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.  

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."