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Fear

When I was a little girl I never disobeyed my parents. Perhaps it wasn't really in my nature, but also I had the fear of God in me. This is what happens when you go to church three times a week. I was terrified of the End Times (Have you not seen the Rapture series??) and the thought of burning in hell for eternity kept me from telling lies and hitting my sister.  The image of me standing before God as he looked over a long list of my transgressions was enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.  

Oh how I'd love to scare Henry with that image. I doubt he'd ever talk back to me again if he knew the horrors of eternal damnation, but I'm raising a godless child and so reminding him that Jesus is watching isn't going to do much good. Instead I holler about respect, kindness and accountability, but that doesn't pack quite the punch that hell does.

So, I've come up with something worse.  Jail. 

I have Henry petrified of the fuzz.

He thinks that jail is a horrible place where bad listeners and other criminals are locked up and made to eat broccoli. All it takes is one phone call to the police and naughty little boys are taken away. 

Living in the city, where we frequently hear police sirens, gives me plenty of opportunity to look at Henry with wide eyes and say, "Sounds like someone wasn't obeying their parents."

This morning on the way to school Henry and I witnessed a young man being arrested and put in the back of a cop car. 

"Look at that, Henry.  "He wasn't a good listener and now he's going to have broccoli for breakfast."

It's horrible and I'm ashamed, but it works.

Display

Even though I splash photos of Henry (and myself) all over the Internet at an alarming rate, you wouldn't guess so by visiting my home.  You wouldn't guess so, because you would not find many pictures of us around the house. I have only a few personal photographs displayed on a table and I've been meaning (I swear) to move them downstairs to the television room so they are not on the main level of the house where we entertain. It's just an old-fashioned rule I've hand-picked to follow and make up for it two-fold by showing my boobs online. 

I'm probably the only mother on the planet who never had professional portraits taken of her child as a baby, yet I love the yearly school portrait custom.  It's fascinating to see the progression from adorable preschooler all the way through awkward teen. 

I am currently in possession of Henry's new school photo, but I don't know what to do with it. Last year's photo is hanging in my bedroom and I can't decide what to do with the new one. When I was little my mom displayed an enormous 8x10 of both me and my sister right smack in the middle of the living room and then replaced them every year with the new school photo.  This was great except for the fifth grade, which was a particularly long and ugly year.  I'm inclined to do the exact same thing as my mom (!!!), but it's hard to cover up the cuteness from the year before. And hanging them all up isn't an option for me.

Is there an easy solution that I'm missing?  What do you do with the progressive school photos? 

Great Lengths

Lice and mice and sewage.  It's too much to handle.  At least in the category of totally fucking gross shit that can happen to you in one week.

I still don't know which calamity is worse, but the lice thing is pretty nasty.

I washed everything.  I did probably eight hundred thousand loads of laundry.  Apparently this is unnecessary, because lice and nits can't live for very long when they're not attached to your head, but it gave me something to focus on and made me feel better.

I washed Henry's hair with the poisonous shampoo, doused him with olive oil and then rosemary oil. I don't know which one of those remedies actually worked, but the bugs are gone.  For now, anyway. The school nurse told me that new eggs will hatch in 7-10 days.

No thank you.  Not in my house they won't.

Good bye adorable Zac Efron hair

Wait, I changed my mind!  Is it too late??

Cute and Fuzzy.  More importantly, inhospitable to the head louse.

Let's Pretend

Henry spends a lot of time with grown-ups.  Without a brother or sister to distract him he's often lurking around listening intently while us older folks are bemoaning the state of world.

I've become much better at not swearing like a sailor in front of him, but I think I need to work on not exposing Henry to too much adult conversation. My own parents were masters of subterfuge and I vowed to make sure that Henry would grow up with facts instead of fairy tales. Perhaps I've gone a bit overboard. At the dinner table over the weekend he announced that Smelly Cow had lost his job.  "Oh no, that's terrible! Where was he working?", I asked, trying not to laugh, because doing so is the quickest way to make Henry clam up.  "He was working at my McDonald's, but there are not enough customers, so Cow is fired", he explained. 

Oh dear. The economic downturn has hit the land of make-believe.

Certainly I'm a victim of thinking my child is extraordinarily clever and wise beyond his years, but I also think that maybe Nick and I should cool it with the doomsday talk over brunch.

Almost immediately I failed at my resolution to bring more magic to Henry's life, during the intermission at Disney on Ice, when I answered his question about where the characters live.  "Well, they probably live in houses just like ours." I said. He looked up at me with his little, innocent face and I quickly realized that what I should have said (obviously) was that they live in...a castle.

"Ooooh, what I meant was that they all live together in a beautiful castle at Disney World and it's wonderful and yes, the clock really talks", I corrected myself.  Henry smiled, pleased with my fancy answer, but I bet he knows the truth.  After all, he does know the unemployment rate.

BYOT

Playdates are the biggest joke.  Who even invented them?  Why can't kids be let loose to roam the neighborhood and knock on the door of whomever has the best snacks?

You think you're going to drink martinis and gossip with your friends, but really it's just occasion to showcase to other mothers what an awful parent you are and that your kid doesn't listen to you. There isn't even any actual playing that happens.  It's just fighting over toys and goldfish crackers. 

On the way to school this morning Henry casually mentions that he hasn't seen his friend Jackson in a while.  "Maybe you should call his mom for a playdate?", he suggests.  Arrgh.  I try not to let him see me roll my eyes in the rear-view mirror.  "Sure, Henry.  I'll call her and say 'Hey, can Jackson come over to fight with Henry?'" I'm sure they'd be delighted.

Do you think this time you could maybe not put all your toys in a huge pile and drape your body protectively across them until he leaves?

"Mom, do you think maybe he could just bring his own toys?"

Three's Company

A friend of mine was in a bind and needed a babysitter.  With a sense of community and the promise of a good bottle of wine, I agreed to watch her two beautiful daughters for the evening.

In the beginning, Henry and the older girl watched tv in the basement, while the baby napped next to me on the couch.  I had a cup of tea and was catching up on some reading, while thinking to myself, "Having three children is a total breeze."

After the kids grew bored of television and the baby woke up, a total breeze turned into "oh my god, how am I going to keep all of these children alive?!"  The first problem was that I've completely forgotten how to take care of a baby.  It's been a while since I've had to keep someone from choking on small objects or falling down the stairs.

They all wanted or needed my attention at the same time. Three mouths to feed.  Three butts to wipe.  Three million toys everywhere.

In the end--when they were all curled up together sleeping and looking adorable--I called it a success, but to those of you with three or more kids on your team I have to wonder how you do it.

 
I hid on the stairs while the interlopers roamed about.

Eavesdropping

There was a crazy woman sitting behind me at the indoor playground talking to her friend about what an awesome mom she was and how well-behaved her two young boys were.  I totally listened in.

I got to hear her daily schedule, which was broken down into 1-hour increments, "From 7:00-8:00 we eat breakfast, then an hour of clean-up and chores..." She explained a complicated reward chart system that involved several different colored dots that could earn the kids some time on the family computer or television.  She calls it "screen time".  She claimed that if the boys started to misbehave she need only mention taking away their special one-hour of video games they are allowed to play on Friday nights and they would immediately comply. Watching too much TV wasn't an issue in her house, "There's just no time for it with all of the activities and I just don't want them seeing all those commercials." DVDs are for long car trips only, although she did admit to once letting them watch a movie on a short trip to the store.  That was just one time though. Once.

It wasn't until she bragged about toilet training her son in ONE DAY by putting the potty chair in the middle of the kitchen during a birthday party, that I knew she was truly crazy and a liar. When I finally turned around to get a look at this lady I expected to see Bree Hodge from Desperate Housewives, but instead saw a frumpy mom who should consider adding lipstick and mascara to her tight schedule.

My friend and I exchanged wide-eyed looks and couldn't contain our giggles as this woman went on and on about, what I considered, her very rigid life.  People like her exist? Wow. And my friends think I'm uptight. (Really, if you exist call me! I want to be your intern.)

I imagined her horror upon witnessing a day at my house. I imagined her not having any friends. And even though I was mocking her, I secretly wanted to send my defiant Henry to her house for boot camp.

Henry would do well with her stringent rules. He is most successful when there are clear plans and a schedule to follow. Unfortunately he was born to a mother who functions on laziness and thinks bottom freezers are brilliant because they allow him to make his own frozen waffles in the morning.  Henry's sensitive nature demands a structure that my laid-back, laissez faire attitude can't always provide for him.  However, we are stuck with one another and seeing that I'm the adult I should probably step up and take a lesson or two from Crazy Indoor Park Lady.

This Is Hardcore

I fell off the wagon.  I'm back into parenting books and I'm just coming off a bender. 

Henry is hanging out at clubs and living a rock n' roll lifestyle.  I think our family needs an intervention.  Who would you call?  Dr. Phil?  Supernanny?  Oprah?

Henry at First Avenue Nightclub

Confessions of a Preschool Volunteer Dodger

I walk as fast as I can past the parent volunteer sign-up sheet posted in the hallway on the way to Henry's preschool classroom, hoping that if I ignore it long enough the obligation will go away. Like magic. With zero guilt the reminder memos that come home in Henry's backpack go straight into the recycling.  Okay, maybe a tiny smidgen of guilt is felt.

It's not that I don't want to be helpful, but I remember all too clearly what happened the last time I volunteered to be helpful.  Henry is not able to function normally when I'm in his classroom.  I know he would spend the entire time glued to my leg, begging to go home. It would suck and I'm not ready to find out if maybe it wouldn't.  Not to mention that the three hours he's at school is my time to do whatever the hell I want and the last thing I want to do is spend it in a church basement with a bunch of kids. Other people's children are lovely, but I just don't have the patience for them and that's the ugly truth. And when else can I spend 45 minutes strolling the beauty and vitamin aisle at Whole Foods?

So I breeze in and out of that joint as quickly as possible, Blackberry in hand, so as to look like busy corporate mom instead of just a slacker mom. I have a feeling this school volunteer business only gets worse as the years go by. I'm going to have to come up with some ready made excuses. No one wants me chaperoning a school dance.  I'll be the one spiking the punch.

Suck On This

Henry walked over to me this morning and handed over his "bah".  That's his term for the pacifier that he never leaves home without. "I don't need this anymore", he said.  I tried to hide the shock on my face with a look of pride.  "Alright then, let's throw that thing in the garbage."  "No", Henry replied.  "Let's put it someplace safe, just in case". I detected a lack of commitment.

The damn pacifier seemed like such a good idea when I first popped it into Henry's mouth a mere 24 hours after he was born.  I certainly didn't know how to make him stop crying and I was willing to try anything.  The paci worked. And it has for four years.

When Henry was just a few weeks old I met a woman in my neighborhood who had a son a couple of days older.  The fact that we'd both just birthed large babies was the only thing that we had in common. She was against everything that I found convenient and necessary. She was opinionated and I was just flailing about, trying to keep my baby from screaming. We were not meant to be friends. However, desperate for companionship during those hazy, post-partum weeks, we hung out nearly every day. 

Driving home from Target one afternoon I sat in the backseat between Henry, who was quietly sucking on his pacifier and her little precious who was screaming wildly.  "Could you put your finger in his mouth, please?", she begged. "It's the only way he'll be quiet".  "Um, okay...er my hands are probably dirty, but uh...I have an extra binky if you want one."  She didn't.  She was absolutely against them. Something about bad teeth? And so I popped my index finger in his little mouth and he sucked on it the whole way home.  I felt a little smug.  Four years later, I'm definitely not the one laughing.

Experts say that if you choose to use a soother, it should be taken away by 18 months.  If you don't do that, then you're pretty much at the mercy of your child to decide on their own when they are done.  Unfortunately I didn't read this article until too late. Not that I would have done it anyway.  I was just as interested in an easy way to keep Henry quiet at 18 months as I was when he was a newborn.  There is your Crap Mom Confession of the Day.  Teeth be damned!

We'll see if Henry is really ready to move on.  If not, then perhaps his Freshman roommate can try to talk some sense into him. 

I'll Show You Mine

To pass the time at my grandmother's house, when I was young, I used to read her stacks of Reader's Digest and my favorite part was the Out of The Mouth of Babes section, where people would submit funny or embarrassing things they overhead children say. 

I found the brutal honesty and innocent candor of a child hilarious and I'm now thrilled to have my very own little mouth who shouts out inappropriate things in front of strangers. Rarely am I embarrassed, as I'm usually taking notes so I can submit the anecdote to Reader's Digest. (I don't know, does that column or even RD even exist anymore?)  Then this afternoon I felt some of that hot embarrassment that can be brought on by your child's words. During a routine pediatric urology appointment a very attractive couple along with their five-year old daughter walked into the waiting room.  They sat next to us and the little girl immediately began to interrogate Henry. 

"What's your name?"

"How old are you?"

"I'm here to say hello to Dr. Anderson, are you here to say hello to Dr. Anderson too?" 

And because I had briefed Henry on exactly what this doctor's appointment would entail, he answered her truthfully, "No, I'm here because the doctor needs to look at my penis".

With a bright, red face I looked at the little girl's (shockingly handsome) dad and muttered something about being terribly sorry and how I try to give the facts and OMG, my son just talked about his penis in front of your little princess...I am SO sorry. "It's okay", he assured me and said with a smile, "The penis is a beautiful thing."  (??!!??)

And thankfully at that moment the nurse called Henry's name.

Posted from my blackberry

"Too Excited To Poop"

Writing about Henry's potty training isn't on my list of acceptable topics, but this trip fell directly in the middle of an aggressive potty training approach and I have to warn other mothers that should you find yourself in a similar situation it may be wise to abandon mission until you are in the safety of your own home and near a washer/dryer unit.

Along with several tubes of lipgloss, in my handbag there are rubber gloves, plastic bags, extra pants, extra underwear and pre-written notes of apology for anyone or anything that Henry might pee on.  So far so good, apart from one incident at an Italian restaurant that had us scurrying out the door, heads hung in shame. By the time we get back to Minneapolis Henry may be a full-time user of the toilet. That is, if he's not still "too excited to poop".

On the Amtrak heading back to NYC.

Posted from my blackberry.

Out Like A Lion

File under:  Things I've taught Henry, that I've not yet learned myself.

Me: God dammit, it's snowing again.

Henry:  Mom, why yer say that?  What's wrong?

Me: I'm very upset that it's snowing.  I'm ready for spring.

Henry:  Oh.  [long pause]  Sometimes, if you take a deep breath, it will make you feel better.

Henry catching bees at Chuck E. Cheese

So Cute When They're Sleeping!

When it was time to pick Henry up from daycare I hid in the car and made Nick go in.  After my embarrassing public display of emotion earlier in the day, I needed some more time before I could face Henry's teachers.  When the boys got to the car, Henry had a sheepish look on his face and as soon as he saw me launched into his prepared apology, "I'm really sorry I made you cry mommy".

I had volunteered to be a parent chaperone on the field trip to see Seseme Street Live that morning.  This was my first mistake.  My second mistake was wearing heels.

Henry is an angel at school.  He always obeys the rules and he never fusses or misbehaves.  This is not true, however, when I'm added to the mix.  He refused to listen to his teachers and clung to my leg the entire morning. He yelled that he wanted to go home and whined to be held.  He was not impressed with Elmo's singing and on the walk back to the daycare center he laid his body on the floor and screamed to be carried.  It was an epic battle that ended with me carrying Henry four blocks in my three-inch heels.

I was so beat down from the ordeal that upon our return I broke down in front of Henry's teachers and the entire administrative staff.  I sobbed that I couldn't take it anymore and that I didn't know how to deal with my son.  I sobbed that I wanted to have more children, but I didn't think I could do it, because the one I have is so out of control.  Then I cried because I was so embarrassed for crying.

They whisked Henry away, gave me a box of tissue and some reassurance that I wasn't the only mom they've seen have a meltdown.

I really try to do everything right.  I give acceptable choices, I get down to his level, I follow through on my threats, I use timers, reward charts, praise good behavior and everything else the books tell me to do.  And yet... my kid can be such a monster, at times, that I completely lose it.  Then it's me acting like a three-year old, slamming doors and yelling, "you're ruining Christmas, god dammit!!"

As I buckled Henry into his car seat, I kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for being sorry.  Nick handed me a book called, The Challenging Child attached with a note from Henry's teacher telling me that she hoped I found it helpful.  I kind of want to sell all of my parenting books and buy a one-way ticket out of here, but instead I'll read it and count the days until he is four.  He'll be more reasonable then, right?

Henry.  Photo by Elizabeth G. Lynch

Typhoid Mary

It was 8 degrees in Minneapolis the morning I left for Puerto Vallarta.  Henry and Nick had left the day before, leaving me behind as I was curled up on the bathroom floor with a stomach bug so nasty you could catch it just by whispering Norovirus. (Just ask any of the 14 people I infected!) Say it three times while looking in a mirror.  I dare you.

I still felt a bit dodgy on the airplane, but once I landed in beautiful Mexico it all melted away. It's amazing what a little sunshine will do for your body and soul.

Henry and Andrea in the sun

Henry had a hard time on our trip.  He screamed, whined and yelled more than he laughed and smiled.  He was petrified of the ocean and didn't want anything to do with anyone, but me.  He would only eat frozen pancakes and tortilla chips. He yelled that he wanted to go home, except for the last day when he yelled that he wanted to stay.  I even overheard our chef on the phone talking to someone about the "problemo niño" that was staying in the house.

We had an occupational therapy appointment this morning and through tears I confessed what an awful child Henry was on our vacation and how I was afraid to ever go anywhere with him again. Henry's therapist in her patient, calm manner, told me that she wasn't at all surprised.  Henry has been out of his element and routine for several weeks and it's no wonder that he regressed into being an impossible toddler. Change is especially hard for Henry and he couldn't possibly anticipate all that he experienced and so he freaked out. Even if it was all a bunch of lies, she made me feel so much better and I left feeling less like a total failure then when I walked in.

And also, the ocean is big and scary.

Now we are home and things are getting back to normal. Henry is no longer acting like a problemo niño and I am ready to take on 2008.  Happy New Year!!