Long ago, when the world was a much more treacherous place to live, the barbarians had little use for the frivolous. Life was about survival. Cave mothers scuttled around in their sleeveless cave dresses because they were easy to make and easy to run in. When it was cold, they simply draped their animal skins and furs around them to keep warm. Just as our forerunners of long ago, we mothers of today have little need for the ostentatious. There isn’t time for the preparation or the upkeep it requires to be flashy and flamboyant. Practicality is definitely our bag.
Some identify the first major bookmark of civilization as the discovery of fire, or the invention of the wheel. However, the experienced mothers of today know that the true sign of civilized life was the invention of the sleeve.
What an invention, the sleeve. Before I became a mother, it was something I took for granted. Something that I wore daily and felt comfortable in when in public, but I had no idea how far reaching and life-saving this simple piece of cloth would be to my life as a mom.
Consider its usefulness: Kleenex, napkin, band-aid, tourniquet, wash rag, chamois, bath towel, and the one we’d rather not discuss…the diaper wipe. How could any mother raise kids with out this major necessity in her arsenal?
Of course the sleeve isn’t usually the first weapon we mothers look for when those messy situations arise, but sometimes you just have to make do. After all, you usually can’t find a box of tissue at a ballgame, a band-aid in the milk barn, or a roll of paper towels at your neighborhood playground. And when nature calls, you are miles from civilization, and fresh out of diaper-wipes…a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do. Thank goodness there was a spare T-shirt in the trunk.
Yes, life as a mother means being creative and resourceful, even when years of education and common sense tell you you’re crazy. Taking the shirt off your back to attend to your children is what being a mom is all about, even if it is your favorite old flannel.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Licking the spoon
I’ve always looked forward to the days when I could pull a chair up to the kitchen cabinet and let my kids help me cook. I don’t have many specialties, but I would at least like for the boys to have fond memories of sitting on the counter helping me pat out biscuits or mix up cookies, and of course, begging to lick the spoon.
I remember always wanting to lick the beaters, no matter what my mom or grandmother was whipping up. Scraping the bowl and sucking every drop of batter off the spatula was a treat every time.
Since Cooper has always been curious about that “white noisy thing” that sits on our kitchen counter top, I decided it was time to start creating some sweet memories of our own by spending an afternoon making cookies.
Right away I learned that caution is the key when cooking with Cooper; he was willing to taste anything. I’ve never seen a child who likes the taste of plain flour. I know plenty who will eat biscuit dough, but flour right out of the sack? And he followed every bite with, “Mmm. I like that, Mommy.”
From the flour-dusting forward, he tried every ingredient in the recipe; from the soda and the salt to the sugar and vanilla-he liked them all. Even the baking powder and cream of tartar got a thumbs up. I think it was right after I let him lick the spatula that he declared, “Mmm, Mommy, this is good for me!”
Ever since our afternoon of baking, if I’m working in the kitchen, I have at least one little helper. He pulls his chair up to the counter, prepares his taste buds, and says, “Hey, Momma, what are you doin’ over here?”
Food is one of the best ways to keep good memories alive, at least for me. From Oreos and coffee to cocoa and toast, we can hang on to our most treasured memories when there’s a little something warm in our bellies to match that feeling in our hearts. That’s what I hope will happen with my boys.
I’m not sure we’re raising the next generation’s Emeril Lagasse, but to this day, I can’t turn on the mixer without two little boys running around the corner to see if they can lick the spoon, and that’s good enough for me.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I remember always wanting to lick the beaters, no matter what my mom or grandmother was whipping up. Scraping the bowl and sucking every drop of batter off the spatula was a treat every time.
Since Cooper has always been curious about that “white noisy thing” that sits on our kitchen counter top, I decided it was time to start creating some sweet memories of our own by spending an afternoon making cookies.
Right away I learned that caution is the key when cooking with Cooper; he was willing to taste anything. I’ve never seen a child who likes the taste of plain flour. I know plenty who will eat biscuit dough, but flour right out of the sack? And he followed every bite with, “Mmm. I like that, Mommy.”
From the flour-dusting forward, he tried every ingredient in the recipe; from the soda and the salt to the sugar and vanilla-he liked them all. Even the baking powder and cream of tartar got a thumbs up. I think it was right after I let him lick the spatula that he declared, “Mmm, Mommy, this is good for me!”
Ever since our afternoon of baking, if I’m working in the kitchen, I have at least one little helper. He pulls his chair up to the counter, prepares his taste buds, and says, “Hey, Momma, what are you doin’ over here?”
Food is one of the best ways to keep good memories alive, at least for me. From Oreos and coffee to cocoa and toast, we can hang on to our most treasured memories when there’s a little something warm in our bellies to match that feeling in our hearts. That’s what I hope will happen with my boys.
I’m not sure we’re raising the next generation’s Emeril Lagasse, but to this day, I can’t turn on the mixer without two little boys running around the corner to see if they can lick the spoon, and that’s good enough for me.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The human excavator
Maybe it’s due to some undiscovered fear of mine, or simply growing up with a joke-playing cousin, but I have always dreaded the day when my boys discovered that “the nose” has holes. The whole idea of two boys with ten fingers each to gouge and burrow into this newly discovered terrain sends waves of embarrassment through my delicate mind, and I suppose with good reason. But, no longer will I sit in waiting for this dreaded milestone of childhood; the disgusting day has arrived. Now I must simply endure.
Our youngest little digger is at the age where he is becoming aware of his face and his body. He is learning the names to put with those places, and though I hate to admit it, I will sometimes try to get him to “perform”, as all mothers shamelessly do. At a recent ballgame, we were performing for a rather large group of onlookers. He was obediently pointing to his eyes, ears, and mouth upon my command as well as any trained animal I’ve ever seen. To my surprise (and humiliation), when we got to “…and where’s Brisco’s nose…” his finger went straight up his nostril, almost to the third knuckle, and he immediately let out a cackle of a laugh like I have never heard before. By the sound of his voice, and the look on my face, we both knew that he had just discovered an exciting, new trick.
I always tell our oldest that he has to listen to Mommy and act right because his little brother is watching. But sometimes, it is the little pup who teaches the old dog all the new tricks. And this one seemed too intriguing for Cooper to let slip by. One day, just as we were paying out at the grocery store, he saw the little digger in action. The baby appeared to be having so much fun, that I guess Cooper figured he’d give it a whirl. He quickly discovered that this was an excellent way to get a huge laugh out of his brother and quick reaction from me. Needless to say, with a sideways look and a “you’ve- certainly-got-your-hands-full” smile, the nice lady at the check-out counter quickly finished scanning the items from our buggy, albeit with a slightly more cautious grip.
Whether we are driving down the interstate at 70 or walking into Sunday morning worship, big brother has no fear of holding his slimy finger high in the air, grinning his orneriest grin, and saying, “Boo-guh!” as if he has been temporarily possessed.
I made a mother’s biggest mistake by acting horrified the first time he waved that fiery flag in the air in the midst of a crowd. Like any normal two-year-old, he took my reaction as a sign that he should continue his foraging until he could produce enough of the gooey substance to feed a small family of farm rats. He’s like a human excavator competing at the Olympics; he won’t stop digging until he brings home the gold. Between that and announcing, “I got two toots!” every time he breaks wind, folks around here must think we’re raising the long-lost brothers of the moron twins.
As in all of life, there are times when raising boys can be a nasty, sticky, thumb-up-the-nose business that will leave even the brave of heart running for a Kleenex, a quick shower, or a clean change of clothes. And like all other stages of childhood I suppose, this too shall pass. But until that happens, the next time you catch a glimpse of someone else’s children behaving in a not so hygienic way-and enjoying it way too much-don’t judge their mother too harshly. There are some obstacles that good parenting just simply can’t overcome.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Our youngest little digger is at the age where he is becoming aware of his face and his body. He is learning the names to put with those places, and though I hate to admit it, I will sometimes try to get him to “perform”, as all mothers shamelessly do. At a recent ballgame, we were performing for a rather large group of onlookers. He was obediently pointing to his eyes, ears, and mouth upon my command as well as any trained animal I’ve ever seen. To my surprise (and humiliation), when we got to “…and where’s Brisco’s nose…” his finger went straight up his nostril, almost to the third knuckle, and he immediately let out a cackle of a laugh like I have never heard before. By the sound of his voice, and the look on my face, we both knew that he had just discovered an exciting, new trick.
I always tell our oldest that he has to listen to Mommy and act right because his little brother is watching. But sometimes, it is the little pup who teaches the old dog all the new tricks. And this one seemed too intriguing for Cooper to let slip by. One day, just as we were paying out at the grocery store, he saw the little digger in action. The baby appeared to be having so much fun, that I guess Cooper figured he’d give it a whirl. He quickly discovered that this was an excellent way to get a huge laugh out of his brother and quick reaction from me. Needless to say, with a sideways look and a “you’ve- certainly-got-your-hands-full” smile, the nice lady at the check-out counter quickly finished scanning the items from our buggy, albeit with a slightly more cautious grip.
Whether we are driving down the interstate at 70 or walking into Sunday morning worship, big brother has no fear of holding his slimy finger high in the air, grinning his orneriest grin, and saying, “Boo-guh!” as if he has been temporarily possessed.
I made a mother’s biggest mistake by acting horrified the first time he waved that fiery flag in the air in the midst of a crowd. Like any normal two-year-old, he took my reaction as a sign that he should continue his foraging until he could produce enough of the gooey substance to feed a small family of farm rats. He’s like a human excavator competing at the Olympics; he won’t stop digging until he brings home the gold. Between that and announcing, “I got two toots!” every time he breaks wind, folks around here must think we’re raising the long-lost brothers of the moron twins.
As in all of life, there are times when raising boys can be a nasty, sticky, thumb-up-the-nose business that will leave even the brave of heart running for a Kleenex, a quick shower, or a clean change of clothes. And like all other stages of childhood I suppose, this too shall pass. But until that happens, the next time you catch a glimpse of someone else’s children behaving in a not so hygienic way-and enjoying it way too much-don’t judge their mother too harshly. There are some obstacles that good parenting just simply can’t overcome.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, August 20, 2007
Chewing the cud
All parents want their kids to grow up to be smart, happy, successful contributing citizens. That’s why we endure the pain of child rearing and why we don’t kill them when they hit puberty: the hope that someday they will be normal; however, some days, at least at my house, that can seem almost beyond reach!
I guess every kid’s got a little something about him that makes him unique. But when does unique cross the line and become simply bizarre? I think my little two-year-old may just be pushing those limits.
For starters, he’s a thumb sucker, which in and of itself is not so bad. But he isn’t content just to suck his thumb. No, my kid’s got a real love affair with hair.
There’s something about getting his hands on someone’s tresses that really gets his attention. And he’s not picky—long, short, male, female, clean or dirty—it doesn’t even have to be human hair to get his fingers itching! From the perfect stranger sitting in front of us in church, to the super-fine, barely-there-hair of his baby brother and cousins; if he can reach it—game on.
Unfortunately, his freaky fascination doesn’t stop there. When he goes out to play with his dogs, you can bet it’s not for a game of fetch. When I look out to check on him, I’m guaranteed to see him sucking his thumb and holding the dogs’ tails. Sometimes, if he’s had a real hard day, he’ll holler inside the house, “Mom, tell those dogs to sit down with me so I can hold their tails!”
If this were the only oddity my toddler had in his repertoire, I’d say we could straighten him out; however, the kid is a real over achiever. He believes in being unusual to the extreme. I think Freud would have called it an “oral fixation”, but we always just called it “chewing the cud”—or “the elastic substance made from the milky sap of various tropical plants”, as the case may be. Rubber, that is. That’s his target—and anything it covers: pencil erasers, finger grips on an ink pen, stroller handles, bat handles, the soles of an old tennis shoe. But most commonly his item of choice—tires. Tires on Hot Wheels, tires on tractors, tires on motorcycles and semis and trailers. I think if he could get his teeth around the tires of my car he’d have us stranded on the side of the road. Most people take their kids for a visit to someone’s house and ask them to put their glass and crystal out of reach. I beg them to hide the plunger.
Aside from the compromising positions this crazy fetish can put my child in (like the absurdity of the position he has to get into to chew on the handle of his baby brother’s car seat), my son’s unusual pastime can often get dangerous. Obviously, there is the hazard that he could choke on one of the many objects he puts in his anxious chops, but ultimately, the child could end up getting quite a shock. Yes, you guessed it. When the vacuum cleaner comes out, so do his fangs. On several occasions I’ve caught him on the ground, attempting to chew on the rubber cord. (And if you really did guess that, I can only believe that you, or one of your kids, have done the very same thing!) Maybe we just need to get him a rubber Gumby to stick in his pocket and move on.
I’m so intrigued by my kid’s strange behavior that I did some research to see if other parents have experienced anything similar with their children. I found that there were lots of creative diagnoses, such as “Sensory Integration Disorder” and “Tension Outlet Syndrome”. But I don’t really buy those explanations. No, I tend to attribute my kid’s oral fixation to simple genetics.
I was the thumb sucker at our house growing up, so I guess I will take responsibility for this dependency. The hair (and tail) thing is still too disturbing for me to contemplate its source, so for now I guess I’ll just be left to wonder. But the chewing…the constant chewing…that comes directly from the other side of his DNA.
So it would seem that I can’t be too hard on my kid after all; just when I start to panic, thinking he is headed straight for the rubber romper room, I step back and look at where the little fella came from. It is then that I have to remind myself that the poor child is doing the best he can.
Perhaps my son isn’t so strange after all. Perhaps if we as parents can have some impact on the individuals our children become they will someday grow out of their bizarre behaviors. Or perhaps the old saying is true: The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree…I just hope he doesn’t choke on the core!
And that’s All in a day’s work.
I guess every kid’s got a little something about him that makes him unique. But when does unique cross the line and become simply bizarre? I think my little two-year-old may just be pushing those limits.
For starters, he’s a thumb sucker, which in and of itself is not so bad. But he isn’t content just to suck his thumb. No, my kid’s got a real love affair with hair.
There’s something about getting his hands on someone’s tresses that really gets his attention. And he’s not picky—long, short, male, female, clean or dirty—it doesn’t even have to be human hair to get his fingers itching! From the perfect stranger sitting in front of us in church, to the super-fine, barely-there-hair of his baby brother and cousins; if he can reach it—game on.
Unfortunately, his freaky fascination doesn’t stop there. When he goes out to play with his dogs, you can bet it’s not for a game of fetch. When I look out to check on him, I’m guaranteed to see him sucking his thumb and holding the dogs’ tails. Sometimes, if he’s had a real hard day, he’ll holler inside the house, “Mom, tell those dogs to sit down with me so I can hold their tails!”
If this were the only oddity my toddler had in his repertoire, I’d say we could straighten him out; however, the kid is a real over achiever. He believes in being unusual to the extreme. I think Freud would have called it an “oral fixation”, but we always just called it “chewing the cud”—or “the elastic substance made from the milky sap of various tropical plants”, as the case may be. Rubber, that is. That’s his target—and anything it covers: pencil erasers, finger grips on an ink pen, stroller handles, bat handles, the soles of an old tennis shoe. But most commonly his item of choice—tires. Tires on Hot Wheels, tires on tractors, tires on motorcycles and semis and trailers. I think if he could get his teeth around the tires of my car he’d have us stranded on the side of the road. Most people take their kids for a visit to someone’s house and ask them to put their glass and crystal out of reach. I beg them to hide the plunger.
Aside from the compromising positions this crazy fetish can put my child in (like the absurdity of the position he has to get into to chew on the handle of his baby brother’s car seat), my son’s unusual pastime can often get dangerous. Obviously, there is the hazard that he could choke on one of the many objects he puts in his anxious chops, but ultimately, the child could end up getting quite a shock. Yes, you guessed it. When the vacuum cleaner comes out, so do his fangs. On several occasions I’ve caught him on the ground, attempting to chew on the rubber cord. (And if you really did guess that, I can only believe that you, or one of your kids, have done the very same thing!) Maybe we just need to get him a rubber Gumby to stick in his pocket and move on.
I’m so intrigued by my kid’s strange behavior that I did some research to see if other parents have experienced anything similar with their children. I found that there were lots of creative diagnoses, such as “Sensory Integration Disorder” and “Tension Outlet Syndrome”. But I don’t really buy those explanations. No, I tend to attribute my kid’s oral fixation to simple genetics.
I was the thumb sucker at our house growing up, so I guess I will take responsibility for this dependency. The hair (and tail) thing is still too disturbing for me to contemplate its source, so for now I guess I’ll just be left to wonder. But the chewing…the constant chewing…that comes directly from the other side of his DNA.
So it would seem that I can’t be too hard on my kid after all; just when I start to panic, thinking he is headed straight for the rubber romper room, I step back and look at where the little fella came from. It is then that I have to remind myself that the poor child is doing the best he can.
Perhaps my son isn’t so strange after all. Perhaps if we as parents can have some impact on the individuals our children become they will someday grow out of their bizarre behaviors. Or perhaps the old saying is true: The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree…I just hope he doesn’t choke on the core!
And that’s All in a day’s work.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Pride cometh before a fall
Pride isn’t just a sin; it’s a curse. For me, this came as quite a surprise. They didn’t teach it in Psychology 101. They didn’t teach it in the parenting classes offered at the hospital. It wasn’t in any one of the dozens of books I thumbed through when we were preparing to be parents. I didn’t even get a polite “heads up” from any of the experienced parents I’ve come to know over the years. This lesson, I had to learn the hard way.
I’ve discovered the fastest way to get my kids to misbehave is to brag about how smart, wonderful, and well-behaved they are. The first time it happened, I thought it was just a coincidence. I was sitting in the floor writing a letter to a friend. I had just completed a sentence that said something about how well Cooper was doing adjusting to a new house and a new town and how he really is “such a good kid.” Not a second and a half later, he rounded the corner, looked directly in my eyes, and punched me square in the face. No kidding. Doubled up fist and all.
After the shock of it wore off (and we both stopped crying) I thought surely it was the biggest coincidence ever. I didn’t realize that for my kids and me, it was no fluke; it was a guarantee. A curse.
Some time later, I was telling someone how good Cooper is about staying away from my desk and computer, even though I know he’s tempted by all the cool buttons and pictures that float across the screen. The next day I found something sticky next to the key pad of the laptop. I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then I remembered seeing him hiding on the back side of my computer chair. I looked down only to see a lidless, half-eaten glue stick lying on the floor. Thank goodness the label said non-toxic.
Even the baby has been affected by the curse. I was bragging to someone about how he is just the best sleeper. “Why, he’ll sleep 12 hours a night and still take a two hour nap!” I know now what a mistake that was. Sleep is the one sacred subject about which a parent should never brag. I guess I’m still a rookie. Needless to say, we are back to shorter nights, shorter naps, and sometimes even a middle of the night fit.
Weeks later, I bragged about how Cooper loves going to Bible class and of course about how well he behaves while he is there. Shortly after that, he started refusing to go to class, clinging to my leg when I’d take him to the door and crying like he was scared of his own shadow. Soon after, we had VBS, which was not what I’d call a raving success either.
Over the summer he had gotten much better, and was even asking to go to Bible class on days when we didn’t have it. I was so proud that I forgot to hold my tongue and again, let the curse cast its spell.
It happened the day he went to VBS at Grandmother’s church. He’d had such fun and behaved so saintly that when he said he wanted to ride the church van with “that nice lady” I allowed him to go, not thinking twice about it. Upon his return I discovered that “that nice lady” had to pull to the side of the road and stop the van to re-buckle my little angel, who had taken it upon himself to unbuckle, spit, and bite some little girl on the cheek, all within minutes of leaving the church building. Of course my first instinct was to ask what the other kid did to provoke him. Surely he was being teased or taunted in some intolerable way for him to have behaved so appallingly! But then I remembered…the curse.
I know there must be a more effective way for a mother to show that she is proud of her children. Maybe these incidents are lessons; God’s way of putting a proud parent in her place. Maybe subconsciously a mother’s bragging is her way of trying to prove to herself that she’s doing a good job being a mom. Or maybe some of us just have really bad luck. Maybe as parents, what we ought to do is talk a little less, love a little more, and laugh a little more often. Maybe that is the perfect remedy.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I’ve discovered the fastest way to get my kids to misbehave is to brag about how smart, wonderful, and well-behaved they are. The first time it happened, I thought it was just a coincidence. I was sitting in the floor writing a letter to a friend. I had just completed a sentence that said something about how well Cooper was doing adjusting to a new house and a new town and how he really is “such a good kid.” Not a second and a half later, he rounded the corner, looked directly in my eyes, and punched me square in the face. No kidding. Doubled up fist and all.
After the shock of it wore off (and we both stopped crying) I thought surely it was the biggest coincidence ever. I didn’t realize that for my kids and me, it was no fluke; it was a guarantee. A curse.
Some time later, I was telling someone how good Cooper is about staying away from my desk and computer, even though I know he’s tempted by all the cool buttons and pictures that float across the screen. The next day I found something sticky next to the key pad of the laptop. I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then I remembered seeing him hiding on the back side of my computer chair. I looked down only to see a lidless, half-eaten glue stick lying on the floor. Thank goodness the label said non-toxic.
Even the baby has been affected by the curse. I was bragging to someone about how he is just the best sleeper. “Why, he’ll sleep 12 hours a night and still take a two hour nap!” I know now what a mistake that was. Sleep is the one sacred subject about which a parent should never brag. I guess I’m still a rookie. Needless to say, we are back to shorter nights, shorter naps, and sometimes even a middle of the night fit.
Weeks later, I bragged about how Cooper loves going to Bible class and of course about how well he behaves while he is there. Shortly after that, he started refusing to go to class, clinging to my leg when I’d take him to the door and crying like he was scared of his own shadow. Soon after, we had VBS, which was not what I’d call a raving success either.
Over the summer he had gotten much better, and was even asking to go to Bible class on days when we didn’t have it. I was so proud that I forgot to hold my tongue and again, let the curse cast its spell.
It happened the day he went to VBS at Grandmother’s church. He’d had such fun and behaved so saintly that when he said he wanted to ride the church van with “that nice lady” I allowed him to go, not thinking twice about it. Upon his return I discovered that “that nice lady” had to pull to the side of the road and stop the van to re-buckle my little angel, who had taken it upon himself to unbuckle, spit, and bite some little girl on the cheek, all within minutes of leaving the church building. Of course my first instinct was to ask what the other kid did to provoke him. Surely he was being teased or taunted in some intolerable way for him to have behaved so appallingly! But then I remembered…the curse.
I know there must be a more effective way for a mother to show that she is proud of her children. Maybe these incidents are lessons; God’s way of putting a proud parent in her place. Maybe subconsciously a mother’s bragging is her way of trying to prove to herself that she’s doing a good job being a mom. Or maybe some of us just have really bad luck. Maybe as parents, what we ought to do is talk a little less, love a little more, and laugh a little more often. Maybe that is the perfect remedy.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Saturday, August 11, 2007
"THAT kid"
When I began preparing for Vacation Bible School early this summer, I was excited that I was going to teach Cooper’s class. Typically a high school teacher, for once I was looking forward to teaching the little kids. I had no idea that my very presence in the classroom was going to turn my kid into the dreaded and infamous problem child: the one who forces new teachers out of the profession, and sends experienced ones to the nut house. The kid who sits behind you in the movie theater and talks and asks questions and throws popcorn in your hair throughout the entire show, and whose mother allows him to do it. The kid who, without fail, is a continuous crying, screaming, silverware-banging mess, and always seems to be seated at the table next to you in a restaurant not meant for kids. That was us. We were that kid.
I say “we” because as a parent, if you’ve ever been in a situation where your child is the most obnoxious kid in the building, you better believe every adult in the room is blaming you. Or at least that’s how I felt that first week in June.
VBS at our church lasted four nights. After the first night, I thought I was going to have to resort to sending my kid to the preacher’s office for some major one on one, religious instruction. Give him the fear of God sermon or something serious like that. But I decided to think positively; maybe it was just a one time thing. After all, I typically get great reports on Cooper’s behavior in class, so unless those ravings are secret code for “Honey, you’ve really got your hands full” then I had no choice but to give him a second chance and see how he would fare on night two.
There are times in life when positive thinking is quite useful. Other times it is sheer ignorance. On a scale of one to ten, night two was an 11, leaving a somewhat worse impression of my child and my parenting skills on my co-teacher than the night before.
I considered many options, taking him out in the hall and beating him senseless being at the top of my list; however, I wasn’t sure that would leave the door open for me to re-enter the classroom and finish teaching the kids how to be good neighbors for Jesus. So we just rode out the rest of the evening with lots of “mean mommy looks” and redirection and the unproductive “Just you wait till your Daddy finds out” statement that I swore I’d never use. I thought that night would never end.
Day three might have been the most painful of all. It was my turn to teach the class and my co-teacher’s turn to be the helper. As I began the evening trying to concentrate on the other students and our lesson, my attention was constantly drawn to my helper who seemed to be focusing her attention on my son. While he was trying to do better on night three, it seemed my assistant had in the forefront of her memory his inappropriate and unforgettable behaviors of the two nights before, when she was trying to teach the lesson. Needless to say, it was my kid the teacher’s helper had to sit next to during story time.
It was my kid who needed a hand placed firmly on his shoulder to remind him to “use his inside voice”. It was my kid’s name that was ringing in everyone’s ears hours after VBS had ended. Yes, we were that kid.
When we got home from the church building that night, I could do nothing but clean. I was so embarrassed and frustrated with my boy that I was the one who needed a time out. As I came down off of my two hour cleansing frenzy and stood at the sink doing my last bit of dishes, Cooper pulled up a chair beside me and asked if he could help. With a half-hearted grunt, I helped him up to the sink and handed him a rag. As we stood there together, I decided to have a talk with him about his behavior at VBS.
My tone was flat, and my words were matter of fact when I told him that I was disappointed when he misbehaved in Bible class. I told him that God was disappointed, too. I guess he surmised that disappointed meant somewhere in the vicinity of upset and let down because he said, “If I act nice in Bible class, then God and Mommy won’t be sad with me.” I answered that he was exactly right, and together we finished the dishes as a team, just like we’d been doing them together for years. I prayed our talk would “take”.
It was day four, the last day of VBS, D-Day. I was much more relaxed and was again optimistic about our last night of class together. As it turned out, Cooper was the star pupil that evening. He couldn’t have been a more attentive, enthusiastic, contributing student if he had been sitting at the feet of Mr. Roger’s himself.
The week of events made me think about the pressure, intended or not, that we as parents must put on our kids because of our professions, our attitudes, or simply our presence. If the parent is a teacher, the kid has to be the best student. If the parent’s an athlete, he better be an all-star, at least in our children’s eyes. Maybe I put some unintended pressure on my kid those first three nights of class. Maybe my perception of his behavior was much worse than anyone else’s. Or maybe he’s two and a half, and he’s just going to have days when he decides he wants to be two and a half.
Whatever the case, as the parent I guess I’m supposed to learn something from the experience-something about expectations or anxiety or communication. I’m making a list of those lessons and pondering the solutions, as I know our boys will continue to create many more teachable moments for their mom in the years to come. First on my list…for their safety (and my sanity), I’m devising a plan to ensure that I never have to be their principal.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I say “we” because as a parent, if you’ve ever been in a situation where your child is the most obnoxious kid in the building, you better believe every adult in the room is blaming you. Or at least that’s how I felt that first week in June.
VBS at our church lasted four nights. After the first night, I thought I was going to have to resort to sending my kid to the preacher’s office for some major one on one, religious instruction. Give him the fear of God sermon or something serious like that. But I decided to think positively; maybe it was just a one time thing. After all, I typically get great reports on Cooper’s behavior in class, so unless those ravings are secret code for “Honey, you’ve really got your hands full” then I had no choice but to give him a second chance and see how he would fare on night two.
There are times in life when positive thinking is quite useful. Other times it is sheer ignorance. On a scale of one to ten, night two was an 11, leaving a somewhat worse impression of my child and my parenting skills on my co-teacher than the night before.
I considered many options, taking him out in the hall and beating him senseless being at the top of my list; however, I wasn’t sure that would leave the door open for me to re-enter the classroom and finish teaching the kids how to be good neighbors for Jesus. So we just rode out the rest of the evening with lots of “mean mommy looks” and redirection and the unproductive “Just you wait till your Daddy finds out” statement that I swore I’d never use. I thought that night would never end.
Day three might have been the most painful of all. It was my turn to teach the class and my co-teacher’s turn to be the helper. As I began the evening trying to concentrate on the other students and our lesson, my attention was constantly drawn to my helper who seemed to be focusing her attention on my son. While he was trying to do better on night three, it seemed my assistant had in the forefront of her memory his inappropriate and unforgettable behaviors of the two nights before, when she was trying to teach the lesson. Needless to say, it was my kid the teacher’s helper had to sit next to during story time.
It was my kid who needed a hand placed firmly on his shoulder to remind him to “use his inside voice”. It was my kid’s name that was ringing in everyone’s ears hours after VBS had ended. Yes, we were that kid.
When we got home from the church building that night, I could do nothing but clean. I was so embarrassed and frustrated with my boy that I was the one who needed a time out. As I came down off of my two hour cleansing frenzy and stood at the sink doing my last bit of dishes, Cooper pulled up a chair beside me and asked if he could help. With a half-hearted grunt, I helped him up to the sink and handed him a rag. As we stood there together, I decided to have a talk with him about his behavior at VBS.
My tone was flat, and my words were matter of fact when I told him that I was disappointed when he misbehaved in Bible class. I told him that God was disappointed, too. I guess he surmised that disappointed meant somewhere in the vicinity of upset and let down because he said, “If I act nice in Bible class, then God and Mommy won’t be sad with me.” I answered that he was exactly right, and together we finished the dishes as a team, just like we’d been doing them together for years. I prayed our talk would “take”.
It was day four, the last day of VBS, D-Day. I was much more relaxed and was again optimistic about our last night of class together. As it turned out, Cooper was the star pupil that evening. He couldn’t have been a more attentive, enthusiastic, contributing student if he had been sitting at the feet of Mr. Roger’s himself.
The week of events made me think about the pressure, intended or not, that we as parents must put on our kids because of our professions, our attitudes, or simply our presence. If the parent is a teacher, the kid has to be the best student. If the parent’s an athlete, he better be an all-star, at least in our children’s eyes. Maybe I put some unintended pressure on my kid those first three nights of class. Maybe my perception of his behavior was much worse than anyone else’s. Or maybe he’s two and a half, and he’s just going to have days when he decides he wants to be two and a half.
Whatever the case, as the parent I guess I’m supposed to learn something from the experience-something about expectations or anxiety or communication. I’m making a list of those lessons and pondering the solutions, as I know our boys will continue to create many more teachable moments for their mom in the years to come. First on my list…for their safety (and my sanity), I’m devising a plan to ensure that I never have to be their principal.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, August 6, 2007
The truth hurts
How do you tell a two-year old their best dog died? I was forced to consider this question a few weeks ago after finding one of our two Labrador’s of nine years lying dead on our back porch.
After ruling the roost at our house for the first seven years of their lives, our two dogs had it made. But when we brought our first child home from the hospital, the dogs got the boot. They were perfectly happy living in the lap of luxury. (My lap, mostly.) They had the best of both worlds: five acres to roam and a nice cool house to come back to when they were overheated and in need of a soft place to rest. Yes, we treated our dogs better than some people treat their children. But when that baby came home, life really changed.
After the kid got bigger, he learned how to avoid the slobbery kisses and dodge the random tail swinging. He kind of started to like those dogs, and before long, they became the best of friends.
It became a daily ritual to “go out and play with Bessie and Shelby”, and when the weather wouldn’t allow it, the kids would gladly stand at the door and “visit”. When the snow and ice came, the boys were ecstatic that the dogs were allowed to come in the house to stay warm. And when the storms blew over, it was pure delight to let them in the garage to help shelter them from the thunder. These are just some of the things I hope my son remembers about his first best friend.
I suppose all children who have pets remember their favorite, and with that comes the memory of their death. As a parent, I wanted to protect my kids from that part of their world for as long as possible. However, we live in a fallen world. It is far from perfect, and my kids will learn all about that soon enough. Having to explain to my oldest that his best dog isn’t coming back is a sure sign that it will be here before I know it.
So I’ve learned that sometimes, when life throws a wrench in our plans, we have no choice but to bear down and go with it. We have to find a way to ease our kids into the real world and all the ugliness that sometimes comes with it. And even if we aren’t really ready for them to know it, we have to tell them the truth. Even if it hurts.
And that’s All in a day’s work.
After ruling the roost at our house for the first seven years of their lives, our two dogs had it made. But when we brought our first child home from the hospital, the dogs got the boot. They were perfectly happy living in the lap of luxury. (My lap, mostly.) They had the best of both worlds: five acres to roam and a nice cool house to come back to when they were overheated and in need of a soft place to rest. Yes, we treated our dogs better than some people treat their children. But when that baby came home, life really changed.
After the kid got bigger, he learned how to avoid the slobbery kisses and dodge the random tail swinging. He kind of started to like those dogs, and before long, they became the best of friends.
It became a daily ritual to “go out and play with Bessie and Shelby”, and when the weather wouldn’t allow it, the kids would gladly stand at the door and “visit”. When the snow and ice came, the boys were ecstatic that the dogs were allowed to come in the house to stay warm. And when the storms blew over, it was pure delight to let them in the garage to help shelter them from the thunder. These are just some of the things I hope my son remembers about his first best friend.
I suppose all children who have pets remember their favorite, and with that comes the memory of their death. As a parent, I wanted to protect my kids from that part of their world for as long as possible. However, we live in a fallen world. It is far from perfect, and my kids will learn all about that soon enough. Having to explain to my oldest that his best dog isn’t coming back is a sure sign that it will be here before I know it.
So I’ve learned that sometimes, when life throws a wrench in our plans, we have no choice but to bear down and go with it. We have to find a way to ease our kids into the real world and all the ugliness that sometimes comes with it. And even if we aren’t really ready for them to know it, we have to tell them the truth. Even if it hurts.
And that’s All in a day’s work.
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