Value wIT

Summer’s hell has begun in Texas.  Week before last the temperature soared just under 100 degrees, then last week the weather busted out with a tornado –glad we weren’t in the mobile home. 

Sunday morning is always a favorite. Getting up early to drink the perfect cup of coffee and read about my friends and colleagues in New York – this week’s dish on the Park Slope Mommies was the most delicious…never enough on Park Slope (so glad Gawker doesn’t charge by the minute.) Dutifully, each Sunday I read the front page of the NYTimes and then the business section.  Finally, after paying my dues, Sunday Style presents itself like a cat in heat.  Of course, by the time I’m ready to read Sunday Style, the other inhabitants of my home have awoken and have begun quibbling over belongings, hurting one another’s feelings and demanding breakfast.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and if the front page of the NYTimes was the only thing left to the read at this time of day, I would promptly recycle the paper. However, the Sunday Style awaits me and is a goody that can hold its own against the rising sun.  The Travel section isn’t as powerful, but it does serve as chatty companion for my noon snack.

In the morning when the newspaper’s blue wrapper lies on the floor next to my comfy chair wet with sprinkler water, the promise of the day is full: a run, family bike ride, picnic at an overlooked historical site, visit to see the new installment at the local museum…so many activities that I write them on a poster board and the family uses stickers to vote for their top three favorites. 

Early afternoon approaches and 75% of my family remain in their pajamas. The heat of the day is on us like it’s August, yet it’s early May. Nobody wants to venture out and face a whipping by the sun.  The children bicker. The Professor hides. I consider drinking (too early – the neighbors will notice.) 

“Let’s go swimming!”

Doesn’t matter which fool said it. It was said.

Breaking out the miracle suit that two years ago really was a miracle, it seems like someone has raided my closet and replaced my clothes with those of much smaller person.  Cupping my left breast, I am reassured by the generous handful; however, if not pressed and pushed, the handful falls like a sack of sand.  Utilizing all the readily available tools, the snug fit of the two-year old bathing suit serves as a sling for the large mass of skin that hangs from my chest.  With careful lifting and positioning, I create the type of cleavage that Napoleonic era women would crave. 

Just like a billion dollar bank account elevates men into new stratospheres, large breasts give women an incomparable entrée into most situations. This false sense of status immediately fails me as I walk into the pool area.  My breasts are seen for what they are – fat wrapped in skin. The mommies have been exercising all winter and have recently completed a major shopping spree.

I’m fucked.

The pool scene is just like year before last (remember I skipped last summer).  Making nice, I compliment everyone’s stylie cover-ups and $500 sunglasses.  I do not remark about protruding ribs or collarbones that threathen to poke me in the eye.  Seriously, the sunglasses of this summer are t-totally grrrreat. I’m tempted to shell-out a car payment and buy some.

Little girls are decked-out in wildly precious bathing suits, and visions of my own cute girl wearing a ruffle bikini dance in my head. Instead, my girl-boy wears a Target swim shirt sized extra-large. The swim shirt should be a medium, but because of some whacko gene she inherited from The Professor’s side of the family (not you Su-Su), she insists on wearing a man-sized shirt to accompany her Boy Department swim trunks. Despite her masculine armor, my daughter’s pretty face with its piercing blue eyes and button nose belies her transgender issues – the same issues that dominate my every thought.

The Professor proudly displays his blinding white chest and for a moment the entire world stands still as he careens down the pool stairs and burns out the eyes of all the poolside, sun-soakers with his shouting sunscreen saturated skin.

Not a moment passes before I order the first margarita of the summer. Within minutes the cheap plastic cup containing tequila made in a basement by someone’s yardman (oh, it’s Texas and we don’t have basements) is in my hand. The cup of granulated sugar mixed with bargain priced tequila radios a message to the Dispatcher of Dull Headaches, and while I can’t feel it sitting in the sun, most certainly, a headache is on its way.

Did I mention the number of babies who were born this spring? It’s not even summer or top-of-the-season at the pool, but there were a staggering number of little white babies and toddlers holding dripping Popsicles and hovering on the pebble-paved deck. Who says that Hispanics will dominate Texas in the coming years? At my pool, apparently we are fighting that premise. Oh, too late. White people have lost that fight. Of course, at this pool, the membership committee holds to a different set of statistics.  I’d like to protest, but what other pool has warm water, cheap margaritas and asks for no cash? Once I find that pool, then I’ll champion the cause for equality.

Cheers for the rest of summer. May your children not poop or vomit in the pool.  When the pool is closed, the buzz is as thick as wool, “Whose kid vomited? Which mother did a horrible job and let her child shit in pool?”   Not mine.

The mail at my house is explosive. Six days a week the mail-lady drops a load of correspondence and parcels at the door.  She always refuses to put the mail into the iron mailbox (that I spent weeks selecting), but chooses to drop it at the front door. As is probably the case with you, the brunt of the heap is fuel for post-consumer recycled products, or if you are on the devil’s team, the mound fills a neat little spot in the landfill.

With the recycling bin handy, the catalogs and shiny postcard advertisements go first. Then, whatever Blue Cross Blue Shield sends is tossed -- with a family of six someone is always at the doctor or the hospital, and BCBS feels the need to track all those many visits. A more organized person might file or at least open such correspondence, but with the stack so steep, there is no hope for my reading anything with a plastic window on the envelope. Following medical documents go all the prospectuses sent by some company who apparently holds the key to my far distinct retirement. My mother-in-law insists I should keep all those official documents, but no dice.  Lean, clean and uninformed is the plan in my house. Finally, the packages, which are always books for The Professor are opened. Seriously, he receives (and reads) a book a day. The titles are always riveting like:

• The Liberal Ideal and the Demons of Empire: Theories of Imperialism from Adam Smith to Lenin
• Development and Underdevelopment: the political economy of global economy
• Orientalism, Culture and Imperialism
• An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
• Theotonio dos Santos, Dependencia económica y cambio revolucionario in América Latina

I don’t ask questions like, “Hey, will you tell me about that book?” I just open the mail.

In midst of a daily mail pile fight, I can tell the war is being won because the stack dwindles and the recycling bin fills. Almost at the end, I tear into a box and find three Webkinz. Dialing The Professor I call to inform him that his package has arrived – how sweet he is to order our children a present, and it's a damn good thing  because it’s our son’s birthday, and there are no gifts. 

“Don’t know whatchaya  talkin’ ‘bout,” the hubby claims. Hmm?

The next day another box of Webkinz arrives. What?  The Professor and I dive into this mystery like two tranquilized tigers.  The spirit of Nancy Drew did not stir us to immediately put the puzzle pieces together.  Finally, The Professor offers that he might have a clue.

“Lately, I’ve received numerous emails stating that my ‘package has shipped’. Wonder if that has something to do with this?” Yeah. It just might be a clue, Sherlock.

Oliver and Hardy finally solve the riddle -- our 7-year old has ordered $700 of Webkinz on the Internet.  The next three days finds the friendly mail-lady filling the front stoop with stacks of boxes. 

A first-grade computer class has taught my daughter how to Google. She loves to Google. One day she Googled snow leopards and for hours repeated random facts about the near extinct animal. The next day she Googled shark attacks. Such fun that I counted my blessings she was busy. For the past 7 years I have restricted my children from touching the computer because I didn’t want to risk my documents. However, four months ago I gave the children my old desktop computer and was pleased that my daughter knew how to use Fact Monster and Fun Brain. When she got into Webkinz World, my naive side said, “What could that hurt?” When she combined Google and Webkinz she hit the motherload -Amazon where my "one-click" settings were memorized.

Return all the Webkinz, you say. The problem is that the Webkinz were not bought from one place or even a store with a name.  There are 31 orders consisting of numerous plushy animals from random individuals across the country. The box might be from Jane Doe, Lansing, MI, and matching Jane’s name to an email address like crittercountry@yahoo.com is proving difficult. To complicate the issue, my son opened one day’s worth of boxes thinking they were his birthday presents. Who knows which Webkinz were in which box.

Suffice it to say, it’s a mess.  Once the total expenditure was calculated The Professor got motivated and matched 25 Webkinz to their sellers. Hopefully, ABCToyTimz will refund our account.  Please don’t mention the cost of return postage. We can’t process that additional deficit at this moment. (Look at the cute retired kangaroo. He was a steal at $24.99.)

How did you learn to ride a bike?  Was it stressful?  Were you scared for your life or did you triumph over the occasion?  Saturday found The Professor and me basking in the sun at the park while our children rode bikes around a trail, over a basketball court and up a playscape,

“Get down. No sir. No bikes on the slide! What are you thinking?”

Mostly, I tried to ignore the children, as I was over-involved with The Professor who lay beside me on the grass and was busy paying me undeserved compliments. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I eagerly accepted his adulation and waited with the electricity and patience of a Labrador waiting to retrieve for some more. From time to time the children would whiz by begging us to watch a new trick.  Such little attention to go around, such a great need…from us all.

(What if that was really The Professor? Changes the story, huh?)

As I sat up to dust the grassy debris from my sporty attire, I notice that my daughter is hawking a kid learning to ride a bike.  The kid’s father, who is clearly on his second marriage or who is just old, is mightily trying to teach his young child to ride a bike. My daughter is completely in the way- like a donut at a Weight Watcher’s meeting.

The old-man father is holding the child on the pink princess bike while pushing and running alongside in his loafers and high-waisted jeans. There is a teenager with floppy, curly hair, clearly the son from the first marriage, who is trying to run beside the bike and lend support to an ill-fated endeavor. 

OldMan is screaming,

“Peddle. Peddle. Peddle, damnit. Just peddle!” 

The kid appears to have either no interest in riding the bike or no clue that pushing the pedals turns the wheels.  She is sitting on the bike like one would sit on a toilet.

OldMan works himself into a rage, but he can’t give up the bike lesson. TeenagedSon is pained by the scene, and it is obvious he wants to counsel OldMan to take a break, but probably TeenagedSon has suffered a bitter reaction from OldMan in the past and decides to hold his advice.

To pour salt on the wound, my daughter, boasting her brand new helmet astride her shinny new bicycle, peddles beside the group offering taunting advice, “Peddle. Look. Peddle like this.” Hopefully, my child intends her cheerleading to be encouragement and not braggadocio, but from 20 yards away, I can feel OldMan is two seconds from knocking my child off her bicycle.

Teaching a child to bike is dicey. I recall that my parents sat my 6-year old body atop a white banana seat and placed my hands upon the Chopper style handlebars of my lime green bike and pushed me down a hill. Much like the child at the park, I had no natural inclination or desire to ride a bike. Apparently, my parents decided it was the day I would learn to ride a bike. The “throw her in the water, she’ll learn to swim” philosophy extended itself to bicycling instruction in my household.

Seriously, would you ever put a child on a bike and push them down a hill?  Perhaps that is why I started stealing the car early. I decided I better teach myself to drive or my parents might put me in the car with a brick on the gas pedal. With those two, you never know.

The Professor and I teach bike riding the correct way. One day we looked out the back window and my daughter was riding the neighbor kids bike back and forth between our yards.  After some begging for a bike, we bought her one. That’s how it should happen.

I didn’t have a chance to transmit this bike riding philosophy to OldMan. He packed it in, and went home without a win. As OldMan shoved the princess bike in the trunk of his dated luxury car, TeenagedSon gave the little girl a comforting hand on the back that let her know he felt her pain.

The ski suit was blinding blue and green with a giant sign on the back stating OBNOXIOUS TEXAN.  Accessorized by orange goggles, my four-year old son was more than pleased with his appearance. He seemed unsure if skiing meant slaying wild beasts or shooting errant intruders, never the less, the jumpsuit and headgear satisfied his every need to feel like a warrior. At least my daughter had the sense to wear all black skiwear (a testament to her future) so that she might be mistaken as a Coloradoan.   

Today marks the sixth day that The Professor and I have spent every single minute with our children. We love them, no doubt. However, the little people are loud and never stop making noise. Yabber, jabber, yacky-yak, hum, sing, squeal, yell, scream, cry, whine, snore. We dropped them at ski school and read the sign “Beyond This Point Children and Employees Only.” Bye-bye.

The sound of silence.

In exchange for cash the children will be skied, fed, napped, learned, snacked and skied again. What a deal. Once upon a time I tried to teach one of our older children to ski. Such a mistake. The middle daughter was about nine-years old and it seemed like she was getting the hang of it, so I took her a little too high, I guess. By the time we finally made it to the bottom of the mountain, the runs were closed for the day and the ski patrol was looking for us. The Professor was all a worry and the other daughter was crying for her lost sister – not necessarily for her new stepmother.

Granted, I do not own the most technologically advanced ski clothes. I learned to ski with some kids from Denver who taught me to never look like a Texan by wearing snow bunny and/or furry clothes. The lesson was that one should wear jeans, look cool and not fall. Today I decided that advice was so 25 years ago. 

Ski clothes these days, it seems, keep people warmer. The 10-degree weather accompanied by the prospect of skiing the side of the mountain that was shaded from the sun made me wish I was wearing better engineered clothes. I stopped by the bar to consider if I was a good enough skier to try the sunny side of the mountain.  Either the Painkiller (hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps) would give me the courage to attempt a harder run, or it would lure me into ordering a second drink. 

Like magic a pamphlet for the spa appeared in my hand. There was initial excitement but experience told me the poor quality paper and graphics would mean a yokel beauty school dropout would be dabbling at an ayurvedic massage at my cost.  I would rather eat rancid tuna salad than have a disappointing massage.  Buttoning my sweater, activating the headband feature of my running shirt (smart, huh?), zipping my coat and slipping on my gloves, I headed out to buy a lift ticket.

Immediately, the wind slapped my face and bit my nose. Within 30 seconds I am frozen to the core. Watching the lift I imagine how cold the metal seat must be.  The lift stopped and the riders were held hostage as the seats swung to and fro as some mechanical problem was addressed or a rider was collected from a fall. Swinging in the air while the wind brutally attacks must be extra unpleasant. My lazy mind conjured the alternative of lying naked on a heated bed while Mandy rubs oil on my back.

It turns out that Mandy’s name was Chasta, and it wasn’t the best massage, but it beat the hell out of frostbite. When my 80 minutes were finished I begged Chasta for another service – a manicure, an eyebrow pluck, facial, colonic, anything -- no dice. Chasta was booked with Après Ski Sports massages for the rest of the day.  I was being thrown out into the cold again.

By this point, it was me against Winter. I had to find a way to avoid being outside. This is going to sound so snobby and very un-me, but when it comes to skiing I think the motto must be “Go big or go home.” It came to my attention that I was in a rinky-dink resort in New Mexico and aside from Chasta’s meager services that were received in a less than plush environment, there was nothing else to do….besides ski.

In Aspen, for instance, there are great stores, restaurants and tons of beautiful people to watch. As I sat on a lacquered picnic bench and ordered another Painkiller that I didn’t even want, the people seemed less than attractive. I put on my worldly, kind mind and tried to image how good and interesting the people with the long gray ponytails and Navajo sweatshirts must be. It was like the pirate fantasy … seems like a good idea as the pirate rips your shirt off, but when you are face to face with the pirate and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, the fantasy goes bad. 

Two girls from California walked in. No, I didn’t ask if they were from California, but there was no chance they were from anywhere else.  Momentarily, my stare-factor was appeased as I gazed at their blonde hair piled high upon their heads, their plumped lips and the black jumpsuit with a slate graphic pattern ornamented by a low-slung gold belt.  Who designs a get-up like that?  Are there significant skiwear designers? 

The California girls were the only action at Tippy’s Hide-a-way Bar and aside from a store that sold Alpaca teddy bears, there was nothing to do in Rinky-Dink Village.  A bookstore would have been nice, but I would have settled for an outdated People magazine or even a torn set of instructions for a generator – written in Chinese.  I guess when people go skiing, they ski. Go figure.

Imagine this story like a trip on the Magic School Bus with Miss Frizzle as the narrator.  Shrink yourself to the size of a gnat and float through my ear for a close-up view of my mind during a birthday party for a horde of 1st graders.

Setting the stage, recall how it is my 2007 goal to reject the call of popular society with its sugary overtones to host over-the-top children’s birthday parties.  If you read Value wIT at all, you are familiar with the insane birthday parties I have thrown for my children in past years – you know, the time Santa Claus arrived at the park in a horse-drawn carriage or the time that Madeline showed-up with her yellow hat and ten peacocks, or the time the rainbow party bus drove to each child’s house and then Santa hijacked the bus and gave out toys from his weighty sack. 

This year the party theme was S-I-M-P-L-E. Honestly, I spent about an hour planning a soccer game/party at the park. The quickly designed (yet cute) invitation was emailed – no envelopes, stamping, addressing, etc.  The cake, in the shape of a soccer ball, was one telephone call to the “cake lady” who delivered the cake to the park. The goody bags were drawstring bags filled with inflatable soccer balls, ribbons, tattoos, soccer tambourines (whatever), wristbands and pom-poms. It took less than 15 minutes to order this load of crap online.  The day before the event I did find myself at the grocery store at 9:30 pm searching for snacks, but generally it was a low task event.

The main emphasis of the party was to play a soccer game. If a kid didn’t want to play soccer, then there was an opportunity to make posters or megaphones and cheer for the team.  Simple, huh?

All was going well until WRISTBAND DEBACLE 2007. PrissyGirl, outfitted in a lavender velour jogging suit accented by high piggy-tails tied with bows and a rainbow headband, tells me in a dramatic pouty voice that is peppered with baby talk that she didn’t get a wristband and that my daughter (birthday girl) has two wristbands. 

“Well, I’ll keep my eyes opened to see if I come across another wristband for you.” 

Thinking the wristband issue was dead I moved on to watch the game. PrissyGirl is back. Peck-peck-peck I feel on my waist,

“Mrs. Parker, I still don’t have a purple wristband and some kids have two.” 

Instead of saying, “Well, get your pussy ass in the game and beat the shit out of someone until you get a wristband” I say, “Hmmm. Well, Lydia, let me see what I can do.”

Bugger on my finger. She won’t leave me alone. There is no doubt this kid is going to grow-up to be one of those people who wheedle a discount on everything. “Excuse me, salesperson, this earring is missing a diamond. I want a 50% discount.”

I can’t take the nagging anymore; so, I dump on my very own child – the birthday girl, who is racing around the field having the time of her life.

“Sweetie, come here. Uh, your friend Lydia here doesn’t have a wristband and you have two. Can you spot her one?” 

Benevolent child ‘o mine graciously slips the .10 terrycloth band from her arm and hands it to Lydia.

Within five minutes my daughter is walking from the field fighting back tears.  It’s the wristband.  I could make up an excuse about how she was so attached to the wristband because that was the only thing she felt like she was getting on her birthday as the party was “no gifts, please”. However, the truth of the matter is that she is 7-years old and having to give-up a wristband must be a big deal.

I thought she could shake it off, but by cake-cutting time, my daughter had dissolved to the point of having to sit in the car.  Whatever.  There were 24 hungry kids sitting around the cake like a pack of wolves. The cake had to be cut. The kid closest to the cake blew out the candles. Hope he made a good wish.

This is where my mind started to fray. The bottom of the cake was a soccer field made of confetti cake. The top of the cake featured a soccer ball made of vanilla cake and a basketball made of chocolate cake.  The children turned on me and began full-fledged harassment.

“Give me a chocolate piece.
I want part of the ball.
That’s my piece.
I want a corner.
No, I want a bigger piece.
Give me the words.
No, I want a piece of every flavor.”

Wielding my sterling silver cake-cutter all I can think to do is scream, “Shut.TheFuck.Up!” My thought is to whip around and address the little person behind me who has been tapping on my ass for ten minutes and with my Strausbourg cake server under her chin say, “Touch me one more time and I’ll slit your throat with this serrated blade.”  Of course, when I turn around it’s Lydia who is poor-mouthing about how she didn’t get any cake. 

Good friends are hard to come by, and it’s my luck that I have a few, one of which was standing beside me passing out the cake to the vultures. My friend has a warm, sweet voice that makes it acceptable to hear, “Oh, silly, you already had two pieces. Let’s wait until everybody gets a piece.” That sounds so much better than “Greedy-gobbler, eat a piece of celery!”

After the cake rush, my daughter, Sybil, changes back into one of her other personalities and gets out of the car. She is in a fine mood. Do I need to simply ever further???

Eavesdropping on a prank call my daughter is making to her father:

"...no, this is not me. It's Nancy and you have a meeting at 10:30 am....No, he's gone....I kicked him in the lady."

Kicked him in the lady??? What does this mean?

When the going gets tough, do we jump into the air-conditioned car? Not here on Bitsy's Bad-ass Bus Binge!

Day Twenty of the NO CAR Experiment finds me in good spirits. The Professor still bucks the no car idea, and the little people utter statements like, "Puleeze, may we take the car?" However, a strong will (and a strong smell) keep me committed to finishing the experiment.

Last night the family drove (far, late night, rationalization) to SOCO, Austin's attempt to emulate NYC's SOHO, to swim and have dinner with friends.  Riding in my car felt luxurious! Our friends have children the same age as ours, and the children were playing an involved game of dog-training that simply could not end when it was time for us to depart.  Begging ensued for my 6-year old to spend the night, and the pleasurable company, mighty margaritas and winsome smiles talked us in to agreeing.  At least it wasn't me who was up at 1:00 am moving one of the giggling girls to the spare bedroom.

This morning while pleasantly enjoying the Times and a quiet morning, it occurred to me that our friends hit Mass on Sunday's and that I better hop across town to fetch my child.  Looking at the bus schedule, I had 16 minutes to throw on some clothes and haul down to a relatively far away bus stop. Erck! The 4-year old demands to join me on the trip. He can't find his shoes.  The Professor,nose in book, calls, “Just take the car! Don’t be ridiculous.”

Guess The Professor has mistaken me for Weak-Willed-Wanda. Of all people he should know better.

Grabbing the boy’s hand, I realize he is dressed like a nut.  He is wearing a too-small orange and white seersucker John-John that he found in the give-a-way pile over a navy and yellow shirt and green Wellies.  Hmmm. The great thing about the bus is that nobody much cares what you are wearing (it's not like Southwest Airlines), especially on Sunday. The weekday crowd is fairly bland, but Sunday’s on the bus is a casting call for Silence of The Lambs.

Right on time, the bus zips us across town and my friend meets me in the parking lot of a liquor store where my bed-head daughter bids her church-dressed friend adieu. 

“Maw-ohm, why can’t you drive the car? I don’t want to ride the bus.” Poor thing. She’s only six and doesn’t have the angst or language to truly articulate a giant fit about how embarrassing it is that her mother picks her up on the bus at the liquor store. For what it's worth, I was wearing a cute dress and sandals, but I might have had a little humid and hot odor accompanying that fresh look.

Once on the bus, my girl who is too young to revel in insecurity forgets her embarrassment and joins her brother and me as we dive into the news of a day. The downside of not reading is that you have to depend on your mother’s rendition of news stories, which can sometimes be different (and possibly more interesting) than the journalist’s intent.

Snippet from an after school walk with my 4-year old son:

ME: Hey, sweet boy!  How was school?  Did you get over that entry transition?

SWEETBOY:  Yes, I had a good day. We went on a field trip.

ME: (gasp) What? You’re kidding! I didn’t know about a field trip. You didn’t wear your red field trip shirt?  Where did you go?  Were other mothers there? Did you ride a bus?  I don’t remember signing a form.

SWEETBOY: We went in the teacher’s car.

ME:  (sharp gasp)  What!?  How many children rode in the car? Were there car seats?

SWEETBOY:  We all rode in the car. I looked out the window.

ME:  Well, twelve children could NOT have ridden in one car. Was it a van?  Are you sure it was the teacher’s car?

SWEETBOY: It was Mrs. P’s car.  Out of the window I saw a tiger.

ME: (assuming the role of “played”)

SWEETBOY:  I used some bi-oc-lars and saw elephants and tigers as we were driving. They were close to the window.

ME: Did Mrs. P give everyone get BI-NO-CU-LARS?

SWEETBOY: Yes, the teacher gave each child bi-o-clears and she gave me hiking clothes.

ME: What did the hiking clothes look like?

SWEETBOY: Camouflage pants, hiking hat and boots and a green shirt. I got lost from the group and found an elephant. He gave me a kiss.

ME: A kiss? With his trunk?

SWEETBOY: No, with his mouth. He wrapped his trunk around me and hugged me and then gave me a kiss with his mouth. Then I looked up and saw a monkey in the tree. He jumped down and kissed me too and said Oo-Oo-Ah-Ah.

ME: Was the teacher scared you were lost?

SWEETBOY: No, she trusted me that I knew how to hike. I came back to the group and they didn’t even know I was gone.

ME: Sounds like an interesting field trip. I’m glad you got to go, but I’m glad you are home now.

SWEETBOY:  Yea, it was fun day.

ME: (wondering to self if I should call a psychologist or give him a pen and paper to start an early writing career.)

We're just like everybody else who started school today. Both children, 1st grade and Pre-K, went to a new school. As you can tell from the first photo, my tomboy was less than pleased about a uniform that featured a dress and a shirt with puffy sleeves. By the time the children got to school they were happy and overwhelmed.

 

Hating  the dress   

In front of the school

Curious

Pretending to write

Because I'll do anything to win a tube of hand lotion, here is a post for the Gotta Go Giveaway.  My hands are dry, so let's hope I win!

Don't Mess In Your Kit

At a restaurant my sweet little boy sidles-up to me and coyly tells me about the poo-poo in his pants that anxiously needs my immediate attention.  Uh, the sixth accident in a month – what’s going on?  He’s not sick; no big changes; no seemingly stressful situations; he’s almost four and has been potty trained for two years!  For some reason, my lovely child has taken to crapping in his pants and appears to be completely pleased to lazily squeeze out a poop in his pants and then cheerily refer the clean-up task to me.

My lips purse and my eyes over-exaggerate mock horror coupled with a “what-to-do” look to my friend who sits with me at the table.  My friend gives me the pitying look that cocks her head to the side and pushes her bottom lip into a frown while her eyes roll toward the ceiling and her head knowingly nods. She says, “Well, the natural consequence would be for him to clean-up his mess.”  Empowered with a plan, I trot my son to the ladies room.

Supportively, I inform my son that he will need to clean himself.  Within a moment he crumbles into helplessness that has him pathetically begging me, “Mommy, I can’t do this. You wipe this off. Pu-leeze.” His blue eyes winsomely tantalize me, and I am ready to capitulate and happily assume my role as butt-wiper, but as I look at my sweet little guy, I know that if he does not learn to take responsibility that some day a woman (or man) will loathe him for his weakness and walk out of their happy home to find love with someone who is a complete adult.  Even if this weakness of irresponsibility does not cause his first divorce, it might get him killed if he finds himself in a guerilla warfare situation and does not have the wherewithal to take responsibility and save his life.

The bathroom situation deteriorates as a hunk of feces sticks to his finger and his wailing becomes heightened. A woman comes into the bathroom to find my half-naked son shrieking as if he has been brutally beaten. In fact, I suspect the woman thought I must have been administering some type of corporal punishment because shortly after she left the bathroom the hostess comes in and asks me if everything is alright.  Normally, I would have been frazzled by her accusing tone and would have bitten off her 24-year old head, but I must be getting more confident in my parenting abilities because I chipperly said, “We’re doing just fine. Thank you.” 

Wiping is a new skill, and the little guy is unable to perfect it, but he does his best, throws his underwear in the trash, gets his pants and shoes on, and washes his fouled hands.  He is mightily sobbing and begins asthmatic coughing. I’m getting the limber tail about continuing this lesson. I want to fix his bad situation for him.  It would take such little effort on my part, but I resolve to continue. Giving my son a sturdy hug and wiping his tears, I say, “This is really hard, but you can do it. When we get home you can get into the bathtub and wash yourself.”  The thought of bathing himself is just too much. I can tell he feels abandoned and betrayed by me.

At home the bath does not go well. He gets in the tub and refuses to take the cloth and try to bath himself. Instead, he cops an attitude and decides to defy the bathing instructions.  He floats on his back in the warm water that covers his ears and blocks out the bad situation. After about ten minutes I leave his sight and hide behind the door so that he can’t see me, but I can monitor him. He is furious that I have left the room and deprived him of an audience to witness his defiance. He throws a sopping bath cloth onto the floor and screams for me to come pick it up.  Reading my book, I register no response.  My ace in the hole is that the water will get cold soon. Then he fills a large plastic boat with water and dumps it onto the floor. It is difficult for me to watch the water running out onto the bathroom floor but I dig in. He dumps another boatload of water on the floor and then another.  I can’t let him flood my house; so, I calmly go into the bathroom and unplug the drain. 

The little guy wants to get out of the empty tub, and he steps onto the unwelcoming bathmat that he saturated with water. Adding insult, his towel is drenched with the water he poured directly onto it. I wrap him in the sopping towel and sympathize about how awful it must feel, but I do not give him a dry towel despite his tyrannical screaming for me to get him a dry towel.  Lying on his bed dries him enough for me to get his pajamas on.  I hold him and give him his favorite blanket named Go-Blankey-Go. 

We rock in silence, and I ask him how he feels and what he is thinking, “I don’t know,” he says. I ask him if he is mad, and “Yes,” comes easily.  I ask him if he’s scared. “Yes.”  We talk more about being scared and decide that taking care of oneself is scary (and isn’t it!)  Finally, we strike a deal. I promise him that any time he uses the potty that I will be there to clean him up, and every night I will give him a warm, soapy bath and dry him with a soft, warm towel. However, when he goes to the potty in his pants he will clean himself.  We both seem happy with that deal.  He goes to bed with a sweet smile on his face, and I eat a box of Girl Scout cookies.