Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

One of the things that amazes me about kids is their honesty.  While it can be a difficult pill to swallow, the commentary is usually spot on and pretty amusing.  Like when Charlie admonishes me for driving too fast and warns that the 'po po' are going to pull me over and give me a ticket.  Or when he tells Brian he smells like 'super stinky penis butt' after a run.

This past week we've noticed a departure from the blunt force honesty.  It started with a few minor incidents.  I heard the baby crying from the kitchen so in I ran, foolishly asking Charlie what happened.  Last week he would have openly confessed, 'I pushed Gregory off the stool.  Sorry, Mommy.'  The fact that he was not sorry at all is immaterial, the point is, he was honest about what happened.  This week, with his shit eating grin and hand still on the back of Gregory's neck, my little boy looked at me with innocent brown eyes and said, 'I don't know what happened, Mama?  I think he fell.'  Right, and I have a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.

As the week progressed, Charlie upped the ante.  My mother in law is in town for spring break.  She was buckling Charlie into the car seat, I was on the other side helping Gregory into his.  Charlie said, 'Mommy, I have to tell you something.'  

What honey?  

'It's something that Nani (my mother in law) did that I didn't like.'  

My mother in law and I are both baffled and have no idea what he's going to say.  

'Nani spit at me and Gregory.  She spit at us and I didn't like it at all.'

My mother in law is aghast.  I say, Charlie Goldstein, are you sure you're telling the truth?

'Yes, I am.  Nani spit.'

My mother in law's face is literally next to his with a look that could maim or possibly even kill her first born grandchild.  But she calmly states, 'Charlie, I do not spit.  It is not nice.  Perhaps you're thinking of yesterday when you spit at me.'  

Oh, snap.  He did spit at her the day before because she tried to help him to his room to get dressed for school.  

With no response from her accuser, Nani asked, 'Charlie, is that what you're telling Mommy about, when you spit at me?'

Charlie can't even look her in the eye, he stares straight ahead and says, 'Nani, I'm done.  This discussion is over.'

We duck behind the car to hide our laughter.  But as we pull out of the driveway, the reality of the situation hits and I become somber.  The age of innocence is over.  My son has graduated from fibber to bold faced liar in exactly 3 days.  At this rate, by the time Charlie is 5, he's going to be telling me he doesn't know how that dent got on the bumper of my car or why the inside reeks of beer.  My husband often likes to say, go big or go home.  Or in Charlie's case, lie big and admit to nothing.

Pretty Pink Packages

Many of us, for better or for worse, have alter egos. They come out when we're drunk, stressed, overtired, in Vegas, etc. I've talked about Charlie's Jekyll and Hyde routine, mostly of Hyde and his constant torturing of Charlie's younger brother. But this past weekend we actually got to meet his version of Jekyll - you know, the good one.

We went to visit friends for an early dinner on Sunday. They have a daughter who is about 2 months older than Gregory. As big and boyish as Gregory is, she is just as dainty and demure. She is their only child and definitely the princess of her castle.

I'm always a little tentative when we take the boys to someone's home. Their aggressive behavior usually has a shock and awe effect on both parent and child alike. 'Wouldn't they feel more comfortable coloring at the table instead of on the walls?' Hey, there's a reason the word 'washable' has been placed on those markers. Or, 'Perhaps they could roll the ball instead of throwing it directly at his face?' You want your kid to play like a girl, then have him play with girls.

I wasn't sure if the newly acquired play structure in our friend's backyard would alleviate or add to my feelings of apprehension. Granted it was for toddlers so it could keep the boys occupied while I downed a glass or 3 of chardonnay. But it was just high enough for an adorable little 18 month old girl to obtain her first round of stitches or broken bones, especially if helped along by a certain 3 1/2 year old boy.

Charlie ran Gregory over on his way out to the backyard like he was at Filene's Basement Running of the Brides bridal gown sale. He then tried to push him backwards off the ladder. When that didn't thwart Gregory's efforts, Charlie kicked him in the face as he went down the slide head first.

Fortunately the chardonnay and yummy appetizers were doing wonders for my blood pressure. But my dwindling tentativeness quickly spiked to pure panic as 'the princess' decided it was her turn to go down the slide. How was this going to go? Would our friends ask us to leave before or after they iced and bandaged their daughter's precious head? Would dinner wind up being a trip through the McDonald's drive thru on our way home?

Before I could say, "Charlie, let's remember our gentle hands." Pixie princess, dressed in her floral green and pink sweatsuit complete with matching shoes and hair tie, teetered up the ladder and was sitting at the top of the slide, waiting. Prior to this moment, she had never been allowed to go down the slide unassisted. Charlie was at the bottom saying, 'Come on, come on. I'll catch you.' The parents are hovering, trying to determine if they should entrust their daughter's wellbeing to a preschooler, let alone a preschooler with a well documented history of ill behavior towards toddlers. I'm hovering myself, wondering if Charlie is channeling Jekyll or Hyde and does one of them know CPR?

Everyone was on high alert as our friends only child comes down the slide and is caught in the arms of the most adorable, competent, chivalrous 3 1/2 year old on this good green Earth. The icing on the cake was the, 'Great job you little cutie.' I'm not sure if shock or relief registered first, but who cares, she was alive, in one piece, and with no visible injuries or blood stains on her outfit, the same could not be said of Charlie's brother.

We learned a lot from the experience. 1. Charlie is a kind, sweet boy with the ability to be amazingly gentle (we knew this, but were in desperate need of a reminder) 2. From this point forward, Gregory will be dressed from head to toe in pink. Our own little social experiment of sorts.

What Is Wrong With You?

We always worry about our kids no matter what. From the moment they are born, are they breathing, hungry, scared, healthy, happy, smart, liked? The list of everyday worries gets longer and longer the older they get - loss of eye from juice box straw, choking on non-organic, processed snack foods, fear of abduction by all men with mustaches wearing hoodie sweatshirts and dark sunglasses. While each of these is a horrible vision, they are not the worst of my fears. To me, the worst worries are the ones that cannot be controlled, no matter the amount of preparedness.

When you think your child has something physically, mentally, developmentally, or emotionally wrong with them, there is a whole new feeling that gets added to that worrying mix - guilt. Especially for mothers, you scrutinize every move you've made from conception through birth. Did I really need to ingest a jar of peanut butter a week for the entire 36 weeks of my pregnancy? Did drinking my merry way through the Christmas season, prior to knowing I was pregnant, leave my child deficient in healthy brain cells? Should I blame diet Coke for his hyperactivity? Would I sue NutraSweet or Coke? Yes, rationality tends to go out the door when questioning the well being of your child.

Brian and I have been worried about Charlie for some time now. While we joke about it, calling him Jekyll and Hyde or El Diablo, and I write about it, over the past months his aggressiveness, most specifically towards his brother, has strayed beyond the boundaries of our home. Spilling over into the outside world - school, parks, play dates - it seemed no stranger, friend, or foe under the age of 10 was safe. If someone were to take Charlie's sand toy, that child would be met with a swift poke in the eye with the end of a shovel or a bitch slap that would make Alexis Carrington proud.

And our smart, thoughtful, wonderful little boy, did not seem to care about any of the consequences for his actions. Leave the park, scream at the top of my lungs, ignore him, strap him to the roof of the car while driving 75 mph down the highway; no matter what my reaction, he continued along this same path. Aggressive, almost crazed behavior one minute, then sweetly sharing his snack with his brother the next. I chalked it up to his being 3 1/2, or the next coming of Sybil.

Brian of course, being the worried Jewish father type, has always said, "His behavior cannot be normal." This has been a source of much contention in our marriage. Me countering with, "He's fine. He's 3. I see a lot of kids we know doing the same things to their siblings." Though the more I observed, lost my temper, and lost hope that any of my attempts to alter his behavior would work, the more I came to believe that Charlie was on track to do his brother in by spring, giving March Madness a whole new meaning.

So I sought the advice of his teachers. After they witnessed him running Gregory over with the class art cart, they gave us the name of a counselor to help determine if Charlie (or his parents) had a problem. It's a big step, to admit to someone other than your spouse that something may be wrong with your child and that you're not doing a great job as a parent dealing with it. It's like if you say it out loud, it makes it real and very scary and of course, your fault. Can I fix this? What if it effects him for the rest of his life? Or worse, what if my son blames me, then goes and writes a book about it? Probably time to get rid of those wire hangers.

We went to see a counselor at Jewish Family Services. I can't say enough about what a fantastic resource this place is, for anyone in need. Her very first words to us, "From everything you've described, your child is developmentally appropriate and on course." Really? Attempting to 'help' one's brother down the slide by pushing him over the railing is normal? Drop kicking him from the top of the couch and landing on his back is developmentally appropriate?

She did give us some constructive ways to help deal with Charlie when he gets out of control, as well as good reminders about our own behavior. It's amazing when you calm yourself, how your child follows suit. Sounds simple but when I get worn down and frustrated, cool, calm and collected is not usually my first or favorite response - love those wire hangers.

She did suggest that we read some books on dysfunctional sensory integration. Without actually meeting Charlie and observing him, it was impossible for her to make a judgment. I think Brian and I felt a combination of relief and vomitousness. There really could be something wrong with our child and thank G_d we might have an explanation.

She suggested we read 'The Out of Sync Child' and 'The Sensory Sensitive Child' to decide if we wanted Charlie to be observed by someone. After researching tons of stuff on the web and reading the books, I was still not 100% that we were dealing with something other than normal 3 1/2 year old behavior. But there was enough doubt in my mind that I've asked someone from Easter Seals to come out for a home visit to see if further evaluation is necessary.

I'm writing this in hopes that people will talk about what's going on with their children with friends, family, teachers, etc. Or do like I did, start a blog to complain about them to a larger audience. While a lot of bad behavior is just kids being kids, if you feel something is not quite right or even the tiniest bit off, ask someone, read, research, get help. Mommy intuition does not come naturally to some of us; it took me the better part of 6 months to do something about my son's behavior. Even if he is fine, I still learned how I can be a better parent. I'll never stop worrying, but this is my attempt to gain some control over those feelings, especially the guilt. If Charlie does ever write that book, I'm hoping there will be a chapter entitled, "At Least The Bitch Tried."

Body Parts

One of my dearest friends is a successful financial analyst. She carries herself with all of the grace and sophistication of someone raised in southern Connecticut, with an Ivy league education, and a high falutin career. But when she ties one on, she has been known to expose herself to large crowds screaming, "What? What's the problem? They're just body parts. See!" Then proceeds to yank on one of her breasts.

You might think this will lead into a don't judge a book by it's cover story, but it's not. Since the time he could crawl, Charlie has always been interested in his own body parts - belly button, nose, ears, etc. Like most kids, he liked to repeatedly stick his finger, a blade of grass, a stick, or a rock, into the area of interest, rummage around for a bit, then move on. Fortunately, no ER visits to date have been necessary.

I think it was at about 18 months when he found his penis, affectionately called Mr. Snappy. I was expecting this stage to get rolling around the 'tween years'. I guess my kid is advanced. On the changing table, in the bathtub, while watching Elmo on the couch, everywhere you could imagine, Charlie was doing some in depth analysis of Mr. Snappy. Everything we read said this was totally normal and not to draw attention to it. So we let him explore away. Sure enough after about a month, he moved onto something else, like emptying the contents of my jewelry box into the toilet so he could give my necklaces a 'bath'.

Today at 3 1/2, he's more into talking about penis's or any other controversial word he can think of. He told me in the car the other day, "Mommy, aren't you so glad I don't say the word FUCK. Fuck is a really bad word." When leaving a voice mail message for his uncle recently, all he said into the answering machine was, "Penis, penis, penis, penis." Then laughed like he was George Carlin reincarnated - they're just words after all, we're the ones who assign them meaning. Most of the literature I've read would agree. The experts counsel that during this phase you should ignore the language. Children like to test boundaries to try to get a reaction, and/or to feel powerful by using bad words. If you pay attention or respond, you're just fueling the fire.

We've always tried to be open with Charlie about our own bodies. We use all of the correct terms for everything (not sure how Mr. Snappy came to be) and never shy away from any question. It's a slippery slope, you want your child to be at ease with his body and not feel embarrassed by or uncomfortable talking about it. But how open do you want them to be? What are you supposed to do when your son asks the checker at Safeway if he's ever had a ladybug on his penis? Seriously, do you shush him and tell him that it's not nice to talk like that? Do you walk away and pretend like the whole thing never happened? Or do you bolt for the nearest exit before he can ask about grasshoppers in the man's ass?

When faced with these situations, it's typical to reflect back on one's own childhood and wonder what your parents would do. I know exactly what mine would have done. I remember like it was yesterday, my older brother at age 6, telling my uncle he was going 'punch him in the penis'. My mother smacked him with a wooden spoon, threatened to put hot pepper flakes on his tongue so he could never utter the word again, then sent up to his room for about an hour. I'm guessing you wouldn't see that approach on Super Nanny.

And since we weren't at home and I wasn't near the spice aisle, I chose to smile politely while removing myself from the check out line, then asked the man if he could point me in the direction of the gluten free crackers. He just stared at me, I think his weird-o meter must have been tripped. As a mother, I've become a master in redirection and deflection, though sometimes to my own detriment. Like when I told Charlie to help me make dinner instead of terrorizing his brother. 2 minutes later there was milk, egg and Cheerio soup being cooked on my floor. Neither of these was my smoothest move, though I always have the most honorable of intentions. I'm sure my picture is tacked to the bulletin board inside the break room at Safeway with a sign, 'Warning, do not approach. Mother and child may exhibit inappropriate behavior with insects.'

Hug It Out

It seems that every time I think Charlie has pushed me to the brink of sanity, usually within 24 hours of that moment, the kid does something to make me reconsider my 'Free to Good Home' posting on Craig's List. It's no surprise that our family, including his grandmothers, have taken to calling him Jekyll and Hyde, his attitude swings are that drastic.

Monday night, it's 4 pm, t-minus 4 hours till bedtime. Charlie has lost all privileges for the evening and I'm not sure what else I can take away from this kid short of his life, since his treatment of his brother is bordering on criminal. Brian arrives on the scene to see Charlie dragging his brother around the house by the blanket he has stuffed into his mouth. Gregory is not old enough to realize that he can simply open his mouth and let go. I'm making dinner and yelling from the kitchen, "Leave him alone. Why don't you drag your doll around the house instead of Gregory. I'm telling you for the last time, do not hurt your brother. Do you want to lose TV for tomorrow night, too?"

Charlie decides to take Gregory on another lap. On the way, he swings by the kitchen to rub my face in his defiance. He stops, looks at me, then at Brian and says, "Daddy, you know what I haven't seen in a while?" What, Charlie? "You and Mommy giving each other a hug." Do you like it when we hug? "Yes, it makes me feel happy." We proceed to hug each other, then grab him and make a Charlie sandwich with him in the middle.

As quickly as it appeared, the cheesy family moment is gone. Charlie says, 'Thanks, stope it'. Pushing his brother into the wall, he runs from the room, hysterically laughing. Who was that masked man? I think he needs his Prozac prescription refilled.

Owie, Owie, Owie

It's hard not to compare your kids to one another. Charlie and Gregory walked at exactly the same age, 13 1/2 months. They both started sleeping through the night at roughly 5 1/2 months, which felt like 5 1/2 years. They both gave up the bottle at 12 months, though with Gregory, you would have thought I was stripping him of a vital organ. That boy loved his 'baba' and still stares longingly at little babies sucking away on theirs.

Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'

Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.

This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.

The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'

I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."

Forget You, Mariah

For once I am not going to write/complain about my kids. The subject today is me; me and my ongoing journey of self discovery.

At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?

Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.

Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.

In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.

Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.

It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.

Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.

At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.

It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?

Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.

As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?