Preschool Ponderings
Every morning I have to wipe off my cheek. It's the sticky, often sweet, remnants of my three year old's kisses goodbye. He deposits two or three or four each morning when I drop him off at the Learning Lamp.
He has his friends, CJ is a favorite. He has his teacher. Miss Francine is always uttered with a little smile and lots of love. He plays until his clothes are wet with sweat. He naps until the little cot makes a mark on his cheeks.
He does all this, without me in the room. Sometimes there is a wave of melancholy when I realize he is indeed a big boy. It is in those times I wipe my cheek for a different reasons.
Animal House
I live in a house full of men. My dad, my sons, my dog (and probably my hermit crabs too) are all male. That means a couple things. First, there is never anything to eat in the house. There is food, lots of it sometimes. However, there is never anything that will fill the cavernous, gaping whole in their guts.
Second, passing gas is an art form. My father's favorite thing to do whilst chasing boys in the yard would be to gather them in a huddle, stick out their hind parts and pretend to 'wheesh'. I desperately attempt to instill manners. "Wheeshes" (my nice word for farts) are not funny. They are to be done in bathrooms. They are to be excused. It's a losing battle for me. {Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I do have a 'fart machine' loaded onto my phone as a nuclear option when stuck in something with children who desperately need entertained...and it is kinda funny.}
Finally, men are all about the pecking order. My dad picks on the seven year old who then picks on the three year old who then picks on the dog. Me? I am left as referee, cheerleader or rocking in a corner sucking my thumb-depending on the day.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
No Children Were Harmed In The Making of This Commercial
The following is a true account to the best of my recollection. If I could make this stuff up, I would. However, reality is far, far, far more entertaining.
"Moooooommmmy!" Caden runs across the playground into my awaiting arms. Sweaty, smiling and warmed from the sun, I am enthralled at the wonderfulness of my sweetie three year old.
Little did I know what was to come.
{Cue foreboding music and clouds rolling across the sun.}
"I firsty Mommy. I firsty. I firsty. I waaaaannnntttt a drink!" as I buckle him in his big, boy seat in the back of the Mommy SUV.
"We'll get a drink when we get home." Lick my own lips. Hmm, maybe a drink isn't a bad idea. I'm kinda tired. We pass a Starbucks on the way.....
"Kids, we are going to stop at Starbucks. Mommy needs some caffeine and you can get a drink."
Little screeches of, "I firsty," followed by gentle mothering reminders that Starbucks was only a block away.
I proudly get my sweet sons, who now are holding hands to cross the parking lot, as we walk into the Starbucks.
Caden rushes to the cooler case and begins to pick up every beverage in sight. Because I am a mother who wants to raise self-aware children who can make choices and own their own choices I ask,
"Do you want chocolate milk or juice? You can have one."
"I want chockit milk."
"Okay."
"No! I want juice!"
"Are you sure?"
"Juice!Juice!Juice!"
"Please go sit with brother while I get our drinks."
Caden sits and sucks down half the juice. He sets the bottle down, inhales and declares in his loudest, most authoritative three year old voice, "I WANT CHOCKIT MILK!"
Whoa. Where did that come from? I quickly walk over. In my best mother technique I make eye contact and calmly but firmly say, "Caden, you said you wanted juice to drink. You are not getting chocolate milk."
{Cue ominous, Flight of the Valkyries music.}
2 seconds later....
The following is in a voice which is a cross between a banshee on fire with napalm and nails on a chalkboard, "IIIIIIIIIIII WAAAAAAANNNNNNTTTTTT CHOOOOOOCCCCCCKKKKKIIIIIITTTTTT MMMMMMMILLLLLLLLKKKKKKKK!!!!!"
Again, I cling to the myth that calm, authoritative mothering voice actually works, "Caden. Please stop screaming. You chose juice instead of chocolate milk. Caden, stop screaming. Caden stop yelling. Caden stop screeching! Caaaaadeeen!!!"
It is then that I snapped. It was one of those slow motion moments when you want to spank but you know it's both a public place and probably not a good idea. Instead a quiet, powerful calm washed over me.
I signal the frightened barista, who is trying very hard not to cover his ears, that I would be right back. I scoop said screaming, kicking, clawing creature up by the waist, shepherd his mortified, wide eyed brother and head to the car. I dodge kicking Star Wars tennis shoes and calmly buckle him into his seat.
I proudly walk back into Starbucks to pick up my drinks. To the wide eyed and astonished patrons who stare at me as I start for the door, I turn and say, "No children were harmed in the making of this commercial for....birth control."
"Moooooommmmy!" Caden runs across the playground into my awaiting arms. Sweaty, smiling and warmed from the sun, I am enthralled at the wonderfulness of my sweetie three year old.
Little did I know what was to come.
{Cue foreboding music and clouds rolling across the sun.}
"I firsty Mommy. I firsty. I firsty. I waaaaannnntttt a drink!" as I buckle him in his big, boy seat in the back of the Mommy SUV.
"We'll get a drink when we get home." Lick my own lips. Hmm, maybe a drink isn't a bad idea. I'm kinda tired. We pass a Starbucks on the way.....
"Kids, we are going to stop at Starbucks. Mommy needs some caffeine and you can get a drink."
Little screeches of, "I firsty," followed by gentle mothering reminders that Starbucks was only a block away.
I proudly get my sweet sons, who now are holding hands to cross the parking lot, as we walk into the Starbucks.
Caden rushes to the cooler case and begins to pick up every beverage in sight. Because I am a mother who wants to raise self-aware children who can make choices and own their own choices I ask,
"Do you want chocolate milk or juice? You can have one."
"I want chockit milk."
"Okay."
"No! I want juice!"
"Are you sure?"
"Juice!Juice!Juice!"
"Please go sit with brother while I get our drinks."
Caden sits and sucks down half the juice. He sets the bottle down, inhales and declares in his loudest, most authoritative three year old voice, "I WANT CHOCKIT MILK!"
Whoa. Where did that come from? I quickly walk over. In my best mother technique I make eye contact and calmly but firmly say, "Caden, you said you wanted juice to drink. You are not getting chocolate milk."
{Cue ominous, Flight of the Valkyries music.}
2 seconds later....
The following is in a voice which is a cross between a banshee on fire with napalm and nails on a chalkboard, "IIIIIIIIIIII WAAAAAAANNNNNNTTTTTT CHOOOOOOCCCCCCKKKKKIIIIIITTTTTT MMMMMMMILLLLLLLLKKKKKKKK!!!!!"
Again, I cling to the myth that calm, authoritative mothering voice actually works, "Caden. Please stop screaming. You chose juice instead of chocolate milk. Caden, stop screaming. Caden stop yelling. Caden stop screeching! Caaaaadeeen!!!"
It is then that I snapped. It was one of those slow motion moments when you want to spank but you know it's both a public place and probably not a good idea. Instead a quiet, powerful calm washed over me.
I signal the frightened barista, who is trying very hard not to cover his ears, that I would be right back. I scoop said screaming, kicking, clawing creature up by the waist, shepherd his mortified, wide eyed brother and head to the car. I dodge kicking Star Wars tennis shoes and calmly buckle him into his seat.
I proudly walk back into Starbucks to pick up my drinks. To the wide eyed and astonished patrons who stare at me as I start for the door, I turn and say, "No children were harmed in the making of this commercial for....birth control."
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