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.  

Big Big Duck

Most kids no matter what the age want to be understood.  They are never so blatant about this desire as when they first start talking.  They repeat words and phrases over and over until someone acknowledges what they're saying.  Gregory is no exception, though the more he has to repeat, the louder and madder he gets.

We'll be in the car and he'll say, "Duck ess bokin.  Duck ess bokin."  I take a stab at what I think it could be.  'Yeah buddy, the duck is honking.'  

It sounds close, but God help me, I left my Gregory-speak to English dictionary at home.

"Duck ess bokin.  Duck ESS bokin."

"The truck is honking?"  He's really getting worked up and spitting as he yells.

"DUCK ESS BOKIN!  DUCK ESS BOKIN!"

I'm driving.  I have no visual clues on what he could be talking about.  He is getting louder and repeating duck ess bokin incessantly.  Finally, I switch lanes and notice in my blind spot a tow truck pulling a pick up behind it.  Ah ha!

I yell out, 'TRUCK IS BROKEN!!!!  TRUCK IS BROKEN', like I just solved the bonus prize puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

This scenario happens every day on our drive to Charlie's school.  Although as his language development progresses, some mornings we're lucky and figure out what Gregory's saying on the first try.  Other times, we have to listen to him endlessly yell the same thing for 15 minutes, all of us frustrated at our ineptness to translate.  

This morning Gregory started in immediately saying, "Big, big dog" over and over.  It wasn't that I couldn't understand him, I had in fact seen the big, big dog as we drove out of our neighborhood.  I was just incredibly tired and didn't feel like talking, so I ignored him.  

Charlie is in the back, equally annoyed because his brother's yelling is making it impossible for him to listen to 'his' Dave Matthews cd.  After 2 non stop minutes of, 'BIG, BIG DOG!', I'm tempted to pull the car over and toss Gregory into the drive thru window at the coffee place.  Turns out Charlie comes to my aid to end all of our suffering quickly and painlessly.  He says, "Geez Louise, Gregory, we heard you.  We all saw the big, big dog, just BE QUIET." 

"Awight, Charlie.  Mommy, have snack?"  I get that one.

Animal Planet

I absolutely understand how child abuse happens.  Better people than me, brought to their wits end by misbehaving children.

Today started out with my eldest running out of the grocery store, high tailing it toward the parking lot with his little brother close behind.  I am paralyzed as I stood at the counter, my club card flapping in the wind.   My thoughts as I sprinted into action were, scared out of my mind, cars cars cars, death and dismemberment,  and I'm gonna kill them.  

I re-entered the store to complete the transaction, one child under my arm, the other dragged behind by his collar.   The checker girl stared at me like I was the worst mother she's encountered in her life.  She nodded to the groceries and asked, "You gonna need help with those, too?"  I'm embarrassed, and if I'm honest, kind of pissed that I was being judged by someone whose biggest work challenge is remembering whether to ask 'paper or plastic?'.

I composed myself and exited the store with the intent of giving Charlie a good piece of my mind.  I got down to eye level and asked, "That was not a smart choice, Charlie.  You could have gotten hurt."  What does the insolent little beast do, he laughed in my face.  Embarrassment forgotten, I enter into full primal rage mode.  I wanted to hurt him, like really hurt him.  It was simply a question of whether to shake, pinch, grab, smack, or all of the above.

Fortunately, because A) I have a great husband who helps to ease the load, B) he and I are currently getting along, C) the mortgage is paid, D) my family is healthy (at least for the moment), I was able to calm myself.   My sense of reason kicked in.  Physical harm, especially in a public setting, was not the answer.  I settled on making the little bugger cry.  

I took away Charlie's TV for the night.  Nothing, no remorse.  Dessert gone, then his bike.  He continued to laugh like it was all a big joke.  State of calm abandoned, all I saw was red.

Finally I realized material possessions were meaningless to this boy.  I told him that if he couldn't listen and follow the rules of the store, he must be a baby and so I would have to treat him like one.  He would have to sit in the carriage instead of Gregory.  I would have to carry him or hold his hand at all times.  And worst of all, he'd have to start drinking from a bottle again.

Jackpot!  Tears and a resounding, "No, Mommy.  I'll listen, I promise.  I'm not a baby."    

Was I proud of my behavior?  No.  Was it effective?  Kind of.  Charlie listened for about 15 minutes, long enough for me to get the groceries and boys in the car.  He then focused on teaching his brother to roll down the window and scream 'Move it, lady' to the pedestrians in the crosswalk.  

As a parent,  it feels like you have to be on top of your game 100% of the time if you want to maximize those 'teaching moments' when they occur.  This of course is completely unachievable.  Life is never perfect and rarely are we ever at the top of our game, maybe on occasion prior to having children.  If only one other aspect of my world had been out of whack today, I could have easily snapped and gone to the dark side.   The outcome for Charlie could have been physical harm, and for me a nice ride in a police cruiser.  

My hat goes off to all parents struggling to do their best out there.  Celebrate the small victories where you took the high road and made your kid cry.  There was always something worse you could have done.

Utopia

"Do you ever wish we lived on another street?"  This is the question my husband guiltily asks as we stand in the kitchen, hiding from our kids.  Charlie has just tackled Gregory in an effort to remove the Tinker Toy hammer from his grip.  Gregory is about to use the toy train in his other hand to inflict blunt force trauma to his brother's head.  Screaming is everywhere.  We can barely hear ourselves think let alone talk.

I laugh, "Are you serious?"  He is.

"You mean another street like Heather Avenue?"  He does.

I tell him that at least once a day I wish I lived on Heather Avenue again or anywhere other than here.

When we got engaged, we bought a beautiful condo in a very desirable area of San Francisco, on Heather Avenue.  Restaurants abound.  Our gym was 2 blocks away.  I walked to the grocery store everyday to buy the freshest produce and meat for our dinners.  Each morning, Brian and I headed to the local Cuban cafe for delicious coffee before he hopped on the bus to go to work and I headed back to my home office.

Heather Avenue represents a childless utopia for us.  A place where our time, money, and sleep patterns were our own.  Where my biggest worry was our Direct TV reception being knocked out by high winds.  

But was it a real or imagined utopia?  Honestly, a little of both.  Life as DINKS (dual income no kids) in San Francisco was amazing, for the exact reasons mentioned above.  We loved our home and everything it represented - pride, security, success.  But our upstairs neighbor was ex Semper Phi who thought he was still in boot camp the way he stomped around on those floors.  And a few times a year, just for good measure, he liked to knock his fiance around.  Every decision made in our 4 unit building, like changing the color of our mailbox, had to be voted on by our homeowners association.  And quite possibly worst of all, no karaoke machine past 10 pm.  WTF!     

It's funny how the mind sugar coats our life experiences, and child rearing is no exception.  Right now I bitch and moan about my kids as they drive me to the brink of sanity each and every day.  I'm sure in 10 years I'll look back at this time longing for my boys to beckon, 'Mommy, come play with me.'  But the reality is they were probably pulling at my pant leg half whining, half screaming, 'Mommy, stop typing your blog and come play."  

Charlie Goldstein, Esq.

The boys and I were driving on our way to the park yesterday. We are finally at the point where I can play just about any music in the car and no one complains. I'm subjecting them to the entire Abba Gold album, when Charlie says, "Excuse me, Mommy. Mommy, excuse me."
I'm trying to ignore him. Maybe he'll work things out himself.
"Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!"

I'm annoyed because the music has really transported me back to the day. I'm in the middle of a day dream that involves me in rainbow leg warmers and a matching rainbow shirt. My hair has achieved a perfect bi-level with flippy bangs. I'm looking fresh and am dancing with Brandon O'Brien (my junior high school crush). Dancing Queen is playing in the background and I'm kind of curious how this day dream is going to play out. The real life version was rather disappointing, and about as achievable as a peaceful car ride.

"Mommy, I'm talking to you."
WHAT?, I ask snappishly.
I can almost predict the litany of questions about to commence. "Who is the Dancing Queen? Can I see her tambourine? Why isn't she playing a guitar? Wait, where's my guitar? Gregory, did you take my guitar?..."

I'm surprised when I hear, "Mommy, we're not on the Earth."
What?
"We're not on the Earth right now."
Of course we're on the Earth.
"No, we're not."
Sure we are.
"No, we are not."
Then where are we? Mars, Jupiter, Saturn?
Using his best 'must I draw a picture for you' tone, he says, "NO! WE are not touching the Earth. Our CAR is touching the Earth, and WE are in the car."

I have no rebuttal, just diversionary tactics. I'm really bad at losing arguments.
Look at that cement mixer!
"That's not a cement mixer."
Sure it is, right over there (will I never learn?).
"No, it's not."
Then what is it, Charlie? Please tell me. I'm dying to know.
"It's a concrete mixer. Water and gravel are mixed with CEMENT dust which all get spinned in the mixer. Then that makes it concrete."
Oh.
"So it's a concrete mixer, not a cement mixer."
Got it. Sorry.


Lessons learned:
1. Do not debate 4 year olds.
2. All future inquiries should be met with June Cleaver-esque responses - That's nice dear. Really, dear. Why don't you ask your father, dear.
3. Immediately start saving for law school.

Get to Know Your Neighbors

Brian is at a software conference all week which means I'm on 24x7 duty with the boys. And no, I don't count the 4 measly hours Charlie is at school as a break.

Tagging it as a 'work event' is just a formality. Each night my husband is out dining at San Francisco's finest restaurants, drinking cocktails with his work buddies while they chat up clients, and then there's all of the marketing hoopla. Aerosmith is headlining the main concert. Coming from this industry, I will concede that after 2 nights of schmoozing, I would be ready to curl up in bed and not utter a word to anyone unless it's Rachel Zoe (love to hate her). But I'd take his week of work over mine.

Night 1 is officially over. The kids are both asleep and none too soon.

Charlie almost drowned his brother in the bath tub tonight. He thought the best way to wash Gregory's hair was to pull his leg out from under him then dump a bucket of water over his head. After the flying macaroni festival at dinner, I lost my cool and yelled. I managed to pull out some real gems. "What is wrong with you that you're trying to kill your brother?...Gregory doesn't want to play in the bath anymore, he's scared of you... Since you don't listen, you should just go right to bed because you're not even going to know that I'm reading you stories..." I'm sure I got my point across and he was listening the whole time - blah blah blah blah.

As I waxed on endlessly, I heard voices at the front door - a man's voice. Someone called the police? Not likely, there was a young boy's voice too. Phew. The mail slot popped open and in dropped a card. It was a thank you note for a birthday present from Charlie's buddy down the street.

I'm not proud to admit this, but I actually shushed my kids and hid. How much of my tirade had Dad and son heard? Common sense told me if it was even a smidgen, they definitely would not have delivered the card or been within a grenade's throw of our house. Plus Mom would have canceled our possible play date for this week. But I couldn't be certain.

The thought of witnesses presented some challenges. A) I really like my neighbors, B) our backyard is mostly cement making it VERY difficult to bury bodies, and C) I'm not ready to be known as 'Charlie's crazy mom who yells a lot and is to be avoided at all social functions.' My kids haven't even entered the public school system yet; so much damage in so little time.

Double Trouble

Gregory is beginning to assert his independence. He uses the word 'no' a lot, throws tantrums if his demands are not met, gets into everything he's not supposed to - open cereal boxes, toilets, dishwasher, makeup drawers - the usual toddler type stuff. Brian and I have taken to calling him The Menace. The idea of him still being my 'easy baby' left with the notion that yellow toilet water should be enough of a deterrent to keep anyone from drinking it (yes I'm saying my kids play with pee water - gross).

Gregory has also taken a few pages out of Charlie's rule book on treatment of siblings. Though Charlie is much more cautious and predictable; knowing that when he pushes Gregory down, steals his matchbox car, then pokes him in the eye with it, he should run. Gregory is just outright brazen. I've seen him kick his brother in the ankle, bite him in the back of the neck, and give a quick hair pull for good measure, then stick around. Kind of like those police dramas where they are at the murder scene, the camera slowly pans to the crowd, and the killer is standing there, surveying the scene, emotionless yet quietly pleased with himself and the attention.

Now that I have 2 trouble makers on my hands, upon hearing cries in the distance, I can no longer come running under the assumption that my eldest is the evil doer. This is a very difficult habit to break after almost 2 years of Charlie being the sole committer of transgressions in our household.

The worst part is that Gregory knows he can get away with anything simply by using his arsenal of cuteness. I am a complete sucker no matter what his weapon of choice - batting of eye lashes, coy smile, spontaneous hugs, etc. It's really quite an embarrassment to authority figures everywhere. But he is the perfect combination of looks, charm, humor and cunning; destined for a future of criminal activity.

The other morning, I heard the highest pitched shriek my 2 ears have ever experienced. I refrained from yelling, 'Charlie, what the hell did you do now?'  As I entered the living room to survey the damage, there stood Gregory, wielding a Tinker Toy weapon, banging his brother in the head with all of his might. Charlie was curled in the fetal position, shrieking like a trapped animal. Gregory simply smiled then hit, smiled then hit, over and over.

I said, Gregory, no! No hit. We do not hit our brother! He actually laughed, then smiled at me like I was giving him a compliment and said, "Uh hammer."
'I'm very happy you made a hammer out of Tinker Toys, but we do not hit people with it.'
Still smiling he responds, "Dawry hit."
'No, we don't hit Charlie' (aka Dawry).
Looking up at me with huge blue eyes, he bats his lashes and says in a whisper, "I sowy, Mommy."

His sweetness increases exponentially with the amount of trouble he's in. All it takes is an "I sowy" and he is forgiven. He could be stabbing the neighbors cat to death with his Elmo toothbrush that he fashioned into a shiv and I'm like, 'Okay, but just don't do it again.'
"Aw wight, Mommy."