunately, pineapple sauce never really gained the market share that Dole had hoped for, despite Dad's most valiant efforts.  He was a coupon clipper at heart, no matter what the product (or how gross), he loved to save money.

I definitely get my waste hating from him. And this week I was wishing with all of my being that my Dad could have been here to help hand out a good old fashioned Greek ass whooping on my eldest son.  For the record, a Greek ass whooping does not involve feta cheese or lamb.  Just a lot of yelling, hand gesturing, and red faced exasperation, oh and maybe some spanking if you did something really bad.

Charlie is 7 and one would think capable of brushing his own teeth.  Not quite.  Though the actual brushing is not where we have the problem.  The kid turns into the Jackson Pollock of toothpaste every time he gets around an open tube.  Keep in mind we usually have one strawberry and one watermelon flavor opened at a time, so he is working with greens and reds in his color palette.

While the mess is fairly contained - a few designs on the vanity, maybe a happy face on the mirror, and always a generous coating on the toothbrush from handle to bristle - it's extremely sticky and nasty and hard to clean.  I do have Charlie pick up after himself, which winds up being less about cleaning and more him smearing it around further.

Over and over I utter monotonous phrases like, "Please only use a little bit of toothpaste.  It is very wasteful what you're doing.  Stop making a mess.  Now you have to clean this up.  No, clean it, don't just rub it all around.  CLEAN. IT. UP."  I get tired people, of yelling, cleaning, and listening to myself.  Something needs to change.

Last night Charlie must have thought it was my birthday because it looked like cake frosting exploded in the bathroom.  Green and red toothpaste all over the counter, light pink and green foam on the mirror.  That's right, he decided to spit at the mirror instead of the sink.  The sink was another story all together, the entire basin and faucet, including the hot and cold water knobs, were covered in a thick zig zag pattern.  I was less than pleased.  Charlie was laughing hysterically in his room as he heard me yell, "What the...For the love of...Dammit, Charlie!"

I could feel myself channeling my father's Greek rage.  I wanted to slam some drawers and yell and lecture.  But then I remembered something, we too used to laugh at our Dad during these episodes of his. He got incredibly mad over something as trivial as ice cream.  The madder he got, the funnier it seemed to me and my brothers.  Granted 365 days of toothpaste cleanup is no laughing matter.  I wanted to teach Charlie a lesson, and to date, the yelling thing wasn't working.  Maybe a Greek ass whooping wasn't the answer.

I decided to hit him where it hurt.  I marched into his room and said, "Give me your piggy bank?"
'What?  Why?'
"Give me your piggy bank?" I calmly said.
'Why?'
"You owe me $4 for the toothpaste you just wasted."
'What?'
"The toothpaste.  That's all over the counter.  It's expensive and you just used an entire
container, so give me $4 to pay for the next one."
'Um, okay', shell shocked, he handed me the money and I walked out.
Victory!  I still had to clean up the nasty bathroom, but a victory none the less.

I could feel my Dad smiling down upon me, wondering why he hadn't made me and my brothers pay for all of those uneaten gallons of ice cream.  I'd like to think he'd have let the pineapple sauce slide.
But this was progress people.  We learn from the mistakes of our forefathers and make progress.

Circus Circus

We took the boys to the circus this weekend. It was an impromptu decision. Brian was beyond excited to share his boyhood memories with Charlie and Gregory. 'This is the same circus that I went to when I was your age. There will be people on motor cylces riding around in a huge globe and then a man gets shot out of a cannon...' The boys were hooked.

I was not as enthused, I have never loved the circus. The clowns are creepy, the ring master looks like some mustached lothario straight out of a 70's porn movie, and the animals, those poor animals. I just have a hard time with wild creatures out of their natural state, performing for us.

Despite my apprehension, I went along. I decided to keep my opinion to myself in the spirit of supporting what should be a childhood pleasure - cotton candy, lights, the big top, families clapping and laughing in awe of the spectacles. The Greatest Show on Earth, right?!?

We were barely out of the car, the first thing we saw were protestors with poster size photos of tortured elephants. Great. All of the fears about the circus thatI had floating in my head were now spilled out into the parking lot of the Cow Palace, being paraded in my kids faces. I told Charlie and Gregory to keep walking, don't look at the pictures.

'Why Mommy?'

Just keep walking till we get inside, I said.

We were just about in the ticket door when a woman stood just outside the entrance, looked at my boys and said, "Ringling Brothers hurts the elephants. They do."

Fortunately my kids weren't familiar with the name Ringling and didn't give it a second thought. However my own feelings toward the circus were immediately choked down by my rage toward this woman. I understood her and what she was doing and I even admired her passion. But to bring my kids into it and hurt them in the process, was it really all for the greater good? How are my kids nightmares about the elephant with the big 'bandaids' on his bloody toes going to stop this? Talk to ME, beyotch, I'm the one with the wallet.

Almost as an act of defiance, we bought our tickets. Charlie of course asked what the signs were about. I told him, some people believe that animals at the circus are not treated properly and that they shouldn't be kept in cages or forced to perform. Other people think that the circus is a fun place and that the animals are happy and treated well.

Oh, was all he said.

I was amazed he stopped it at that. It was probably the snow cones in the white bengal tiger shaped plastic cup calling to him, or those spinning globes on a stick that flash colored lights. Despite Charlie letting me off the hook so easily, this was a really difficult moment. I had to separate my personal beliefs from my desire to protect my kids. No matter how much I agreed with the protestors, I deplored their method of using innocent children to get to me. They should know better.

We took our seats and watched the clowns and the Cirque du Soleil style acrobats perform. The high wire act was amazing, Charlie was certain they had some kind of super glue on the bottom of their feet that kept them from falling. We were having the experience - we smiled, ate cotton candy, and big soft doughy pretzels as flaming bowling pins were juggled in front of us. Gregory clapped like crazy. Charlie stared up with awe and wonder as the human catapult was set ablaze and launched skyward. Cool.

When it was over, Brian and I decided we would not be returning to the circus, and it wasn't because there was no longer a motorcycle act or the absence of a big top. It was indeed the animals that put a damper on our fun. The boys seemed equally unimpressed by them, they preferred some form of fire in their entertainment.

Was it the protestors, you ask? I don't think so, though they were always in the back of my mind. Watching a man taunt a bunch of tigers with a whip so they would snarl and claw and hop in the air seemed cruel. The zebras running in circles were ridiculous. And the elephants looked sad. I know, like I could really tell, right? But if you ever read Water for Elephants, that book showed elephants to be highly sensitive creatures, capable of showing depths of emotion similar to humans.

As my children get older, these situations will continue to arise. War, abortion, organic produce, whatever the subject, the kids will ask me what I am for and what I am against. My guess is they won't let me off as easily next time. But I will tell them what I believe, when they're ready to listen. My hope is that Brian and I give them the tools to form their own opinion and be able to defend and debate that in a civilized, open minded manner.

I am happy that my children attended the circus. And I even see the silver lining to the protestors, provoking our thoughts and asking me to take a stand. However, if they ever touch or talk to my kids again, I'll go all Barnum & Bailey on their ass! Leave the parenting discussions to me, that's my job, not yours.

King of Random

Charlie consistently blows us away with his intellect and depth of thought, especially for a 6 year old.

"Daddy, do you know why I like sad songs? Because they make me feel my heart."

"Mommy, you know we're all really strangers, don't you?" What do you mean, Charlie? "Well, you don't know everyone in the world, so that means you're a stranger to someone."

Gregory, while equally smart and funny, is a bit more, how should I say, esoteric? Many of the aforementioned conversations take place in the car, where Charlie and I have thoughtful banter about many subjects; the fastness of every car on the highway and whether it could beat a Ferrari, how rain clouds are formed, what would happen if you really did try to dig to China?

Just as we're discussing the core of the earth burning us up, shovels and all, Gregory will chime in, "What would happen if all of these cars were made of green beans?"
I usually respond with a simple 'I don't know' or 'Oh, really', where appropriate. But Charlie is not that kind or tolerant, "GREGORY! We are talking, so be quiet. And, how would the cars even be able to drive if they were made of green beans? There would be no engine to make the car go! Jeez, Louise."

Sometimes it's not even that outlandish of an idea, but it's not right and I want try to help my boy figure it out without telling him he's flat out wrong.
"Mommy, did you know that llamas have horns?"
I don't know bud. I think llamas have really fuzzy ears.
"Yes, they do have horns."
Are you sure?
"Yes."
Maybe when we get home we can look at our 'Llama, Llama Red Pajama' book to see if that llama has horns.
"It does. They all do"
Okay.

And then the statement can be just so bizarre, all we can do is laugh because we have no idea what he's talking about. Charlie will be telling me about the different invasive and non native plants that he found while hiking at summer camp. Gregory will interrupt, "Hey, Charrie, wouldn't it be silly if Jason Sparkle 80 came to my camp and used my orange swim shirt as a scoochoodoochoo?" Not sure who Jason is, but I can imagine what a scoochodoochoo could be. You can see why Charlie started calling Greg, the King of Random.

I get it. The level of sophistication at which Charlie can converse, it's hard for me to keep up, let alone his 3 1/2 year old brother. The poor kid has to try to grab some air time for himself, no matter how ridiculous he may seem.

"Mommy, did you know that Pirate Booty isn't popcorn?" Really? "No, it's not." I checked the package when I got home. It really isn't popcorn, it's puffed rice and corn. Maybe not so ridiculous, but still very random.

Bulldish the Dog

Charlie has a new pet. His name is Bulldish the Dog. Charlie likes to take him for walks, give him treats, and play games with him. You are probably thinking, big deal, so the kid has a dog. Well, this dog didn't come from a breeder, or the pound, I birthed this puppy myself. Charlie's dog happens to be his brother, Gregory.

That's Gregory aka Bulldish in the picture here, giving me his paw.

Bulldish came into being last summer, interestingly right around the time school ended and summer began. My guess is Charlie was bored. We had a couple of weeks to kill before camp started. Most of his friends were on vacation until then. He missed them and the challenge of school so he created his own playmate to occupy his time.

I thought it would be a passing phase, lasting perhaps until camp started. Or that Gregory would simply hate it, cry about being called a dog, and Charlie would endlessly taunt him with it. I was wrong on all fronts. Turns out Gregory loves being Bulldish the Dog and Charlie loves ordering him around, 'Bulldish, give me your paw. Paw. Paw. PAW, Bulldish, PAW!'

Gregory is so into it that he has created several alter egos for Bulldish and Charlie enjoys the challenge of trying to figure out which dog he is at that moment. Frankly, I cannot keep track, but here's what I have so far.

There's Ski Rider, who's more of an off leash hound. He likes to jump on the couches and beds and slam doors. Sho Sho is a bit fancier. He is always on a leash (usually made out of yarn) and prances about like he's at a dog show. Baseball the Ghost Dog crawls around on his knees chasing people, though you're supposed to pretend that you can't see him, because, well, he's a ghost.

This morning we actually had a birthday party for the latest 4 legged addition to our family, Ski Milk. Charlie made him a birthday cake, which consisted of Goldfish in a bowl. Ski Milk flipped the cake, along with his water dish, while trying to blow out his candles. As I stared at the huge mess on my kitchen floor, Charlie said, "Mommy, you can't get too mad, Ski Milk is just a puppy after all." Then he got down on his knees to rub Gregory, I mean Ski Milk, behind the ears, saying in a consoling voice, "Isn't that right Ski Milk, you're just a puppy. Good puppy."

Gregory is reveling in all of this positive attention - there's no eye poking, teasing, yelling, pinching, or name calling. He's probably created these different canine personas to keep the game fresh so that his brother won't lose interest in being nice to him. The saddest and most ironic thing is that Charlie treats Bulldish, and all the other dogs, far better than he's ever treated his brother. I wonder if he knows that they are the same person/dog?

Yo Mama

There is always fighting in my house, whether it's a war of words or fists; IT, is always on. Mealtime is no exception. Lately our dinner conversation has been reduced to my kids finding new ways to abuse one another. Shockingly it's not violent, but a complete verbal one-up-man-ship of how much they can kick the other's ass.

"Gregory, I'm going to take a cup of gasoline, dip Mr. Monkey (Greg's favorite snuggly) in it, shake it up, then watch him explode. BOOM!"

To which Gregory responds,"Charrie, I'm going to take lava and throw it in your cup and you will get burned." For some reason Gregory is obsessed with lava these days. He wants to know what will happen if a cat walks through lava, if lava falls on our car, or in your mouth.

Um, it burns, babe.

Mr. I Must Always Have the Last Word says, "Oh yeah? Well Gregory, I can take you in a helicopter and drop you in a volcano and that would burn you way more than just throwing lava on you. Plus lava would totally burn the cup up as soon as it touched it."

"Charrie, the lava is going to burn your butt, too."

"Gregory, I'm going to take gasoline AND diesel mixed together, put it in your glass like it's water then you'll drink it and die! Hahaha."

Any talk of death or killing and I bring a quick end to the banter. Clearly Gregory isn't as adept at the verbal sparring game as his brother, but at least he's playing along. Not too long ago he would have been in tears at the mere mention of Mr. Monkey being harmed.

After listening to the boys go on like this endlessly for a week, I noticed something. The cadence of the exchange smacked of something familiar. I wracked my brain trying to determine what it could be. Literally 2 nights later the movie White Chicks was on TV and the bells sounded off in my head like sirens. I realized my kids were having their own Yo Mama Off, only it was the Marin County preschool boy version.

In the movie, Marcus and Kevin Copeland, played by the Wayans brothers, are cops cleverly undercover as 2 white sisters, hence the title. The White Girls get into a Yo Mama Off with Megan and Heather Vandergeld, your stereotypical rich bitch Hampton society bimbos. After Megan insults the White Chicks' mother for shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, one of them retorts, "Your mama is so dumb she went to Dr. Dre for a pap smear."

To which Heather Vandergeld scoffs, "Oh yeah, well your mother is so stupid that she exercises when she could just get like, liposuction or something."

As someone whose fanship of the Wayans brothers ended with In Living Color, I must confess that the movie struck me on a couple of levels. First, I found the predictably played out blunders that the brothers experience as they try to pose as women comical. That's right, I laughed when I watched it, a lot. But it also struck a deeper chord. The verbal lashings each side gave to one another in the movie reminded me so much of my kids, each rebuttal getting lamer and more ridiculous, that it made me think - Why couldn't I script a movie using my kids as a foundation? The writing would be significantly better, and the content about equal in quality to White Chicks.

Eureka! I finally found a use for my kids besides as bitter fodder in my undersubscribed blog!

By the way, for those who don't see the humor in the whole 'Yo Mama' genre of jokes, I apologize for the poor representation in this post. They really are hilarious. I hope that the following will restore your faith, peak your interest, or at least make you smile. Or maybe Yo Mama jokes are like the Wayans brothers, you either tolerate them or you hate them. Whatever the case may be, this is one of my favorites.

'Yo mama so fat you have to grease the door frame and hold a twinkie on the other side just to get her through.'

A Beautiful Mind

Charlie has always been a child who loves structure and routine, yet revels in the disorder he can create. While a steadfast observer of all traffic and safety related rules, the ones regarding basic treatment of your fellow man are virtually ignored; like don't hit and tease if you want your friends to play with you; or don't wrap wires, cords or rope around your brother's neck. As he gets older, the set of rules by which he governs his life continues along divergent paths, making him ever difficult to predict and follow.

For the past 9 months Charlie has been obsessed with the door to his bedroom and making sure it is shut every single time he leaves. Even if he's just going to visit the bathroom, which is literally next to his room, that door gets closed. But be mindful that the door is not closed all the way. The frame and the edge of the door are touching ever so slightly, but the smallest crack of light needs to be left. I learned the hard way the importance of proper crack allotment to my son. "Mommy, Jeez Louise! How many times do I have to tell you? (said with eyes rolling) You have to close my door but not really close it. See, like this. NOT LIKE THIS. Do you see the difference?"

At times it feels as if he's declared Martial law on the little 9 x 10 ft box that is his room. Some of the directives of Charlie's regime are easy to follow, like how much crack is too much or not enough, other rules leave us walking on egg shells, hoping we don't misstep. Most specifically those applying to the highly regulated, and ever growing mass of 'stuff' in his boudoir.

At the end of Charlie's bed, on his dresser, the shelves of his closet, and now under his bed, there is a collection of, well, shit. His closet naturally houses the largest amount of trash - silly putty, old gun holster from his policeman costume, furry bear key chain, remote control car. It's like the closet of forgotten toys that needs to be purged. But try telling that to Charlie, it's all sacred space to him.

On his footboard, he's a little more particular about the arrangement of his treasures. Though most of the items seem to be worthless left over birthday party gift bag trash - 5 used glow sticks (and not an ounce of glow left in them), 1 set of LEGO wheels, 1 pair of childproof scissors, 1 small silver tin pail, 1 pink birthday candle, 1 pumpkin shaped flashlight.

Saving things as memorabilia of fun times past, this I get. But I'm not sure what to think about the rest of the items at the foot of his bed - 1 roll of duct tape, 1 Dixie cup with a single black feather, 1 pair of broken plastic pliers, 1 broken plastic camera, a wad of fake money (mostly $5's and $20's), 1 Edna Valley Chardonnay cork, and 5 clumps of cut hair.

Why are these things on display? It almost appears to be a shrine of evidence honoring some gruesome crime that's been committed (Can you tell I'm a Law & Order junkie?).

But alas, even the most seemingly worthless of trinkets, no matter how bizarre in nature, have rules attached to them.

Rule #1 - Positioning of items - 4 of the 5 glow sticks are to be laid directly next to one another with the fifth placed exactly in the middle of the footboard. Do not try to group all 5 glow sticks together to create some kind of symmetry . Everything has it's place and do not question the divine order of all things Charlie.

Rule #2 - Terms of use - none of the afore mentioned items may be borrowed at any time, whether their owner is using them or even present in the house is immaterial. 'I will know if you use my scissors when I'm at school Gregory, and I will cut you.'

Rule #3 - Appropriate cleaning techniques - do not change position of any items even by 1 cm as their owner will know immediately upon entering his room if something has been moved. No consolidation/neatening allowed; the glow sticks would not look better if they were stored in the silver tin pail.

Rule #4 - Replacement items - do not attempt to switch out items with something of lesser or equal value. The Edna Valley Chardonnay cork is worth WAY more than the Penfolds Shiraz. Do not ask why, it just is. And the children's scissors must be from CVS because they cut better than the ones from the Dollar Store.

Rule #5 - Hair - there are no real rules for the clumps of hair under the foot of his bed. I was actually allowed to clean them up, thank goodness. Charlie decided one day that his hair was too long and bothered him so he cut it. He threw the clippings under his bed to avoid being found out. Incidentally, his favorite place to cut from is on the right side of his head just above his ear. So I guess there are rules even here.

To Charlie there is an order to the chaos of his 'stuff' that reminds me of the Coen brothers' movie, "A Serious Man" (yawn). In the film, the protagonist's unemployed, wacky brother, Arthur, sleeps on his couch and spends his days filling his Mentaculus book with equations and formulas that will, he claim, tie together all natural laws.

Disappointingly, Arthur's character is never really developed past this point, when you do get to see his Mentaculus book, it looks like the writings of a madman, but if you look just a little deeper, you might just catch a glimpse of genius. Like on Law & Order (damn it, I can't stop) when they finally get that search warrant for the apartment of the serial killer who's evaded detectives for decades. They enter and every square inch of wall is covered with numbers, letters, shapes, pictures, drawn in human blood but in these cool nonsensical, circular patterns that just scream out CRA-ZAY-ZEE and guilty (BTW, Arthur is later arrested for solicitation and sodomy).

Do I think my son is a paranoid schizophrenic or a serial killer in the making? No, of course not. Even the famous Carl Jung believed, In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.

I'm just hoping some day to see the genius in the madness and not vice versa.

The Last Frontier

Every aspect of my life has been invaded by my kids - my thoughts, dreams, bank account, potty time. Even my phone conversations are no longer private. Charlie asked me the other day why I wanted Yia Yia (my mom) to get special love from a Chinese person on her trip. It took me a minute to figure what he was talking about when I realized he had been eaves dropping on my conversation with her.

I was concerned as my mother, who has been suffering from sciatica, was embarking upon a 13 hour plane flight to China. My advice to her, should the sciatica flare up while abroad, embrace the practice of eastern medicines. I think my exact words were, 'Don't be afraid to ask a nice Chinese man to give that sciatic nerve some love by sticking needles in your butt.'

My last frontier of privacy seems to be the shower. I've never been a big fan of the bath; sitting in dirty bath water, ick. Even before kids, I got in, soaped and rinsed the necessary bits and pieces, and got out. But lately I have really begun to embrace the long shower. Not only do I appreciate that when the water is running I can't hear anything going on outside, but I can actually hear myself think inside because I'm alone (my kids hate the shower). It's like a little oasis of quiet.

It's just so peaceful and quiet in there - did I already mention that? It really has become the perfect refuge from my motherly duties. When one of the kids comes in to complain that his brother breathed on him 'so hard', that they need some water with no ice in a red cup with no top and no straw, or that they require me to fast forward through the commercials to get to the next episode of Tom & Jerry, there's no yelling or negotiating necessary. A) I can't do anything about it because I'm in the shower and B) I can't hear them! There's also C) That I really don't care, but that doesn't get me out of anything because my kids will just nag me to death until I comply with their demands.

My average shower time has increased from about 4 minutes up to 10 just in the last few months, and I may keep going. The Guinness Book of Records states that the longest shower was recorded at 101 hours, that's more than 4 days. Sounds like heaven to me. But here's the rub, or should I say scrub, that record was set by a group of 10 people, though 3 dropped out from exahustion. They each took turns, many of them sleeping standing up, and with no more than a 10 minute break per hour. Breaks? Sounds like cheating to me. A 17 year old boy was among the participants. What was his motivation? What does he have to hide from, the SAT's and teenage acne? Maybe he has bad parents who complain about him in a public forum.

I bet I could get a group of 10 mothers together - and none would drop out from exhaustion - tell them that there is only one rule, stay in the shower and no kids will bother you. Each mom would stay in for 1 day at a time, no breaks necessary, because obviously you can just pee in the shower, and of course, breaks are for sissies. And would you really want to take the chance that during that 10 minutes outside of the shower/safe haven, one of your kids would find you and whine for you to get them a snacksandwichdrinkcookiecheesestick, retrieve a piece of gum from their brother's hair, or wipe their butt. I guarantee those 10 women could keep that going for a month, easy. 101 hours, pah-lease.

Gregory the Girl

Well over a year ago I wrote about Charlie's propensity for calling his brother girl names. While Gregory is still a beautiful child, his girlish qualities are limited mostly to his long, lush eyelashes and his squealing. But that has not stopped Charlie from still referring to him as Mrs. Bentney. Stephanie is still around, too, along with a few new ones like Mary Garcia, Gloria, and one of the most inventive, Jessica Hairdryer.

Now that Gregory is 3 he actually understands that Charlie is teasing him. Much to Charlie's chagrin, his brother usually tries to ignore his initial attempts to get a rise out of him. In those cases Charlie goes for the jugular and flat out calls him Gregory the Girl. That elicits one of the following responses, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. WAAAAAAAAHHHHH." or "Mommy, Charrie called me a girr (we're having some trouble with our 'L's)."

Sigh. Greg, are you a girl?

Sniff, sniff, "No."

Then go tell Charlie that!

"Charrie! I am NOT A GIRR."

And it never just stops there, does it?

Even a solid argument based on the indisputable fact that Gregory is not a girl can deter him. Charlie the brilliant manipulator moves onto his next tactical advance. "Gregory, you can be Gregory, but you will not get any dessert tonight. Or you can be Gregory the Girl and you can have cake, ice cream, chocolate chips, anything you want really. Do you want dessert?"

Like leading a lamb to slaughter, Gregory falls for it. "Yes, I want dessert."

"Okay, then if you want dessert you have to be Gregory the Girl, because if you are just Gregory, then no dessert. So which one is it?"

"I am Gregory the girr."

"Ha ha ha, you are a girl. Gregory is a girl."

"Nooooo, Mommy, Charrie called me a girr."

Dana is another new persona that has been added to Charlie's repertoire of names. This morning the boys were playing Legos before school. Gregory was trying to build a dump truck but was frustrated because he couldn't find any wheels. He asked Charlie to help him search for some. Charlie said, "Well, is your name Dana?"

Gregory of course says, "No, it's Gregory Goldstein."

"If your name is Dana then I can help you find some wheels for your dump truck, but if your name is Gregory, I can't help you, sorry. So are you Dana or are you Gregory."

And with no argument, Gregory concedes, "I am Dana. Now will you get me the wheels?"

Like a lot of Charlie's verbal attacks on his brother, they are as random as they are senseless or non sensical to be exact. Just the other day in the car Charlie says, "Gregory is Jessica Hairdryer."

I kind of chuckled at that one, but Gregory didn't even bat an eye.

Again it comes, "Gregory, you are Jessica Hairdryer."

Every once in a while we get a glimpse that Gregory could be a contender in these mind mastery games of his brother's.

Gregory says, "No, I AM Hairdryer. YOU are Jessica, Charrie."

Quite satisfied with himself, he sits back and smiles.

Never to be outdone, Charlie retorts, "No Gregory, Jessica is the one who gets to play with the train table. Hairdryer is me, because Hairdryer is 5 and I'm 5, so you have to be Jessica. You want to play with the train table, right?"

The logic is mind numbing.

Gregory is like, OK, you had me at train table, I am Jessica.

It's not always easy pickings for Charlie. After numerous failed attempts to get under his skin and at least a half dozen female monikers slung his way, sometimes Greg won't take the bait and stomps off to his room to play by himself. But never fear, when preliminary attacks fail to illicit a response from his brother, Charlie brings out the big guns. Not only is my eldest an extremely smart, evil genius, but the kid can carry a tune to boot.

He'll follow Gregory into his room singing his insults to the tune of Air Supply's 'Lost in Love', with a few changes to the lyrics (the Greatest Hits of Air Supply has been Charlie's favorite CD for 3 months running now).

"Gregory is a girl and he don't know much/ He was thinking aloud when he fell out of touch/ Now he's back on his feet and eager to show he's a giiiiirrrrrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrrrrr-herrrrr-herrr-erl."

I think that CD might be finding a new home very soon.

OxiCrisis

When I find a product that I love I'll tell anyone within ear shot about it, whether they want to know or not. Good products that serve me well become my obsession, and like all extreme behaviors, mine borders on the obnoxious. Yummi Yogurt, Natori Bras, Kinerase C8-Peptide Treatment, the Athleta All That Pant; I love these products and I want others to love them, too. I'm sure some shrink could have a psychological heyday with my need for external validation, but enough about my mother's short comings, back to the products.

I've been at the bank before and overheard a woman, no less than 5 people in front of me, discuss her absolute desperate search for a decent, cute raincoat that she could wear out with the kids or to work. Those were the only words I needed to hear as I weaseled my way forward, inserting myself into the conversation. I told this woman in excruciating detail about THE perfect rain coat. The North Face Grace Jacket. The one that would cover her butt, had a hood, was belted, and feminine, so as not to make her look like a hobbit from Lord of the Rings. I knew it's exact cost, including tax, it's whereabouts in the greater Bay Area (it's sold out at REI), and color options. I cut an entire bank line, contributed my unsolicited 2 cents, then trotted off on my merry way. I was so pleased with myself, that not only did I forget the banking I needed to do, but I was completely oblivious to the shell shocked stare this woman followed me with as I went to my car.

One could say I'm an evangelist of sorts and almost as delusional as the ones you see on TV; with a strong held belief that bestowing my knowledge upon the less fortunate will make the world a better place. It's my G_d given right. But this next product really will change your life, or at least your laundry; and if you have kids, goodness knows you can feel that laundry is your life.

Enter my 5 year obsession with OxiClean; the one in the blue spray bottle, not the powdered crap that you have to mix yourself. I love it so much. I know, it all sounds a bit dramatic, maybe a touch shallow right? But even more shallow than that is my fondness of material things; clothes, purses, furniture, anything cashmere. And when something happens to ruin those things - like Desitin being smeared on my favorite oriental carpet - I go crazy.

First, I hate wasting money (my husband might argue that point). It's also a huge inconvenience to have to go out and buy things like new white t-shirts every week because my kids have yet to grasp the concept that after finger paints, hand sanitizer does not take the place of soap and water. Second, and most important, it's a major let down when I can no longer wear my favorite jeans that make my butt look like the white girl's version of J-Lo (not really) because they have Sharpee scribbles all over them.

OxiClean, savior of my sanity, and all things material. If I could, I would marry it. Even my kids, when I get them empty spray bottles at the store for water play, they pretend the water is "Ox", short for OxiClean. "Hey Gregory, your face looks like a big poop, let me spray some Ox on it." Yup, he's right, it can get out poop stains, too.

But for every yin, there is a yang; a dark side when a beloved product lets me down, or G_d forbid, disappears. This past month has tested my limits as a human being. There has been an OxiClean shortage in the Bay Area. Target, Safeway, Rite Aid, CVS, and all of my local markets have been cleaned out. The shelves are empty, my laundry basket is full, full of stained clothes waiting to be pre-treated with this magic potion.

The moms and teachers (custodians, deliverymen, secretaries) at the boys' school have heard me bitching and moaning about my plight, my search for OxiClean. Some of the Oxi ignorant question, "What's so great about OxiClean? Just use Shout, it's the same thing." Oh no you di'int go using the s-word on me, girlfriend.

I don't mean to stereo type, but every single one of them was a mom of only girls. They admitted to not having any real stain issues and politely asked, "So what do you use it for?"

You name it, breast milk, grease, permanent marker, blood.

"Blood?"

Yes, blood.

Next came the scrunched up facial expression begging the question, "Is she joking?"

No, Mary Poppins, I'm not.

One of my fellow moms who also recognized the virtues of OxiClean was so horrified to hear of the shortage, she actually went home to see if she could spare a bottle out of her own stash. Sorry to say she could not. I am my own worst enemy here. I talked/obsessed about the crisis so much, I scared her into hoarding mode. Fortunately, my own mother came to the rescue, sending 4 bottles to me straight from CT, and priority mail no less. Sorry for the psychology dig earlier, Mom. Kids these days are so ungrateful.

Hello Stranger

Yes, I know, the entries have been few and far between. It's not that I don't have anything to complain about - not enough sleep or personal time, the extra 10 lbs I can't get rid of, my family, etc. But things have been good, calmer for some reason. I think being back into the routine of school has mellowed me and the kids out. That daily nagging question of 'Gosh, what are we going to do today?', is gone. As is the depression that follows when we realize we're heading to the park with the same peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and non toxic BPA free water bottles as the prior 57 days.

Just when I think I can breathe a sigh of relief, the boat gets rocked, and hard. So here I am writing, bitching, sharing, healing.

We are at some friend's house for dinner last night. It's warm enough for the kids to eat outside which means a relatively quiet meal for the adults. Dessert is birthday cake. You know the stays moist for 2 weeks, deliciously over processed sheet cake from Safeway, with it's frosting so sugary it coats your teeth. Mmmm. Charlie naturally devours his piece as do I.

After, the boys decide they need to whip up round 2 of dessert in the play kitchen. They begin to set up their ice cream cone stand. Charlie is doing a lot of mixing and freezing. Gregory is making a mockery of Charlie's prep work by stealing the ice cream and serving it to me on fancy little dessert plates. Charlie is pissed and screams, "It's NOT READY YET!'

Gregory simply ignores him and proceeds to ask me what other flavors I want.

Charlie yells, "Gregory, you stupid, I'm not done getting it ready."

Gregory continues on, "You want banilla or chocrate, Mommy?"

Charlie walks up to him with the plastic ice cream scoop, pokes him in the eye then kicks him in the shin. "That's what you get." Of course Gregory is hysterically crying.

Outside onto the porch we go to 'cool off', where Charlie proceeds to tell me why the violence against his brother is justified. "Mommy, Gregory is bad. He's not listening to me and how I want my ice cream store run so I hit him."

Okay, Charlie. I understand you are frustrated with him. But why don't you let him serve some ice cream early or come up with a way he can play, too.

"I hate him, he's stupid and I'm going to do this my way or else he can't play."

Bud, I think you and I need to stay out here for a minute. You are tired and maybe you need to take a break from playing with your brother.

"No, I was in the kitchen first. I get to play there. He's stupid."

Okay, enough with the stupid. Do you think you can play nicely with your brother?

Grumble, grumble, "Yes, but he's still stupid."

We return to the house. Charlie goes back to his work at the freezer while I sit down. Sure enough, Gregory tries to take my ice cream order again. "Mommy, you rike da chocrate?" Charlie goes ballistic. This time he has the sink from the kitchen set and smashes it into the back of his brother's head, screaming the entire time, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." Back out to the patio we go.

Sit here! You do not hurt your brother. Stay here for 5 minutes and I'll come get you once you've calmed down.

I shut the sliding door and Charlie immediately gets up, sobbing. He presses his face against the glass, screaming, "Let me in. Let me in. LET ME IN, MOMMMMYYYY!"

I cannot believe my kid is this upset over plastic ice cream. The whole thing is ridiculous so I just start laughing. Probably not the smartest choice. Charlie is now kicking the glass and punching it. Screaming that he hates me at the top of his lungs.

And it's time to go.

We start to head out, say our hurried goodbyes. Charlie is still crying, except now that he doesn't want to leave. We are literally walking out the door and the kid hauls off and punches me, tells me he's not going. Oh beautiful boy, why must you go and hurt your mama like that? Now I gotta yell at you in front of our friends, give them a glimpse of the belly of the beast.

Charlie, go to the car NOW!

"No!"

GO. TO. THE. CAR. NOW!!!!!

"You're stupid", and he runs to the car

As he gets in, I tell him to climb up and buckle himself in or else I will drive down the street and leave him on the corner.

Our friends inner horrification is seeping out through their smiles as they wave goodbye, relieved my kid is not their kid. Or maybe they're just happy to see us go. We head home, it's a quiet car ride. At home, Charlie passes out in about 2 seconds and I am reminded of a valuable lesson - highly refined, white sugar is a weapon of evil when consumed by an overtired child and his mama. Damn you, Birthday Cake, damn you.

Capturing the Cuteness

When it comes to my kids, I am not a sentimental person. I never oohed and aahed over them as babies. There is no baby book for either one. I kept an infant outfit for each which I'm sure I shoved in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. I know when they walked, and generally when they talked, but I just assume their first words were 'mama' or 'dada'.

Whenever one of my friends whips out their elegantly scrap booked baby shrine, shows me their kids first hair cut clipping, or proofs from their latest professional photo session, I do not feel guilty. I'm not a baby person, never have been. While others mourned the end of breastfeeding and infant car seats, I cheered the 10 month milestone of my kids being able to hold their own bottle and sit in a regular chair at the table. My goal has always been how can I get them to be as self sufficient as possible - in hopes that they'll leave me alone long enough to update this damn blog (obviously failing on that front as well since my last post was May).

Parents of grown children always lament to me about how childhood is fleeting. "Before you know it, you wake up and they're off to college." My typical response is a hopeful, Really? Promise? Maybe if I close my eyes tight, and click my ruby slippers together, when I wake up I'll be off this carousel of monotony that is my life - breakfast, park, lunch, ride bikes at park, dinner, bed - round and round I've been going for 5 years. My kids are endlessly demanding of my attention, it's a wonder I can even breathe. Sometimes I can't wait for them to grow up and move onto that next phase of maturity, like riding the bus to school or finding their own apartment.

But this summer I may have had a change of heart. The boys and I spent 3 weeks visiting my Mom on the east coast. She lives in the same house where I grew up since I was 7. Our wonderful neighbors are still across the street keeping as close a tab on my kids as they did on me during my teen years. Except now I'm watching their children, who I babysat, get married, graduate from dental school, and have babies themselves. How did that happen? And where does that leave me with my non existent baby books and lack of professional photos? Maybe those empty nesters speak the truth.

Overnight I feel this sense of urgency to commit everything about my kids to memory. How can I capture these moments so I can be reminded exactly of how they were at this time? Kind of like when you get a whiff of new baby smell, it just sends you back (Okay, so I don't hate babies and I'm a little sentimental). Lord knows I cannot rely upon my current brain cells to handle this task. This morning rather than being bothered to throw the Cheerios out of Gregory's car seat and into the garbage, I ate them. They were stale and I didn't care. Don't judge.

Charlie is now 5. I take comfort that no matter what stage he's at - past, present, or future -he'll be smarter than me. Even I can remember that. He casually offers up observations like, "Mommy, I'm no detective, but that cloud formation sure looks like an upper and lower case 7." I just cannot believe he is mine, let alone a kid. I also know he'll always be funnier than I am. On one of our many side of the road emergency pit stops, Charlie was doing his thing and said, "If the fire chief drives by, I bet he'll think there's a firetruck over here because of how big my stream is." Did I mention humble, too.

But it's when I think about Gregory, at 2.5+ years, that I become truly desperate. He is at this stage of unbelievable innocence and pure love; still very much a baby that needs his mama yet on the cusp of growing facial hair. When I am going out or dropping him at school, I always say, "Give me a kiss." To which he responds, "And ew (you) give me a hug." As I walk out the door, there is an urgent plea, "Wait Mommy, I need anudder hug. Oh yeah, and kiss, too." He hugs and kisses me again and says, "I wuv ew. Be carefuw, Mommy." He is sweetness personified.

He is my last baby and about 15 cases of diapers away from becoming a mouthy 5 year old who rolls his eyes at me and tells me how 'annoying' I am. I can't say I can recall the specifics of Charlie at this age. There are vague memories of a sweet boy with blond curly hair and the vocabulary of an English professor. Though in my defense, I had just popped Gregory out. I was so sleep deprived Charlie could have been speaking fluent Russian and I wouldn't have given it a second thought. Sorry, Chuck, if only I had kept a baby book. I guess you'll have to settle for a blog entry.

Maplevizer, Inc.

On our Mother's Day hike yesterday, the kids were doing what they do best, playing with sticks. Gregory had a long, curved stick that was, 'Blowing moke on da fire.' Charlie had a huge limb with tons of smaller branches. What do you have Charlie? 'This is my maplevizer. I use it for smoking bad guys and making them dead.'

We walked a little further talking about maplevizers. Brian and I decided we should start a company called Maplevizer Consultants. We're not sure what we would do, but we'd have a cool name and would surely be successful.

'Mommy, now my maplevizer is a shooter, but not like a shooter gun for bad guys. It shoots love. Watch.' He points, aims, and shoots it at me. Cute. Then he proceeds to chuck it down the side of a ravine. 'Yeah, that maplevizer was really heavy, I needed get rid of it.' It was nice while it lasted.

Charlie loves to make up words. Even the childish games he invents have catchy, interesting names like Fita and Taber Mamah. Every week or so a new word gets added to the mix. If there was a business for word creation, my kid would get hired right now. Wait, isn't that advertising? Or is it marketing? Never mind.

We have a small plastic wagon that used to hold some Duplo Blocks. We've been using it to store our massive Hot Wheels/Match Box collection, until Charlie realized Gregory could fit inside of it. He loves to pull his brother all over the house going as fast as he can. When the need for speed hits, Charlie will yell, 'Hey Gregory, come and get into the compoundown.' - aka the wagon. I have no idea where compoundown comes from, but it has a certain ring to it. The kid has a gift.

As I was loading the boys into the car some months ago, Charlie beckoned, 'Gregory, come in here quick. I need your help with the benemehno.' The what? 'The benemehno. Gregory, get in here now before it gets away.' The definition is a moving target depending on the day you ask. Yesterday, benemehno was a lot of dots in one place. Really? 'Well Mommy, what it means to me is that there are a bunch of dots all together and it means the same thing to Ari.' Interesting.

What other words do you have that you can teach me?

'None, they're all worn out so I don't use them. Except when I'm going poop because I like to talk about them in private.'

I guess he's shy about his creative genius. The advertising world will have to wait.

Cruella De Mommy

Gregory is petrified of spiders, or 'piders' as he calls them. He hates them so much that the sight of one can stop him cold, and is usually followed by a piercing scream, 'Pider!' Every dust ball, piece of hair, or thread, renders a shriek, 'Pider web!' Brian dislikes all bugs, but is particularly phobic of spiders; like father like son.

Perhaps it was his high pitched screams whenever an 8 legged creature appeared. The pleas, "Honey, come get it. Come get it and kill it. NOW!" Or the fact that Mommy is known as the spider catcher/saver/terminator in our house. Whatever the clue, Gregory figured out his old man's achilles heel and clearly used this information for his own personal gain.

The first night I was away at my grandmother's memorial, Brian allowed Gregory to sleep in our bed. This is something we try to avoid at all costs in our household. Once you let a kid into your bed, they're like fleas or a bad house guest, they take up residence and are impossible to get rid of. So in our bed is where Gregory stayed for the next 3 nights until my return.

As the story goes, Brian put Gregory to bed after his usual story and song routine. Of course the boy talked to his monkey, jumped up and down in his crib, sang 'Celebration', pretty much did anything but sleep. Brian popped his head into the bedroom and said, "Hey, it's time to rest your body so lay down and go to sleep."

"Aw wight", was the response.

No sooner was Brian out the door when the, "Daddy. Daddy. Daddy? DADDY!!!!" started.

Trip number 2, Brian told Gregory that Charlie was asleep and he needed to quiet down.

The obligatory, "Okay, Daddy", and I'm sure he laid back down just to keep up appearances.

According to Brian, this went on a few more times until he threatened Gregory with shutting the door and turning out the light.

I can picture my husband snuggled back into bed and focused on his own slumber, until, "Daddy. Da-dee. DA-DEE. DAAAAA-DEEEEE." Pillow covering the ears, blanket pulled over the head, all meager defenses against the whiney voice of a 2 1/2 year old who is being ignored. And Gregory, a graduate of Grand Master Chief Charlie's toddler bootcamp, knew that in the face of adversity any good soldier went for the jugular. And so he did, "PIDER! PIDER! Daddy, there's a pider."

Brian was definitely spoiled up until my departure. I was the parent awoken when one of the kids even breathed funny. Noises loud or soft, my husband often slept right through unaware that I had been up a half dozen times. The poor man was ill prepared. Exhausted and fully manipulated by Gregory's knowledge of his own arachnophobia, Brian uttered those fatal words, "Do you want to sleep in Daddy's bed?"

Sucker.

Fast forward to Mommy's first night back home and it was pretty much an instant replay of the past 3 evenings. First the "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy?"

"Go to sleep, Gregory."

Then the, "Mommy, I need a drink of water. I need water."

Get up, trudge down the hall, "If I get you a drink of water are you going to go to sleep?"

"Yes, but I want water from the bathroom and I drink it out of the blue cup."

I get the water and before giving it to him, make him swear upon his monkey's life, "If I give this to you, you're going to lay down, right?"

"Yes."

"Here you go. Now go to sleep."

"Ok, Mommy."

Not five minutes later I hear, "I want to sleep in Mommy's bed. I want to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed."

Perhaps it was the jet lag or the feeling of the cold ass floor on my feet for the sixth time that caused me to snap. I marched into his room. He smiled as I glared. I said, "Gregory, if you do not go to sleep, I will get a spider from the hallway and put it into your bed. Do you understand?"

A barely audible, 'yes', escaped his lips. His poor little eyeballs almost popped out of his head. But wouldn't you know that boy laid down and went to sleep.

As I crawled back into my own bed, Brian asked what happened. When I told him he said, "You are cruel." Then promptly rolled over and fell back asleep.

I was cleaning up his mess, you would have thought he'd have been a little more grateful.

Legacy of a Life

My grandmother died this past Easter Sunday. After 94 + years on this planet, a nasty bout of pneumonia and bronchitis finally caused her body to say, 'Enough'.

I flew back east for her memorial which was a true celebration of her life. Her pastor performed an amazing service talking about my grandmother's Legacy of Life; family, education, love of nature, perseverance, charity, and a strict no BS policy. We laughed and cried as we told wonderful stories about how she instilled all of these values not only in her 4 children, but her 9 grandchildren and 12 great grandchildren.

My grandmother stood maybe a hair taller than 5 foot, but had the presence, and sometimes the mouth, of a man 6 feet tall; that woman loved a good dirty joke. She was humbled and frequently embarrassed by her 8th grade education even though she received her GED at the age of 43. She loved museums, the theater, her grandchildren's concerts, anything that fell under the heading of culture. She could identify any bird by sight as well as sound. Knew exactly how and when to plant each vegetable, fruit, and flower in the garden. She could shoot, pluck and dress a game bird. The woman actually knew what squirrel tasted like.

When we went to Grammy's house for holidays, birthdays, Sunday dinners, no matter what was put on your plate, you had to try everything. "At least one bite", was her famous line. Upon entering her kitchen, the words everyone dreaded were, "Well, I decided to try out a new recipe; something a little different." 'A little different' usually meant a new type of jello mold - raspberry jello with peanuts, celery and apples - or a new way to serve squash - pureed with nuts and raisins. We were expected to eat these unappetizing concoctions or suffer the wrath of Grammy. A wrath so great, I actually waited until she was dead before committing any of this to paper.

We chose not tell Charlie right away about my grandmother's death. There was great uncertainty on how to broach the subject. We didn't want to say she died because she was old; to Charlie I am considered old and knowing how the literal brain of a 4 year old works, you can imagine where that explanation could lead us. I also didn't want to tell him she was sick; both of his grandparents were sick on their last visit here for Passover. Although at times they both acted like it could possibly be the end, as only dramatic Jewish grandparents can, the common cold does not qualify as terminal illness.

Brian and I decided to wait until I returned home for fear that Charlie might think I went away and would not come back like great Grammy. Call it paranoid or preparedness, the last thing you want is for your child to be scared or suffer from doubts or insecurities about a subject like death, that can be so dark and final.

We consulted Charlie's teacher, borrowed a few of her books from which I took pieces that were appropriate to our situation. I liked a book called 'Nana Upstairs, Nana Downstairs' quite a bit, but mostly because the great grandmother, Nana Upstairs, was 94 like my Grammy, and Tommy, the great grandson, was 4 like Charlie. At the end Tommy saw a shooting star and interpreted that as a kiss sent down from Nana Upstairs, very sweet. 'Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge', by Julie Viva, brought tears to my eyes. It's about a little boy who lives next to a nursing home and helps one of it's residents, Miss Nancy, try to get her memory back even though Wilfrid doesn't know what the word memory means. But the majority of the language we used came from a book called 'I Miss You', by Pat Thomas.

This morning I asked Charlie if he knew why I had gone to Yia Yia's (my mom) this weekend?
He said, "No, why?"
I told him that great Grammy had died.
"For real?", he asked.
Yes, for real. Do you know what that means, that she died?
"No, what?"
It means that her body stopped working. Her heart, her eyes, her brain, her arms, her legs, all stopped working and so she died.
"Like her eyes closed when she went to sleep?"
Yes, except that she will not wake up. When we go to Yia Yia's this summer, great Grammy will not be there like she usually is.
"That's okay Mommy because I have lots of cousins who will be there."
That is true, you're lucky. Great Grammy lived a very long life, you and your cousins have lots of memories to remember her by.
"Kind of like when someone dies and they raise a flag half way to remember them."
That's right.
"That's so sad. Can I have some yogurt now?"

And that was it. The conversation Brian and I had hashed out dozens of times, talked about endlessly, consulted books about, and pretty much dreaded, just ended like we were talking about the weather. There have been other questions peppered throughout the week, like asking if she died alone and then telling Brian, 'When I died, I am going to give my whole family kisses but that will be before I died.'

Charlie's amazing ability to comprehend and discuss this heavy subject as well as my Grammy's memorial service gave me some much needed perspective. A). My kid is sensitive and not completely void of sympathy. B). Not once did any of my grandmother's children mention how many times they were spanked, punished, or yelled at; and she was old school, circa 1915, with belts hanging around every corner.

I'm trying to be kind to myself and not worry that every little thing I do to my kids is going to cause them irreparable harm for which I will be blamed. Lord knows they'll punish me enough during my lifetime. My hope is that I can instill enough of the values that I live by to create my own legacy; preferably one that won't involve time outs or hysterical fits of rage.

Every night at dinner my kids have something new on their plate to try. And like in great Grammy's house, they know that they have to eat at least one bite. However, when they do take that taste, I get up from my seat and jump in the air 3 times yelling, "Jack pot! Jack pot! Jack pot!" (Don't ask). I've gotten up in restaurants, homes of friends, as well as public picnic areas because my kids will eat just about anything in order to see their Mom leap like a lunatic yelling jack pot. Charlie said just the other night, "Gregory, you should be glad it's only a bite of peas (Gregory hates peas) and not great Grammy's jello with nuts, celery and apples." The Legacy of Grammy's Life lives strong in our household.

Share

This past Tuesday night Brian was working late which meant I was tasked with performing the bed time routine on my own. It's always an adventure in patience. "Okay, time to get jammies on. Time to brush teeth" are repeated so often the words are rendered meaningless.

We got home from dinner at my girlfriend's house and the boys were still coming down from their ice cream sandwich high. I let them bounce on Charlie's bed for a good 5 minutes with the hopes that it would tire them out. Oh naive Mommy, that just got them even more riled up.

I gave the 'Let's settle down' warning which was promptly ignored. The bouncing and giggling both continued elevating. Finally Charlie took a giant leap about 4 feet in the air, coming down square on top of Gregory's head with his jaw, then proceeded to sweep his legs out from under him as he rolled off the bed. Gregory flew like a Russian gymnast. Spiraling through the air, he landed on his head in such an awkward position, I was certain he had broken his neck.

To date I've been a pretty cool customer when faced with an injured child. I act calmly and rationally, applying pressure, Neosporin, or the Heimlich Maneuver when appropriate. But this was the first time one of the injuries could have been life altering. It looked so bad and I did not handle it well. Let me preface this next part by saying that I am not proud of my behavior.

Charlie is holding his mouth, screaming in pain. Gregory is making howling noises like an injured dog. As I go to straighten him out (he looks not unlike an accordion), I trip over Charlie's guitar; the one that was supposed to be put away prior to jumping on the bed. I stub my toe so hard it's probably broken and almost fall on top of Gregory. It's official, I have been pushed over the edge. I grab the guitar and smash it on the ground like I'm Jimi Hendrix reincarnated and let out the most primal scream, "Ahhhh! Charlie, move this stupid, flipping guitar."

Gregory is in my arms hysterical as I feel every bone in his body, frantically yelling, "What hurts? Tell Mommy what hurts?" Charlie is crying, "I'm hurt, too. I'm hurt, too." I grab him and hug him, checking his teeth and jaw. Everything is in tact and there is no sign of blood.
"You're fine", I say and get back to Gregory, who is at least moving but looking a little dazed as an enormous black and blue egg forms on his head.
Charlie starts crying even harder, "You broke my guitar. You broke my guitar. Waaaaahhhh."

For the record, I did feel bad about losing control, but not about smashing that guitar. Charlie had broken it the week after Christmas when he decided to jump on top of it like a trampoline. It also spent the better part of the month at the top of the linen closet in a permanent state of time out. Gregory wanted to see if he could make music by cracking the guitar against the back of his brother's head. Then Charlie and his buddy cut all of the strings off, rendering it unplayable. The guitar was living on borrowed time. I simply helped it along to it's grave, and probably in a more dignified manner.

Things inevitably quieted down. No trip to the ER, thankfully. I apologized for yelling and breaking the guitar, but explained that I was really scared that Gregory had gotten hurt. None of us made the best choices that evening, and we discussed how we could do things differently.

The next morning I overheard Charlie say to Brian, "Daddy, Mommy broke my guitar. Can I bring it to school for share?" I did a full sprint from the kitchen into the living room, "Honey, that guitar has lots of sharp pieces, I don't think it's safe to take it to school. And for the record, it was already broken."

F*CK

As I've mentioned in the past, Brian and I are not big swearers. We'll slip with an occasional 'G_d Dammit' here or there, but that's the extent of our expletives around the kids. This has not been an easy transition for me as I love to swear, especially when I'm driving.

The boys know that Mommy is the best driver and everyone else is simply wrong and a hazard on the road. Nothing gets my point across like a good 'Fuck you buddy! Try to come into my lane without a signal and I'll ram you up the ass.' So satisfying, or at least it was.

If I really stretch it out beyond the point of recognition, maybe I can get away with, 'Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus, old woman! Give up your license for the love of Pete.' Charlie's catching onto me. He'll say, 'Mommy, I heard that bad word and who's Pete?' The atmosphere is a bit more forgiving when it's just me and Gregory in the car. I can sneak in a 'Dick wad' or 'Asshole', and he's none the wiser. But even now that little vacation to potty mouth land is coming to an end.

The other day when a woman cut in front of us on the highway, I scoffed, 'Jeez, lady, watch where you're going.' From the backseat I hear Gregory, 'You douche bag, lady.' Fortunately I was able to turn the radio up to muffle my laughter.

The other night we went out to dinner when my Mom was in town. We were finishing our pizza when the boys started asking about ice cream. Brian said let me check my wallet to make sure I have enough money. 'Yup, $26 ought to do it.' When she visits us, my Mom likes to pretend she's a high roller and not the first person to graduate college in a family of a sheet metal welder and factory worker from Schenectady. She tries hard not to let her jaw drop to the floor when we show her a million dollar, 3 bedroom, 1500 square foot house on a piece of land about the size of a postage stamp.

So of course, the contents of Brian's wallet begs her to ask, 'What kind of ice cream is this that's going to cost us $26?'
He jokes, 'Well you know, the boys like to get gummy bears and gold coins on their ice cream.' At least that's what I thought he said.

Charlie all of a sudden yells, "Fucking gold coins. Fucking gold coins." He is hysterical as we all stare shell shocked, trying not laugh ourselves. Gregory immediately picks up on the fact that his brother is getting some attention.
He starts in, "Fucking gold coins. Ha ha ha. Fucking gold coins."
The people at the next table are GLARING at the bad parents with the misbehaving kids. Not the first time this has happened folks so keep moving, nothing to see here.

Brian is pissed and embarrassed, 'Charlie! Gregory! We don't talk like that.'
They're both crazed as they sing in chorus, "Fucking gold coins, fucking gold coins."
'I guess you guys don't want ice cream?'
Silence.

Meanwhile, on the side Brian whispers to us, 'Did I say the 'f' word'? I don't think I said it. Did I say it?'
My Mom is insistent that he did not. But her specialty is agreeing with you no matter what you say or how wrong you are. She doesn't want to disagree because that could lead to confrontation; the 8th and lesser known of all the deadly sins.
I am personally not so convinced Brian hasn't said it. But my attention span these days, especially when my husband is talking, is about 2 seconds before it's in one ear and out the other.

Brian is now adamant that he has not dropped the f-bomb, shaking his head, questioning how our kids could even know this word. My Mother is equally as flabbergasted and fawning all over Brian's protests, 'I know, it's not like you to ever talk like that. I don't know what's going on.'
I'm kind of quiet and still unsure about the whole thing.

The debate rages on until Charlie interrupts, "Excuse me, Brian. You did say 'Fucking Gold Coins'."
Well, I guess that settles it. It's Brian's fault.

Will You Just Give Me a Minute

I have always been a morning person. I got up without hitting snooze, could have a lucid conversation prior to ingesting caffeine, and had the ability to roll out of bed and be ready for work in 15 minutes, that's with a shower. Perhaps it's the luck of the genetic draw, or maybe it's because in the past, morning was my time. I could go for a run or take my time getting ready, wake up with a cup of coffee, read the paper. My choice, my life.

Now with my children in control of wake up (and my life) and robbing me of precious sleep every night, I am no longer a morning person. I calculated that I have not slept through the night in almost 5 years if you include the last few months of pregnancy. On the rare occasion when both of my kids sleep through the night, my bladder cannot, and when I'm up, I have to go check on them. There just seem to be a lot more cob webs to clear out these days and not enough time or peace in the morning to get to them all.

From the moment I set foot in the kitchen, I am met with a deluge of orders. I can muster enough brain power to form a single thought - coffee. Yes, that's what I should do first, make coffee. But my plans are waylaid by a demand for water. With ice. And in a cup with a straw. Not the red cup, but the blue one. What was I doing? Coffee, right.

As I make my way over to the cupboard to fulfill the order, another request, a command really, is immediately issued by my youngest. 'NO, I want the blue cup.'

Charlie of course counters by yelling, 'NO, I get it! I asked first.'

'No, Charlie not get it. I get it.'

Now there's screaming. For the love of Pete, it is 6:30 am and I have lost count of the number of scoops of coffee I just measured. What do I do? Do I just estimate the rest and risk the brew being the equivalent of rocket fuel? Should I empty the whole coffee filter and start from scratch? If I could just hear myself think for 5 seconds, I'm sure I could figure this out.

'No, I want it.'

'No, I want it.'

'Stupid, Charlie.'

'Mommy! Gregory used a bad word and I should get the blue cup now.'

I'm paralyzed. Problem solving is not my strong suit when chaos is erupting around me. The voices in my head are one thing, but this is ridiculous.

We finally work through the water issue. By the way, no one got the blue cup, it's in the garbage. That's how Mommy rolls when people mess with her coffee. Now there are requests for breakfast.

'I want something from the refrigerator.'

What would you like, Charlie, yogurt?

'No.'

Cereal with milk?

'That doesn't come from the fridge.'

The milk does.

'No, the cereal doesn't so I don't want it.'

How about eggs?

'I don't eat eggs anymore.'

Since when?

'Since I told the wires in my brain not to like them.'

Oh. Grapes?

'Yeah, grapes would be good.'

Okay, grapes coming up. And I'll grab myself a cup of jo en route.

'I don't want grapes.'

Well Gregory, what do you want?

'I want pretzel rod.'

No, pretzels.

'I want popsicle.'

No.

How about some yogurt?

'Okay. I want vanilla.'

We only have blueberry.

'I no want blueberry.'

That's all I've got is blueberry. It's blue yogurt, way better than white.

'Okay.'

Okay!

I still haven't gotten my coffee and I don't even think Mark Geragos in the height of the Scott Peterson trial debated this much within an hour of his waking.

Finally, everyone has their food. I have my coffee and think I might sit down.

'Mommy, I'm done.' Or not.

Honey, I don't think just grapes is enough of a breakfast. You're going to get hungry at school.

'But I'm done.'

How about some yogurt, like Gregory?

'Okay, I'll have vanilla.'

Your screaming must have caused you to miss that part of the conversation earlier. There is only blueberry.

'But I want vanilla.'

Really? Really, Charlie? Are we going to play this game?

'What, Mommy?'

Blueberry or nothing.

'Okay, blueberry I guess. But you should really get vanilla when you're at the store next time. I like vanilla the best.'

Great.

I am now starving and need to eat my cereal before I go postal. My ass has not even formed an indentation on the seat cushion of the chair when I hear, 'I all done.'

Okay Greg, you're going to have to wait until Mommy finishes before I can help you.

'No, I all done now.'

Sorry, bud, let me eat then we'll get you something.

'No, now.'

No.

'Have some of Mommy's cereal?'

What's mine is yours kid and if it will keep you quiet, why not.

'Mommy, I don't want my yogurt anymore. I want some crackers with cheese, but it has to be orange mild cheddar, not the white mild cheddar.'

Charlie, finish your yogurt, that's what you asked for.

With tears brimming in his eyes, 'But Mommy, I didn't want the blueberry yogurt. I wanted vanilla and because you didn't get any at the store, I shouldn't have to eat blueberry. I want crackers with orange mild cheddar.'

I guess I should just get used to this. Everything will be my fault for the rest of my kids lives, or until they get a good therapist. I'm going to call mine right now.

Mommy Stupid

Gregory loves the word stupid, more than Goldfish, juice boxes, and his Home Depot tool box combined. The more he says it, the more I cringe, twinge and yell, the more he loves it - ah, the circle of parenthood. We've tried just about every tactic short of caning to get him to stop using the 's' word.

1). Ignore it

After listening to himself repeat the word stupid 20 times with nary an eyebrow raise from Mom, Gregory turns it into a question in an attempt to illicit a response from anyone who is listening, 'Mommy stupid? Daddy stupid? Charlie stupid?'

Like a trout with a fat worm dangling on a hook, Charlie takes the bait, 'NO, I am not stupid! And you're not supposed to be using the word stupid, Gregory.'

Gregory is very pleased with himself, happy to have found a sparring partner. On the fly he changes tactics and boldly states, 'Charlie is stupid. Charlie is stupid.' (I like the addition of a verb for emphasis)

5...4...3...2...1...and, 'MOMMY!!!! Gregory is calling me STUPID. He's not supposed to use that word.'

'Charlie is stupid.'

'MOOOOMMMMMMY! Stop it Gregory. Wahhhh!'

Well, bud, you kind of walked into that one, making you not necessarily stupid, but a bit gullible. If you had just ignored him like me...

2). The Redirect

Sometimes when there is a lull in conversation at the dinner table, the boys take this to mean a breach in the parental defense system. As of late, 90% of the time we can count on Gregory to escalate things back up to defcon 1.

'Charlie stupid. Ha ha ha.'

Oh Gregory, let's think of another word to use like 'silly'. Charlie is silly, isn't he?

'No, Charlie stupid.'

What about a word that rhymes, like 'mupid' or 'wupid'. Could Charlie be mupid?

'Stupid, stupid, stupid.'

'Mommy - sniff sniff - tell Gregory to stop calling me stupid.'

'Stupid, Charlie, stupid.'

'Waaaahhhh! Stop it Gregory. You're stupid.'

3). Reasoning

We are riding in the car when out of the blue Gregory says, 'Mommy stupid. Mommy stupid.'

No Gregory, we don't say that.

'Mommy stupid. Hee hee hee.'

That's not nice, that hurts Mommy's feelings.

'Stupid Mommy. Stupid Mommy.'

It takes every ounce of self control not to turn around and smack him, as well as his father, who is trying to drive while muffling his snarky laughter.

Gregory, do you want us to go home and you can go right to bed?

'Pretty Mommy. Pretty Mommy.'

I shit you not, Brian and I burst into laughter.

4). Defeat

We are braving it at a local brew pub, having lunch with the boys and my Mom, our designated driver. I know I've previously written about our apprehension of restaurant dining with our children, but our logic here is sound and almost fool proof (almost). We've found that the amount of beer we drink is directly proportional to how well our kids behave. No beer, they're really bad, wreaking havoc upon our fellow diners. 1 beer, they're kind of annoying, but amusing us with their antics. 2+ beers and they are little angels with french fry halos, who we'll brag about to anyone within earshot.

Mercifully, the boys get their meals first. Then the waitress comes back specifically to ask them if their food is okay. It was quite sweet. My need to ensure the smallest of lessons not go untaught forces me to chime in, 'Wow, what a good server. She wanted to come check on you guys and make sure you liked your food. That was really nice. Wasn't that nice?'

Gregory's looks at me, 'Yeah, not stupid.'

Not stupid? I guess that could be another way of saying nice. Well done, Greg. That would be game, point, and match.

You Are So Annoying

We decided to venture out to dinner last Monday, kids and all, to help Gregory's best buddy celebrate her birthday.  It was a real honest to goodness adult restaurant; the majority of patrons could properly use their utensils and there was a noticeable absence of pb&j and hot dogs on the menu.  How daring!

Most times we enter a restaurant with a certain amount of dread.  But Brian and I were actually looking forward to a glass of wine, some good food and a few laughs with our friends. The boys were behaving, there was a nice open space next to the restaurant where they could run around.  All of the forces of nature were aligning for us to have a great experience.    

My girlfriend and I got to actually sit down to order appetizers and have a cocktail, while the Dads remained outside with all the kids.  My mouth was anticipating the tuna tartare followed by  Kansas City style ribs.  Mmm.

We were inside no more than 5 minutes when the manager comes over to whisper in my friend's ear.  Next thing she's telling me that I am needed outside, everything is fine, but Gregory has fallen.  Damn it, my drink is on it's way.  I should have known this would end badly.  Brian and I were feeling way too good, maybe even a tad over confident.

Against every fiber of my being, my first question to the manager was not if I could get the tuna to go.  I inquired if my child was conscious; which he was.  He had fallen and hit his head on a large rock in the courtyard.  As I approached, it occurred to me that Gregory could easily be a victim in a slasher movie.  There was an endless supply of hysterical screaming as blood poured from his head down into his face. Goodbye ribs, hello ER.

25 minutes, 5 linen napkins, and 2 macaroni 'n cheeses with truffle oil (to go) later, Gregory and I are signed in at the nurses station of the ER.  Charlie and Brian went off in search of food.  Thankfully Gregory's wound did not require stitches, but his laceration needed to be glued shut.  We were "fast tracked" to the non-severe section of the ER, far away from the contagious looking man wrapped in a dirty blanket, drenched in a feverish sweat, who of course decided to lay across all available seating next to the dirty waiting room toys that Gregory insisted on playing with.  

This new waiting room was small, clean and empty.  Charlie was able to eat and stay out of trouble, while we tended to Gregory; which entailed us physically restraining him.  I held his legs, Brian pinned his arms, and the nurse had his head, while the doctor cleaned the wound to prep it for tape then glue.  That boy cried like they were gutting him from head to toe.  It was absolutely the worst sound I've heard as his poor face turned about as red as the blood that was smeared all over it.

The crying escalated to flat out shrieking, Charlie came running in with his dinner.   He yelled, "Gregory!  You're being so annoying, I can't even eat my pasta."  He turns and looks at the doctor, "Don't you think he's being annoying?"  So much for brotherly concern.  

Now that the whole experience is behind us, I wonder, had our little bloody mishap not occurred, would we have had to leave the restaurant early (and bitter), with our dinners half eaten because Charlie decided to fling his pasta on the wall or Gregory spit his water at the next table?  Perhaps the ER visit was the lesser of 2 evils - no food wasted, no embarrassing scenes that forced us to slip undetected out the emergency exit, leaving a wad of cash for our thankful waitress.  

Was this the work of a higher power punishing us, trying to send the message that children - more specifically my children - do not belong in adult restaurants?  Or could this have been a message of mercy, saving us from a fate far worse than a bloody forehead and an ER visit?  I guess we'll never know, but from now on we're going to stay home and order pizza.