It always takes us several days it seems to get back to reality after a trip away from home. There’s just something about an overnighter that inhibits the hearing, alters the attitude, and transforms the conduct of little boys under five. Our recent Easter weekend was no different.
We had a great time visiting and playing with friends and family that we hadn’t seen in a while, but it never fails that by the time we get back home, something inside them has snapped, and it apparently takes an act of Nature to turn things around.
It began on Monday with the nagging and whining and profound loss of hearing. It seems the oldest had learned to torture his brother and the younger had been stripped of all auditory capacity…overnight phenomena. From Cooper’s punching and growling to the point of tears to Brisco’s blatant ignoring of my every request, if I thought they could have survived out doors all night, I’d have tossed them a pillow and locked the door behind me. I opted for a more positive alternative, telling myself that surely tomorrow would be a better day.
As better days go, I’d say Tuesday probably didn’t qualify. From the moment they rolled out of bed, they were aggravating, annoying and antagonizing one another beyond reason. They had forgotten how to share, refused to work as a team, and had taken sides against one another, living out their new childhood motto, “Every Smith for Himself”. I must have died and gone to live with the Willy Wonka rejects-the absolute brattiest kids on earth.
But as the wind warmed and the sun emerged, one thought gave me a glimmer of hope: Send those boys outside. So I did. But just as I began to feel the peaceful calm for which I had so desperately been longing…that is when the real storm rolled in.
As I sat in the living room folding yet another load of dingy socks, I heard the back door open. I met the oldest as he walked in, shoes in hand. He sat down on the floor and asked me to put his shoes back on his feet, but as he did, a strange aroma wafted into my air space. Something must have given him a little nudge, because the look on his face and the words he then spoke were not ones that were easily said nor received. He looked at me with those big round eyes and said, “Uh, Mommy, I, uh, I…I had an accident.”
The next words I spoke were more ignorant than informative when, from somewhere outside my body I heard myself say, “An accident? In your pants!?!” Like there is any other kind.
For the next half hour, I was in a world of disbelief as I put one boy in the shower, only to see the other one trotting in the house soon after with the same, sly little grin. “What, you too?!!!” was all I could manage to say. And after cleaning and dressing them both yet again, the little one just couldn’t resist. “Hey, Mom! Wanna see where I pooped outside?”
I only remember random moments of time after that. Brisco was proud of the fact that he’d managed to squeeze between two buildings outside. He was also more than happy to show me where Cooper had unloaded, and demonstrate how he’d wiped his bottom on the side of the dog house. Cooper, on the other hand, had sense enough to hide.
As I sat dumbfounded at the ridiculousness of the scenario I was facing, I had not a single coherent thought in my mind but one: Call Randy. I decided a short email would suffice, and this is precisely how it read.
Attn: Mr. Smith: “Your sons just pooped outside and all over themselves. Do you mind if I kill them?” His response, so simple, yet so perfectly astute: “Cold water hose.” Now why didn’t I think of that?
The remainder of the week was filled with a variety of incidents from pulling Cooper out of the water meter in the front yard to picking acoustic out of their bed at night. We had science lessons on why one should not pick every green leaf and flower off the probably now-dead bush outside and lectures on relieving one’s self in public. We even had a real-life example of why Mommy says only one vitamin C per child per day.
We took belts to ball games and belts to church. We prayed for wisdom and self control, morning, noon and night. We perfected the disciplinary arts of time out, privilege restriction and going to bed early. And just about the time I thought we had things straightened out, I entered the bathroom Sunday night and discovered that Brisco had dumped the entire contents of every bottle he could reach straight into their bath water. I could barely see my children through the giant mound of bubbles.
It was truly one of those moments where I just had to get away. And as I stood outside the bathroom door trying to gather myself to re-enter, I listened to Cooper scolding his brother and preparing him for what lay ahead. “I can’t believe you dumped every bottle,” he said. “Mommy is really going to spank you this time.” And the little bubble-head simply replied, “Oh, Man!”
I couldn’t help but give up a little smile. It was the first time in seven whole days that my kids sounded normal.
I’m hoping against all odds that the week to come is less eventful than the last. I still haven’t quite figured out why these kids lose their minds after being away from home. But at our house, at least, it’s a fact: There’s just something about an overnighter that seems to do the trick.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Dazed and confused
As a slight detour from the usual kiddy chaos that keeps our household running in circles, this past week, we added a little Daddy drama.
In his regularly scheduled Sunday night batting practice at the barn, an incident with a flying bat had my husband bleeding from the head and me, saying prayers that it would turn out to be “just a flesh wound”, if there is such a thing where a bat-to-the-head is concerned.
As it turned out, it was very mild and other than a little trim to the hairline and some really sticky EMT tape, he was relatively pain free and back to his busy-every-minute self by morning.
However, as thankful and relieved as I was at the outcome, it couldn’t stop me from taking a couple of pictures and sharing them with just a few of our closest friends and family online. And boy am I glad I did.
There’s nothing like a good laugh to make you appreciate the weightiness of a near-life altering accident, and there’s no one more equipped to help you in this task than the ones who love you most.
So as in the tradition of the old game show “The 10,000 Pyramid”, these are things you might hear your loved ones say after your husband gets hit in the head with a baseball bat:
“Hope Randy's brain didn't sustain too much damage.”
“Holy crap! Did he smart off again?”
“Bar room brawls are scary! Ahahaaaaa. Still, brag that you beat him up for not doing the dishes or something. Work it girlfriend.”
“Poor Randy, he is too sweet. But you would think he would know to duck, move, watch the bats, don’t stand too close. They make face masks and helmets too.”
“Oh My Gosh! Girl, my head hurts now!”
“I think I’ll use this face as the poster child for domestic cleaning abuse.”
“I’m so glad he is okay. He could have been seriously injured, blinded or broke his pretty face beyond being pretty anymore. Poor guy already had one strike against his brain being born a man. Hahahaha (that’s so between you and me.) I would have passed out if I saw my hubby like that.”
“He looks pitiful!”
“I bet he will never steal eggs from the Easter Bunny again! Rabies shot maybe?”
“By the way, I think that is going to leave a dent!”
“Wow what a headache! He may need to put some peppermint oil on that.”
“He did it in the barn? Last night? Tell him to turn on the lights next time. BP in the dark is obviously dangerous.”
“He looks like Homer on the Simpsons.”
“I’m glad I’m not Jolene’s son-in-law; the next one might not make it!”
"He still looks dazed and confused!"
"Oh my! Did one of the boys throw the bat at his head?...or was it you?"
"And they say baseball is a non-contact sport."
Surprisingly enough, our boys’ reactions were relatively subdued. Brisco kinda thought Daddy’s head band was funny. And other than the blood-and the thought of missing a game of living room football-Cooper too, was unmoved.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
In his regularly scheduled Sunday night batting practice at the barn, an incident with a flying bat had my husband bleeding from the head and me, saying prayers that it would turn out to be “just a flesh wound”, if there is such a thing where a bat-to-the-head is concerned.
As it turned out, it was very mild and other than a little trim to the hairline and some really sticky EMT tape, he was relatively pain free and back to his busy-every-minute self by morning.
However, as thankful and relieved as I was at the outcome, it couldn’t stop me from taking a couple of pictures and sharing them with just a few of our closest friends and family online. And boy am I glad I did.
There’s nothing like a good laugh to make you appreciate the weightiness of a near-life altering accident, and there’s no one more equipped to help you in this task than the ones who love you most.
So as in the tradition of the old game show “The 10,000 Pyramid”, these are things you might hear your loved ones say after your husband gets hit in the head with a baseball bat:
“Hope Randy's brain didn't sustain too much damage.”
“Holy crap! Did he smart off again?”
“Bar room brawls are scary! Ahahaaaaa. Still, brag that you beat him up for not doing the dishes or something. Work it girlfriend.”
“Poor Randy, he is too sweet. But you would think he would know to duck, move, watch the bats, don’t stand too close. They make face masks and helmets too.”
“Oh My Gosh! Girl, my head hurts now!”
“I think I’ll use this face as the poster child for domestic cleaning abuse.”
“I’m so glad he is okay. He could have been seriously injured, blinded or broke his pretty face beyond being pretty anymore. Poor guy already had one strike against his brain being born a man. Hahahaha (that’s so between you and me.) I would have passed out if I saw my hubby like that.”
“He looks pitiful!”
“I bet he will never steal eggs from the Easter Bunny again! Rabies shot maybe?”
“By the way, I think that is going to leave a dent!”
“Wow what a headache! He may need to put some peppermint oil on that.”
“He did it in the barn? Last night? Tell him to turn on the lights next time. BP in the dark is obviously dangerous.”
“He looks like Homer on the Simpsons.”
“I’m glad I’m not Jolene’s son-in-law; the next one might not make it!”
"He still looks dazed and confused!"
"Oh my! Did one of the boys throw the bat at his head?...or was it you?"
"And they say baseball is a non-contact sport."
Surprisingly enough, our boys’ reactions were relatively subdued. Brisco kinda thought Daddy’s head band was funny. And other than the blood-and the thought of missing a game of living room football-Cooper too, was unmoved.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
There’s a mouse in this house!
I walked into the kitchen one morning last week and my three year old looked at me with his swollen, morning face and his most concerned, adult expression and said in a most matter of fact manner, “There’s a mouse in this house!” What a way to start the day.
Now his revelation was not news to me. I’m well aware of the fact that the four of us are not the only ones living in our new house. We’ve got friends. The four-legged kind who like to rummage through my potholder drawer and leave nightly presents in the drip pans of my stove.
If I were a bit younger, I’d probably be too embarrassed to admit that we’re sharing our home with the nasty little vermin. The kind who prefer chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in brightly-colored foil buried deep in the cupboard to the wide variety of fruit left lying accessible on the counter. It’s true. But I’ve lived enough places and met enough people to know that most folks have had a mouse in their house, at one time or another. Of course that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
And having two little boys who don’t share my freakishly irrational fear of mice…well that just leads to far too many questions. Questions to which I’m not all that excited about sharing the answers, and answers that, quite frankly, they aren’t yet equipped to understand.
However, I began answering their questions, as mothers do, by letting the boys know that yes, we do have a mouse in this house. Immediately, Brisco’s eyes lit up and he said with pure joy, “I’m gonna give this wiggly truck to the mouse!” Heaven help us all if we have a mouse that big, but I just smiled and said, “OK” and went on to tell them only as much information as I felt they needed in order to stay out of trouble.
Dad had put a mouse pad in the back of their closet, but I made the mistake of calling it a “trap”. Well, I suppose to a couple of little boys-whose greatest hobby at Granma’s house is trapping kittens in an old rabbit cage-the term “mouse trap” brings to mind images that are much different than the one’s that come to mine. Which probably explains Cooper’s first question: “Is the mouse in the mouse trap?”
Immediately, they both ran to the closet, and Brisco yelled, “Close the door so it can’t get out!”
Of course this took some explaining and led to more intriguing questions such as, “Do mouses eat skin?” and “Where do mice come from?” I did my best to answer all their questions, but I’m not sure I did any of them justice. They spent the rest of the morning scouring the house for “holes” and “cracks” and reporting back to me concerning just where “these mouses might be getting themselves in”.
Thankfully, by the end of the day, they seemed to have forgotten all about our uninvited guests. They were no longer fascinated with “checking the traps” or “hunting them down”. No more “bat and mouse”. No more flashlight brigade. And that was just fine with me. Because no matter how long I live, or how many little boys go scurrying through my house, I’m still the kind of gal who yanks my feet off the floor and screams like a baby at the mere thought of even one pesky little mouse in my house.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Now his revelation was not news to me. I’m well aware of the fact that the four of us are not the only ones living in our new house. We’ve got friends. The four-legged kind who like to rummage through my potholder drawer and leave nightly presents in the drip pans of my stove.
If I were a bit younger, I’d probably be too embarrassed to admit that we’re sharing our home with the nasty little vermin. The kind who prefer chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in brightly-colored foil buried deep in the cupboard to the wide variety of fruit left lying accessible on the counter. It’s true. But I’ve lived enough places and met enough people to know that most folks have had a mouse in their house, at one time or another. Of course that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
And having two little boys who don’t share my freakishly irrational fear of mice…well that just leads to far too many questions. Questions to which I’m not all that excited about sharing the answers, and answers that, quite frankly, they aren’t yet equipped to understand.
However, I began answering their questions, as mothers do, by letting the boys know that yes, we do have a mouse in this house. Immediately, Brisco’s eyes lit up and he said with pure joy, “I’m gonna give this wiggly truck to the mouse!” Heaven help us all if we have a mouse that big, but I just smiled and said, “OK” and went on to tell them only as much information as I felt they needed in order to stay out of trouble.
Dad had put a mouse pad in the back of their closet, but I made the mistake of calling it a “trap”. Well, I suppose to a couple of little boys-whose greatest hobby at Granma’s house is trapping kittens in an old rabbit cage-the term “mouse trap” brings to mind images that are much different than the one’s that come to mine. Which probably explains Cooper’s first question: “Is the mouse in the mouse trap?”
Immediately, they both ran to the closet, and Brisco yelled, “Close the door so it can’t get out!”
Of course this took some explaining and led to more intriguing questions such as, “Do mouses eat skin?” and “Where do mice come from?” I did my best to answer all their questions, but I’m not sure I did any of them justice. They spent the rest of the morning scouring the house for “holes” and “cracks” and reporting back to me concerning just where “these mouses might be getting themselves in”.
Thankfully, by the end of the day, they seemed to have forgotten all about our uninvited guests. They were no longer fascinated with “checking the traps” or “hunting them down”. No more “bat and mouse”. No more flashlight brigade. And that was just fine with me. Because no matter how long I live, or how many little boys go scurrying through my house, I’m still the kind of gal who yanks my feet off the floor and screams like a baby at the mere thought of even one pesky little mouse in my house.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Real Mothers
(A collection of thoughts sent to me from one of my favorite mothers, and a few I’ve learned on my own!)
Real Mothers don't eat quiche; they don't have time to make it.
Real Mothers are experts at patching “broken” jeans.
Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably buried in the sandbox.
Real Mothers accept kisses no matter how slobbery, muddy, greasy or snotty.
Real Mothers deliver on their promises to color or cut or play slap jack-no matter how exhausted they are.
Real Mothers often have sticky floors, filthy ovens and happy kids.
Real Mothers read The Pumpkin Goblin “one last time” even though it’s 30 minutes past lights out.
Real Mothers know that dried paint doesn't come out of carpets.
Real Mothers put themselves last in line for the shower, no matter how many ballgames they sat through.
Real Mothers undoubtedly have a vision of the Ideal Mother in their mind’s eye, a picture to which they so often fail to measure up.
Real Mothers don't want to know what the vacuum just sucked up.
Real Mothers sometimes ask, “Why me?” and get their answer when a little voice says, “Because I love you best.”
Real Mothers cook supper, paint the kitchen wall and create zoo animals out of play dough-all at the same time.
Real Mothers know that their children love them in spite of their faults, regardless of their flaws, and without fail.
Real Mothers know that a child's growth is not measured by height or years or grade. It is marked by the progression from Mommy to Mom to Mother.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Real Mothers don't eat quiche; they don't have time to make it.
Real Mothers are experts at patching “broken” jeans.
Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably buried in the sandbox.
Real Mothers accept kisses no matter how slobbery, muddy, greasy or snotty.
Real Mothers deliver on their promises to color or cut or play slap jack-no matter how exhausted they are.
Real Mothers often have sticky floors, filthy ovens and happy kids.
Real Mothers read The Pumpkin Goblin “one last time” even though it’s 30 minutes past lights out.
Real Mothers know that dried paint doesn't come out of carpets.
Real Mothers put themselves last in line for the shower, no matter how many ballgames they sat through.
Real Mothers undoubtedly have a vision of the Ideal Mother in their mind’s eye, a picture to which they so often fail to measure up.
Real Mothers don't want to know what the vacuum just sucked up.
Real Mothers sometimes ask, “Why me?” and get their answer when a little voice says, “Because I love you best.”
Real Mothers cook supper, paint the kitchen wall and create zoo animals out of play dough-all at the same time.
Real Mothers know that their children love them in spite of their faults, regardless of their flaws, and without fail.
Real Mothers know that a child's growth is not measured by height or years or grade. It is marked by the progression from Mommy to Mom to Mother.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, March 30, 2009
Three and B
For the longest time, when people would ask our youngest child his name, he’d look at them and say, in his matter-of-fact way, “I’m two and B.” Inevitably, I’d have to interpret. Now, since he’s had a birthday, he has seamlessly made the switch from “two” to “three”, and has even mastered the three-finger sign for the age, for which he has so eagerly been awaiting, for the last six months. “I’m three and B.”
Little Brisco is about as entertaining as they come. He has the voice of a Chihuahua, the personality of a cocker spaniel, and the tenacity of a bulldog. In human terms I guess that’d make him a little like a cross between Rainman, Jim Carey, and Scarlett O’Hara-in miniature form, of course. But he’s our baby, and he keeps us laughing, always guessing, and on our toes every moment of every day.
For example just this week, I went out back to check on the boys and I found him standing on the porch with his pants around his ankles, peeing into the back of his dump truck. After startling him into a wall-drenching frenzy, I managed to ask why on earth he had done such a thing. His answer was just what I expected, “Because I did.”
And that got me thinking. There’s really no mind like that of a child. So innocent, so literal, so maddening. So I wanted to be sure to catch an accurate glimpse of the mind of our “B” at the tender age of “three”. And this is what I gleaned.
Favorite Color: Red
Favorite Toy: Monster trucks
Favorite Song: Zacchaeus
Favorite Supper: I don’t like supper food.
Favorite Lunch: I don’t like lunch food.
Favorite Candy?: Red candy…and Green candy…and Black candy…and Brown candy…
Favorite Friend: Cooper
And if you could have one thing for your birthday, what would it be?: “I wish we could have a baby Sydnee.”
And that, my friends, marked the end of my questioning.
I beg myself, almost as often as I breathe, to savor every episode. And while we slip and sail through the daily insanity that is the life of a parent, I know that some day, it will all be worth it. We will be able to look back on all the moments of endless chattering, crazy-cartoon faces, and strong-willed defiance and feel relief at the gentleman he has become.
But in the meantime, as we risk life, limb and mental stability attempting to make this baby bulldog into a Supreme Grand Champion Show Dog, I’m taking notes. Because without a doubt, as “three and B” advances to “four” and “fourteen” and eventually “twenty-four”, I’m convinced the stories of his childhood will come in quite handy.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Little Brisco is about as entertaining as they come. He has the voice of a Chihuahua, the personality of a cocker spaniel, and the tenacity of a bulldog. In human terms I guess that’d make him a little like a cross between Rainman, Jim Carey, and Scarlett O’Hara-in miniature form, of course. But he’s our baby, and he keeps us laughing, always guessing, and on our toes every moment of every day.
For example just this week, I went out back to check on the boys and I found him standing on the porch with his pants around his ankles, peeing into the back of his dump truck. After startling him into a wall-drenching frenzy, I managed to ask why on earth he had done such a thing. His answer was just what I expected, “Because I did.”
And that got me thinking. There’s really no mind like that of a child. So innocent, so literal, so maddening. So I wanted to be sure to catch an accurate glimpse of the mind of our “B” at the tender age of “three”. And this is what I gleaned.
Favorite Color: Red
Favorite Toy: Monster trucks
Favorite Song: Zacchaeus
Favorite Supper: I don’t like supper food.
Favorite Lunch: I don’t like lunch food.
Favorite Candy?: Red candy…and Green candy…and Black candy…and Brown candy…
Favorite Friend: Cooper
And if you could have one thing for your birthday, what would it be?: “I wish we could have a baby Sydnee.”
And that, my friends, marked the end of my questioning.
I beg myself, almost as often as I breathe, to savor every episode. And while we slip and sail through the daily insanity that is the life of a parent, I know that some day, it will all be worth it. We will be able to look back on all the moments of endless chattering, crazy-cartoon faces, and strong-willed defiance and feel relief at the gentleman he has become.
But in the meantime, as we risk life, limb and mental stability attempting to make this baby bulldog into a Supreme Grand Champion Show Dog, I’m taking notes. Because without a doubt, as “three and B” advances to “four” and “fourteen” and eventually “twenty-four”, I’m convinced the stories of his childhood will come in quite handy.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Let there be guns?
I’ve heard it said many ways. “Let there be light.” “Let there be peace on earth.” Even “Let there be rock.” But “Let there be guns?”
I don’t know everything there is to know about boys. I grew up in a house without any, so I learn something new almost every day. But I can’t help but wonder if our newest playtime activity is a universal endeavor of little boys in general, or if it is simply a sign of our times.
As sheltering children goes, I’d say we do a pretty good job. We pre-screen the movies that are “made for kids”, we have yet to engage in overnight sleepovers, and we have managed to steer clear of the Spike channel on TV. The closest our boys come to witnessing violent behavior is a clearing of the dugouts on ESPN or a wrestling match with dad on the living room floor. I think they did watch a rerun of Rocky, against my better judgment, but definitely nothing with guns.
So why is it that when boys get together, everything becomes a weapon? A fallen twig becomes a rifle; a building block becomes a pistola; and a few Legos, with little effort, can oddly come to resemble a revolver.
I’ve been wondering about this little-boy phenomenon that has so recently invaded our world. Running around the yard, hiding behind trees with the sounds of “pew pew” punching past their lips in a whisper that mimics every shot. Where did they learn such a game? Surely a four-second shot of a pirate’s pistol in Peter Pan couldn’t cause such an obsession.
As parents do when a new trend arises, I inspected our environment. Have we somehow inadvertently exposed these boys to the dangerous world of weaponry? Have we spoken of war or watched CNN or even told a gruesome hunting story in their presence?
Then it hit me. Maybe they have finally inferred how Uncle Toby managed to mount that deer head on his wall. Maybe they really do understand what happened to Bambi’s mother. Maybe they are no different than the generations of little boys who wrote letters to Santa asking for Red Rider BB guns, even though their overprotective mothers warned that inevitably, they’d put out an eye.
Maybe they aren’t bound to be gangsters or destined to be pirates. Maybe they are as normal as any other little boy playing cops and robbers in the front yard or cowboys and Indians in the back. Maybe we are doing just fine, raising good-hearted little boys in a world that can be tough for the strongest of men.
Let there be guns? Not if I have my druthers. But I suppose like so many others, they’ll turn out just fine in spite of it.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I don’t know everything there is to know about boys. I grew up in a house without any, so I learn something new almost every day. But I can’t help but wonder if our newest playtime activity is a universal endeavor of little boys in general, or if it is simply a sign of our times.
As sheltering children goes, I’d say we do a pretty good job. We pre-screen the movies that are “made for kids”, we have yet to engage in overnight sleepovers, and we have managed to steer clear of the Spike channel on TV. The closest our boys come to witnessing violent behavior is a clearing of the dugouts on ESPN or a wrestling match with dad on the living room floor. I think they did watch a rerun of Rocky, against my better judgment, but definitely nothing with guns.
So why is it that when boys get together, everything becomes a weapon? A fallen twig becomes a rifle; a building block becomes a pistola; and a few Legos, with little effort, can oddly come to resemble a revolver.
I’ve been wondering about this little-boy phenomenon that has so recently invaded our world. Running around the yard, hiding behind trees with the sounds of “pew pew” punching past their lips in a whisper that mimics every shot. Where did they learn such a game? Surely a four-second shot of a pirate’s pistol in Peter Pan couldn’t cause such an obsession.
As parents do when a new trend arises, I inspected our environment. Have we somehow inadvertently exposed these boys to the dangerous world of weaponry? Have we spoken of war or watched CNN or even told a gruesome hunting story in their presence?
Then it hit me. Maybe they have finally inferred how Uncle Toby managed to mount that deer head on his wall. Maybe they really do understand what happened to Bambi’s mother. Maybe they are no different than the generations of little boys who wrote letters to Santa asking for Red Rider BB guns, even though their overprotective mothers warned that inevitably, they’d put out an eye.
Maybe they aren’t bound to be gangsters or destined to be pirates. Maybe they are as normal as any other little boy playing cops and robbers in the front yard or cowboys and Indians in the back. Maybe we are doing just fine, raising good-hearted little boys in a world that can be tough for the strongest of men.
Let there be guns? Not if I have my druthers. But I suppose like so many others, they’ll turn out just fine in spite of it.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Nanny nanny boo boo
I’d like to find the child who invented this phrase. From every generation across all seven continents, it seems to be one of those elements of childhood that comes hardwired. Out-stuck tongues, thumbs in ears, eight fingers waving in the air, mocking my every word, and that annoying little axiom droned to the tune that is the same for children throughout time and place: “Nanny nanny boo boo”!
I don’t know who started it, or how they found my children, but like so many maddening phases of childhood, it seems to be living in and among us, forcing mom and dad to turn to the Tylenol, bring out the belts, or simply run for cover when it rears its ugly head within our children.
We don’t watch South Park. We’ve managed to avoid Sponge Bob. We haven’t even started public school for goodness sake. But regardless of our efforts, it seems someone who holds great influence or clout in they eyes of my children has introduced these angels to one of the most annoying and ridiculous sayings of all time.
Not only that, they’ve brought with it the ability to play the “last word” game like old pros. You know the one. It’s the game they play when we’re driving in the car, no viable means of escape, and they begin to argue back and forth-over nothing really-just to see who can get the “last word”.
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t…”
Well, you get the gist.
Or on Sunday morning when the house is in chaos, and you’re trying not to be late, and you barely have time to brush everyone’s teeth, but somehow the children find time to stand at the bathroom sink and go at it.
“Stop it!”
(Pestering with a poke.)
“Stop it!”
(Poking again)
“Stop it!”
(You get the last word; I get the last poke.)
And on and on they go.
I’ve talked to the boys about what “the nanny” phrase means. About how it could be taken by another child, and could even hurt someone’s feelings. The both seemed to understand, and will even catch themselves “mid-nanny”, but at this point it’s a habit, like picking their nose, or heaven forbid, sucking their thumbs. It’s like a sewage that just comes gushing out in the middle of an otherwise pleasant day.
And when Brisco does his sumo-wrestler dance-arms outstretched, hopping from one foot to the other on every down beat of his insult-it’s almost enough to force a mother to hide her face in disbelief and humiliation…and yes, a little amusement.
I guess there will always be elements of raising children that can’t be avoided. Habits that seem to appear out of nowhere and are monsters to undo. Cooper told me the other day that in six years, he’d be 10. I can only imagine the challenges that will arise in that short amount of time.
I know being a parent is a job that never ends. These boys will be my babies years from now, when they are grown and have babies of their own. Babies who fuss and argue and irritate and amuse. And when they come to me with stories of their precious angels, I’ve prepared in my mind the perfect piece of motherly advice: “Nanny nanny boo boo!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I don’t know who started it, or how they found my children, but like so many maddening phases of childhood, it seems to be living in and among us, forcing mom and dad to turn to the Tylenol, bring out the belts, or simply run for cover when it rears its ugly head within our children.
We don’t watch South Park. We’ve managed to avoid Sponge Bob. We haven’t even started public school for goodness sake. But regardless of our efforts, it seems someone who holds great influence or clout in they eyes of my children has introduced these angels to one of the most annoying and ridiculous sayings of all time.
Not only that, they’ve brought with it the ability to play the “last word” game like old pros. You know the one. It’s the game they play when we’re driving in the car, no viable means of escape, and they begin to argue back and forth-over nothing really-just to see who can get the “last word”.
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes I did.”
“No you didn’t…”
Well, you get the gist.
Or on Sunday morning when the house is in chaos, and you’re trying not to be late, and you barely have time to brush everyone’s teeth, but somehow the children find time to stand at the bathroom sink and go at it.
“Stop it!”
(Pestering with a poke.)
“Stop it!”
(Poking again)
“Stop it!”
(You get the last word; I get the last poke.)
And on and on they go.
I’ve talked to the boys about what “the nanny” phrase means. About how it could be taken by another child, and could even hurt someone’s feelings. The both seemed to understand, and will even catch themselves “mid-nanny”, but at this point it’s a habit, like picking their nose, or heaven forbid, sucking their thumbs. It’s like a sewage that just comes gushing out in the middle of an otherwise pleasant day.
And when Brisco does his sumo-wrestler dance-arms outstretched, hopping from one foot to the other on every down beat of his insult-it’s almost enough to force a mother to hide her face in disbelief and humiliation…and yes, a little amusement.
I guess there will always be elements of raising children that can’t be avoided. Habits that seem to appear out of nowhere and are monsters to undo. Cooper told me the other day that in six years, he’d be 10. I can only imagine the challenges that will arise in that short amount of time.
I know being a parent is a job that never ends. These boys will be my babies years from now, when they are grown and have babies of their own. Babies who fuss and argue and irritate and amuse. And when they come to me with stories of their precious angels, I’ve prepared in my mind the perfect piece of motherly advice: “Nanny nanny boo boo!”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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